Lorraine Caputo

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 180 journals in Canada, the US, Latin America, Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa; and 12 chapbooks of poetry – including Caribbean Nights (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Notes from the Patagonia (dancing girl press, 2017) and On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019). She also pens travel pieces, with stories appearing in the anthologies Drive: Women’s True Stories from the Open Road (Seal Press, 2002) and Far Flung and Foreign (Lowestoft Chronicle Press, 2012), and travel articles and guidebooks. In March 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. She has done over 200 literary readings, from Alaska to the Patagonia. Ms Caputo journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. You may follow her travels at Latin America Wanderer: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer.  


 I lie in bed
         images of a drawing
                 coloring itself
         in my mind
 I lie in bed
         words gathering
                 like clouds
         misting at times, at times
                 pouring, spilling
         onto the terrace
 These pages yet dry
 For so long I dreamed
         of wandering these 
                 aged calles, strolling
         through markets
                 hearing the volcanoes
 My first day’s return
         I saw you, Cayambe
                 ghostly on the
         cloudy horizon
 Panecillo greened 
         with near-Spring herbs
                 Plaza San Francisco 
         a-flight with pigeons
 (A white dove swooped
         before me
                 as I crossed
         a narrow street)
 Airy, pastel
         dreams, images
         words gathering
 I await 
         the messages
                 of those
 I await
         the jaguar’s
         to my dreams
 The monastery peals
         these small hours
 At my door
         jaguar shadow
                 lies down, protecting
         my resting Self
 A wintry wind
         swirls through
                 the night
         the arcade
 & the rain yet spills
         on the terrace
                 & finally
         these words
                 upon this page 

Étude N° 15

  Which façade should I show you?
 My life is a mediæval cathedral
 built over many centuries
 Each façade intricately carved
 romanesque to renaissance
 Which doors of which façades
 should I bar to keep
 you from entering these memories?
 Who am I?
 Who am I?
 What have I done?
 What have I done?
 What have I experienced?
 What have I experienced?
 These questions
 through the
 cathedral of my body
 These questions
 behind my
 silent façades
 ~ ~
 Memories are some thing
 so malleable
 They can be formed & worked, molded
 to fit another reality
 We can deny their existence
 replacing them with the
 opposite truth
 Until some day some
 word some
 sound some
 smell some
 cracks the brittle agéd stone
 the ornate façade we have carved
 & the memory of its reality its truth
 beams through the fissures
 ~ ~ ~
 How did you …?
 When did you …?
 Didn’t you…?
 & your questions
 off the façades of my vessel
 swirling around the intricate carvings
 The fantastic beings the saints
 stand mute their faces
 stony or betraying
 their complicity
 ~ ~ ~ ~
 Should I open a door for you?
 Do I want you to touch my memories?
 Do I want to touch…? 


 The blood moon
 is once more white,
 growing out of the shadow
 that befell it tonight.
 I meditated
 in that crimson glow
 placing desires of my future,
 where I shall go,
 what I shall do …
 sinking energies to the Earth
 watching then the moon 
 from that unworldly light emerge.
 And now with its
 clearing light, I prepare for bed
 to dream again, the moon shining 
 through my window, upon my head. 

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