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SPANISH POEMS AND OTHER POEMS FROM URUGUAY

This collection of poems
in Spanish and English will describe
the people, land, river, sky,
emotions, storms,
and lifestyle of the people
mostly around Playa Fomento.

A very rural stretch of land
on one of the widest rivers in the world.

My adobe cottage
sat on land once used for farmland
along side a jungle area
and wild beaches.
The sky, water, earth and people are unique.

The most common form of transportation
was bicycle, then mopeds and then motorized vehicles.
Rarely did I see a vehicle newer than 1973.
Most of the trucks were from the 1940's.
I fell in love with the place and
the pace.
The people were so friendly and warm.
Everyone was happy everywhere.

I hope you enjoy these poems
with the English and Spanish
as they begin to explore my travels
to Playa Fomento, La Paz, Valdense and Nueva Helvecia.
THIS IS A SITE UNDER CONTINUOUS CONSTRUCTION. VISIT IT OFTEN AS IT PROGRESSES.

ENJOY!

"The River's width extended beyond the natural visible siteline, into the disappearing horizon.

The people's imagination, peacefulness and energy extended beyond my imagination."

March 6, 2007 (7:08am) & 3 horas...

TUESDAY, PERHAPS THE START OF A ROUTINE

There has been no chance for a routine no matter what. First, the immediate few days of seeing everything new, old friends, making new friends, checking out the beach at all hours of the day and night and swimming, walking at various times always with my camera, all at a moments notice, kept me hopping. I was at the big house, Martin s house when first coming and deciding if I wanted to stay in the cottage, or at his place. I checked out his place awhile and then moved to the cottage. It would have been better for my crazy hours of usually working by my own personal biological clock energy. Often all night and I did not want to disturb him. Plus, the separate cottage space accommodated writing and painting better, and I could spread out all over the place and not have to worry about disturbing anyone. So, I moved all my stuff down to the cottage, and before even staying one night, I had to bring everything back, so a new couple could stay for one night. It was great for me to talk the couple into staying at Bilu Hue. I knew they would like it here, and I knew they would come again. I have a built in instinct about people and their tastes for places ever since owning a Bed and Breakfast in Connecticut. We will see if I am right or not about them. But, it did mean I moved everything down to the cottage for nothing.

I was up at the main house, and no personal routine was established, but I was only here less than a week. Finally, I got everything moved in, and storm after storm began arriving, each with more intensity, and longer hours of pouring rain and howling winds. Till finally, two twisters erupted over the river and a hrricane type storm simultaneously attacked the land, with nothing less than a deluge for hours, and hours, with the winds changing direction in such an unusual way, I have never witnessed it ever before, anywhere.

Being we had no power about the only routine I had was catching daylight to write in my books and to follow cloud patterns around with my lenses. I wasn t thinking about routines, or anything, just observing the people during recovery and their attitudes ranging from no problem to crying desperately . I did not want to photograph the peoples places, nor the beautiful pines, out of respect of the people living there in mourning. It would have been like photographing an intimate family funeral, that you weren t invited to, and as I am going to be around a lot I did not want to be trespassing onto their grief. They had enough psychological dramas going on in their heads without adding another one onto them. I just walked around and helped people out especially my new friends Grace and Juan Carlos. I just met them Sunday. They were child hood friends who recently got married. They had other spouses, but only recently got married to each other.

Now that hopefully the storms have passed, and we can catch some clear days, perhaps, I will settle in. Yesterday was one of the first days I had my computer going, and I worked on trying to find the MADE IN AMERICA BIG HAPPY ENDING play, only to realize it s on my other computer, back in the States! Oh well, I worked on checking out the plot, and read it a bunch of times from three different drafts, and I will just type it all out again, streamlining the dialog a bit, and making two scripts. One for the local people in Connecticut with many references to local places, and things the main character Captain Freddie Franklin did, while growing up. The second one will concentrate more on the George Bush election.

It is good to be back in bathing suit. Wearing long pants, long shirts and jackets during the day, because of the constant rain, winds, and dampness, was not my attire of choice, during the end of the summer season, which is winter I guess technically back in the States, where I used to be from anyway.

I think if I have a routine, it might be getting up with camera in hands taking shots of the sunrise, as it mounts its climb, above the horizon over Martin s house, directing rays into the night flowers, that still remain out in the early dawn. Black bees rumble in the night, and are still going strong when the sun comes out. I think I might paint during the day around the siesta time, or noon, till four. Grabbing grapes, melon and wine with crackers, at various times in the day, for food with a bigger meal up at Martin s at night, with Trini (Martin s girlfriend of five years who he met when I was here last time in 2001, a little after the world trade bombing, in fact, I had to delay my coming then because no flights were allowed in the air over the U.S.A.)

In the distance, the cow farmer leads the single line of his big black and white cows, to the fields, with as much struggle and patience, as when he brings them in at the end of the day, at dusk. Vamos, vamos a hundred times vamos. Perhaps, he should try another language, he might have more success.

One thing I like, is the absolute complete naturalness of the sounds. Literally only one helicopter, and one small plane, have come by in two weeks. Can you believe it, I am here two weeks already, and it can t possibly seem like more than one week. With all the on-goings seeing people, barbeques, the storms, me not being settled anywhere yet, and everything I see and do all new, I guess it would be normal to have it seem like a little bit more than one week. But, no it is like that in places with not much technology wrapping around you. A few big milk trucks pass the dirt road, at the end of Martin s winding dirt driveway. They proceed in and out of the horizon, that goes out of perspective in the north of my window. The deception of the land maintains a hold on you here. When you go for walks, you see a destination, in the distance, and with the big sky of Montana laid out in front of you, you think you will get there in a quarter hour, and two hours you still plod along.

There are more mopeds than anything and bicycles. I love seeing the old bicycles before gears were invented. With big fat tires, and low handle bars, with those big comfortable seats now fixed with cardboard and string. Not too much duct tape down here, but if it was available, I m sure it would be on everything. The grand old cars, just one ride out of being junked, are my favorites. They bing, bang and clang along with heavy congested coughing starts, but once going at the maximum speed which is about 40 mph, and 25, on the side roads they purr, like a voice on night-quill. Now that the resort season is over only local people are around, except me, and a few people from Argentina, who came back to rebuild their second homes after the stroms.

Yesterday, I wrote the plot for a new story. Perhaps, a detective mystery short story, but it could easily be a movie script. We have melons of all shapes and sizes and sweetness. Some of them I could not eat after flies sat on them all day moving from the melons, to the grapes, to the chicken, when it was out, to the cat s behinds. I m not used to flies having such leeway in a place, and on food. It just goes to show, it isn t such a big deal having flies on food. No one gets sick from it down here. It is a tolerable annoyance. I would rather be a little warm with the screens closed, than have the few degrees coolness, having the windows opened, without screens. But, that is just geographical influence on life. After all, no one chooses where they are born.

The winds make it difficult taking good shots of anything. Everything buzzes with it running through flower petals, the grasses and the trees. Everything susceptible to it s onslaught which is pretty steady all day long. Even the slightest amount of rain seems like a lot, because of the wind blowing it about, especially when it clangs on the metal roof, and blows through the veranda shading material. I m surprised they are black. I would have thought white would be better for the heat. Maybe it only comes in one color.

I had to drink a lot of wine over the past week being there was no water and I rather got used to it. I m having some now with crackers and grapes for breakfast. well, I ve been up since 7:30 am, actually I was up around 6:30 when the birds yack outside my veranda window. They lived here before the house was built and it is there custom to visit every morning, as soon as the sun is about to rise. I swear, I think I hear them during the night was well . . . but for technological noise " none exists. No big traffic. No jets. Only the one helicopter which stopped coming up the river when the storms started. An occasional large tractor goes by with carts behind them to and from the farm.

Voices and dogs that bark carry very far. I am used to it now almost. When you hear them, you expect them to be outside your door on the drive, but they are by the road, a football field away, yet you can almost hear what they are saying. The air is so clean, nothing interferes with the passing of the words.

Now that the rains ceased a bit, you can see the beauty and splendor of the sloping fields and rolling hillsides. Ancient fences, posted with wires, strung along side the dirt, in the brush and scrub grasses and plants, tilt one way, or another. Some wires float in the air, long ago apart from attachment. Butterflies return. Variations upon variations, so colorful matching the beauty of the wild flowers, laid out sporadically in clumps, pattern-less, natural as the lay of the land itself. Blondness with tinges of an off color reddish at the tops, sit motionless, for the first time since I ve arrived. The oddity of the motionlessness inspires me to photograph it like some event.

A rattling old Ford from the forties, with flat bed built into a kind of fort, in the back, chugs along, out of some movie, made long ago. These trucks seem to have been green at one time. A lot of green and they blend in with the landscape perfectly like a design. The past entrenched like a black and white movie all over the place, and I for one have no complaints. Pollution, except from the few cars and trucks is non-existent. My head has finally cleared itself of the terrible headaches and my sinus situation almost has cleared.

I had one scare of red tide on the beach after the storm. I know it was the red tide because of the sore throat, and congestion in my lungs, as I walked along the beach towards the west. Luckily, I detoured my route off the beach and traveled back through the interior roads, just not to take any chances. There were too many dead fish along the beach not to be red tide. It s not like any fishermen were out there catching them and leaving them on the shore to rot. And they were good size fish too.

I spread all natural-organic fig dulce on my crackers, and remember Susan s fig jam from France, almost two years ago. I look forward to it again, perhaps this year. These grapes though have a certain tartness, like from the vines at Rhetta s house on Glenfield Avenue in Stratford, from the days of my youth. Vines loaded to the max with grapes of strange skin texture, that soured as you ate them, but the juice was sweet. We could eat them whenever we wanted, but I think there was a rule that said, only when an adult was with you . I forgot about that part, as I write about it, just like I forgot about it when I was eating the grapes.

It seems like I m not doing anything with my life in this moment. Eating grapes, sipping wine, eating crackers with natural fig jam, writing in this story that will go nowhere, have no murder, no assaults just the capture of the day with birds singing, clouds in the horizon north, moving clumsily about, like cows grazing in one spot and then another. When the sun pushes through them, it makes a thin ribbon of light, on the dirt road, that collapses at both ends in the brush. I am a fly in a new place tasting everything, looking at every detail, once, twice, three times all in wonderment; how did this become like this. Why is this tree down so long, this fence tilted, that wave with much more power than the six before it and six after it. How does the wind change so often, and with so much force. There are three distinct colors of blue, as I look out my sliding door north. What makes it possible for three kinds of clouds in one horizon. It s the first day of the heat rising off the earth. In the fields, it is as if a decoration arrived for the place like someone choosing the grapes, no the sip of wine, then the crackers, no the crackers then the wine. And the dry cracker and the cracker with fig then the wine, then the grape then the cracker. A pair of yellow breasted birds lounge outside my slider door, at the edge of the grass chowing- down insects that have come out of the ground due to the water infiltrating their homes. the birds so busy they hardly notice the cat approaching, but they do, and fly off with the cat in lazy walk to my door to meow a good morning, eyes with that sad eye of the lady of the lowland look, that I am typing instead of petting them. Such is life. I open the door for her to reach into my lap with those soft paws. Not for long, as two butterflies pull her, like magnetism, outside in a chase, but they are two sly and moving two fast.

A new truck from 1970 whizzes by leaving a wake of dust. The cows don t even look up, the birds on the fence posts don t stir, the cat rests outside the opened door. The clouds merge onto themselves, blocking out more blue than I would like, and the temperature drops. I put my tee shirt on again. And look for my Uruguayan shoes which are sort of like slippers with grass thread bottoms and soft sides of cotton cloth. If I had my way, I would never put my foot into anything else. But that crazy thought will end as soon as it rains, and I don t want to leave my cottage with them on, wanting them to last the rest of my lifetime. More wine the palate says. More voices from somewhere waft across the scrub brush through the distant tall straight trees. Between the dirt road, the tall trees in a straight row and the horizon rests a hammock of trees, I must venture into some day when the bull is not in the field in front of them. I will bring a cape just in case.

A truck with lumber from the village rumbles up the slight incline disappearing into the hillside into the clouds to the north. Dare I say I see grayness forming in the north? Can t we let the cadmium yellow dark, transparent yellow iron oxide and nickel azo yellow shine a bit more, before drenching them again, turning them less blonde. And the hues of the cadmium yellow, and its sister brilliant yellow green, and yellow light hansa, can t they swim in the sunshine a bit more, before laying down in the wind, turning murky in the fog.

The cows know something is up, as they bander up in a group, and sit down just at the edge of the hammock. They merge into two groups a black one and white one. A dog, a black dog sits guard by them. The owner in his barn. I hear wood banging of some post getting re-staked. And the birds, as if on command one by one lift up, and fly to the telephone posts, for a better view. And what about cadmium yellow light and bronze yellow, can t they have a day in the sun?

I sneeze a loud sneeze that echos in the metal, of the metal fireplace, in the corner of the room. A small metal piece separates the Olinda stove of four burners and small oven, which sits next to a sink, and counter, with beige curtains that open in the middle, to hide the pots and pans, forks and spoons, glasses and dishes. A thin, tall refrigerator meets the corner of the west wall, with one window of two sliding panels, that I installed a hand towel in front of, to block the sun, when it arrives around four o clock, so it doesn t land straight into my eyes. The brick walls, and cement joints, are still wet, and leave a white limestone trail behind them, where the dampness etched itself over the past weeks of rain. The southern walls bricks remain undecorated, in a minimalist style, with just one electrical panel in two sections, up and down with breakers for the two cottages, that sit side by side.

The cows have broken up their party, and separated again, moving towards the shade of the hammock. A small single bed that has elephants in parade like cows around the center of it . . . . . Oh, but wait I hear a, a motor sound. From the south also. A tractor with big tires moves slowly, cumbersomely, up the slight incline. Motion like this separates the stillness and quiet of the land, and grabs your attention, like a song you don t know. I hear it, way after I see it, pass into the horizon in the north. The bed is wood at the ends, and has a second section under it, so two people can sleep in i,t but on two levels. It only takes up the space of one bed, as the second section is stored underneath the top.

My black suitcases, one for clothes and one for paints, remain on it with my painting pads, and some books about Buenos Aires. Yes dirty laundry holds itself to the wooden posts conveniently, till enough heat and sun are around to do laundry. A stand up fan, freestanding finds itself at the head of the bed, while the other end leaves enough room to open the refrigerator door, on the west wall. Next to the fan is a door to the bathroom, of all beige colored tile, in big twelve by twelve inch tile squares, up to six feet off the ground, till the bricks and cement which go to the high ceiling of wood, about eleven feet high, at the apex and nine feet high, at the low end. A cat bird mimics the squawking bird till they swoop up and challenge it. It flies away noisily. Morning doves coo from the beach. On the other side of the south wall, between the bathroom and refrigerator, the other cottage sits side by side, attached and joined at the south wall of my cottage. I have heard someone there, but never saw anyone. Perhaps the wind has inhabited it.

A tin aluminum kettle with black handle sits on the stove and a bunch of dirty dishes remain on the stone sink top. After all, I must write, and we just got water not even twenty four hours ago.

Behind me, the bedroom with a double size bed low to the floor, and one chair which doubles as an end table, and one blonde standup armoire wood with two doors and two bottom drawers. Fante you would love this place and Bandini I hope you never arrive, for I will fight you for it! I hung my shirts and pants in the top part, and put one gray cashmere sweater in the top of the two drawers. I want to clean out the bottom drawer of some sawdust before putting other clothes there.

The clouds sunk again and blue sky appears with sun beaming down and the blondeness of the fields returns. Heat bugs sing out in that high pitched voice of theirs. The fields are loaded with them, and being the first day in weeks, they have had a chance to feel the sun, they sing out strong and loud. The two panels in the bedroom window move sideways, and on one side the screen sits stationary. Orangish color window curtains top to floor blow in the breeze open on one side, both closed at night, with matching straw strings, at the sides half way up. The fourteen inch reddish floor tiles match the naturalness of the cement and wains-coating wood ceiling with rounded wooded beams wonderfully. In the kitchen, I sit at table with paints, computer, two hard drives, pens, yellow legal pads, two scripts, a jug of water, grapes, wine, camera with four disks and of course dulce de higo all natural from the organic market last week Friday, 420 g for forty pesos about two dollars American. It would be about ten bucks in the states. If only I could bring some back to help the people out.

I met a woman last night in some dream just before waking. We were in a place that was a natural place with woods, rocks, hillsides and trees. We didn t know each other, but started talking about the landscape. We were both leaving for no reason, but when we started talking, we decided to go back inside the area and walk around a bit. Her soft warm eyes and lips engaged my senses. As we walked along a path of loose stones, she started to slip, and I caught her from falling. It surprised us both. Catching her didn t last long, as the loose stones under my feet took me down with us still together. Luckily, we landed in some soft grasses along the path, and both began laughing, because it was very funny laying there like children. She thanked me for catching her, and we laughed again.

In the dream, I don t know what happened next, but when we kissed, it was the best one ever for both of us. It wasn t like we noticeably wanted each other, we didn t. It just happened innocently, as loose stones on a sloping pathway at dusk. A bell rang in the distance notifying everyone to leave the place. Lo and behold, un be known to me, she stayed in the cottage, the exact cottage whose wall abuts my south wall. I did not know this, when I started to walk her home, as the sun set and darkness began to prevail under the clouded sky. I said I would walk her home, not knowing where she lived. She said thanks, without knowing I stayed next door to her. The rain had kept her inside the whole time she was there, and when she was out she was at the beach. Our times never merged on the beach or at the cottage.

We walked along the fence, on the dirt road, with the hanging tree branches, and counted the small cows, along the edges of the trees watching us pass them. They looked like young curious children wondering about us as we passed them. When we rounded the last bend approaching my cottage, I said I lived very near to here and she said, I do also when we approached the dirt path to go to my cottage she said well, I guess I live closer than you on the journey home, would you like some wine, before continuing . She stopped at the end of the path, by the opened wood fence, where the birds sat previously, in the day, and I asked her where she lived, and she pointed to my cottage. There, up there? I pointed to my place. She shook her head yes, and asked me why. I laughed, You must be kidding? She asked me, what s so funny, and I said We are neighbors. Neighbors? She had a befuddled look on her face, that now in the moonligh,t that just opened up looked beyond romantic. She pulled me close to her, and kissed me goodnight, at the fence, that lasted longer than any good night kiss I could remember, and with a sly look on her face, asked, if I wanted some, with a long pause, wine for a nightcap . I shook my head, and we walked up the dirt path, arms around each other, like long lost friends, that we felt we were, even without knowing each other well at all. I showed her my place all cluttered with my stuff, and her eyes bulged out of her face and said, You are an artist? Please no, not an artist!

I smiled and nodded my head yes. She grabbed me with the deepest kiss ever and pulled me to her side of the building towards the other cottage. She flung open the doors to an identical kitchen loaded with cameras, lap tops, painting easels and canvas, and we both laughed at the mess. I peaked into the bedroom, but she blocked my view, before I could see anything but the bed. Wait one moment,. she said. I nodded my head. I noticed the wine half full, and saw two glasses, and poured wine into both of them.
She had changed into a wonderful soft cotton dress, that she made, and let down her long flowing hair. The enchanting unexpected meeting, our eye contact, the soft kisses in the natural place all came tumbling into themselves, into a wonderous once in a lifetime feeling of romance. Then in that moment, in between waking and sleeping more, the yackking of the crazy birds woke me up out of the splendicity of one of the most wonderful real dreams; I felt around in the bed next to me before opening my eyes. Only pillows, only birds yackking at 6:30am. A soft wind blew through the veranda, and the night flowers aroma strong with the night cascaded into my room, through the blowing curtains. It felt like someone just left them like in a dream. Perhaps just a notice of something yet to come. Or, a latching onto the energy of people once here before me. It would be a day of sun. My camera in hand with lenses and notebook I ventured out early to capture the rise of the sun through the fog. I wanted to capture the romance of that morning in something. The beauty of the night flowers peaked in that moment. For hours, I captured an unusual light on their blossoms. Black bees buzzed among them in a world of their own. Like me, I supposed.

Palabras en la segunda casita, Playa Fomento, Uruguay [words in Spanish and English] - Words from the second cottage, Play Fomento, Uruguay

Sabado

EN LA CASA - Spanish and English poems From Uruguay February, March & April 2007

Views from studio in Playa Fomento, Uruguay: February, March, April, 2007. - This is one of the views that inspired many stories, poems, paintings and drawings.