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. 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 II. For so long I dreamed of wandering these aged calles, strolling through markets hearing the volcanoes quaking III. 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) IV. Airy, pastel dreams, images coloring words gathering I await the messages of those volcanoes I await the jaguar’s descent to my dreams V. 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 echo through the cathedral of my body These questions echo 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 echo off the façades of my vessel echo 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.