On this Peruvian mountainside
that lays a million years old,
where kids grow up under the sun,
where the best of stories are told.
Of the brave and weary,
of the old and meek,
of characters sad and funny,
of those which from betrayal reak.
A history threaded from a cultural cotton,
where narratives are spun,
with tales all worth passing down
stories of lost soles that have only just begun.
A tree grows up and up,
earning a place among the tilt,
next to them people of the earth
toil among centuries-old silt.
Pineapples, yuka and potato,
sit in rows on rows
a man perched upon his rake
watching as it grows.
His wife inside the house,
prepares the rice and beans,
she boils a soup, a tasty soup
in her husband's eye a gleem.
Here tradition lays frozen in time,
spare the mobile phone,
destroying a way of living slow,
from many decades and millennia ago.
How to survive the blazing sun
and the blistering snow,
all this and more could soon be lost,
with an undetermined cost.
The market every Saturday
is where you'll find this change,
Yankees, limas and Trujio Pilson,
all sold at a range,
"4 soles por un kilo"
shouts a lady behind her sack,
it's filled to the brim with seeds,
a seriously nutritious snack.
Scatter them around the pigs,
and the chickens too,
each pecking at the ground,
bidding the passers-by adew.
Look up from the concrete slabs
you'll see mountains up ahead,
each one taller than the last,
a day of trekking will have you wishing for your bed.
Yet here the old climb narrow paths,
with lungs full of air,
no panting or sweat on their brow
or cramping in their calves.
Strong feet and a straight head atop,
from years of working tough,
a mindset that the west has forgot,
with hands anythint but rough.
Here is where true freedom lies
in the mountains of Peru,
where a family grows with each crop and a hearty stew.
Tag Archives: Peru
Febuary Poetry: I Look Up
Far ahead
I look up
I constantly forget the
vastness of the landscape around me
so used to
the confined walls
of a stockroom
or the city scape
where man made
objects
cast shadows
or
keep you in a forever cycle
of want and distraction.
The air here is fresh
the sun here is striking
the plants here are emblematic
a green that implies
the soil is rich.
Not rich as in wealth
yet it can produce money
a yield providing a healthy sum
to allow for an addition to
your shelter
or a piece of clothing that
will undoubtably hold value for
many years to come.
I look up
And forget my surroundings
almost daily.
Each time I do so
my eyes try to absorb
the foreboding mountainside
without becoming
overwhelmed.
All around me
I am surrounded by stories
to be told
every insect or bird
the hero of their own
universe.
Who is worthy of telling
such a tale?
Who can comprehend the
Intricate relationships between
the people and the nature in which
they dwell?
Who can do such a landscape justice?
These are all questions
that require respectful consideration,
the answers of which shall befall
the person
that can relay the songs of the birds,
the buzzing of the insects,
the whispers of the village,
and the echoes of life
reflected within the colossal rocks
around me.
A Walk Along the Thames
He had been walking along the embankment for the past forty minutes. The Thames looked passive, its’ green murky water merely existing as it had done for millions of years. Growing tired, he decided to stop by a small, wooden bench. Slugging off his backpack, he slumped down on it with a heavy sigh. It was not the first time the piece of timber had bore the weight of a lacking human. The Sky was an impressive blue, clouds no where to be seen. His previous visits to London had consisted of bad weather and busy bodies, one of which was absent today. There’s a certain level of preparedness which one must obtain before walking the streets of London. Luckily, he had come equipped with more than his backpack. He was in no rush either: this helped. People walked past, each in their own realm of conversation, or for those who weren’t speaking aloud, an internal monologue rang clear; or so he had hoped. Had he been in the same spot 100 years earlier the only difference he would have witnessed was the cloth that shrouded their fragile bodies. The same problems would have still reverberated off the stone floor, that of love and purpose. Perhaps a larger portion of minds would have been present, worrying about what they would have to eat next rather than trivial issues born from a false reality. Half hoping someone would strike up a conversation with him, he sat there for quite some time. Two street cleaners came about with their large wheelie bin and even larger smiles. They spoke to each other in languages not from this neck of the woods. Both with a sense of purpose, they belonged to this still, heavily colonial landscape. The HMS Belfast in the backdrop, a ship that once roared across the World’s Seas now lay passive in the heart of London, a sleeping Jaguar hidden amongst the branches of a tree. Embankment was beautiful with its architectural design and large display of power. People from all walks of life would stroll by these buildings in admiration, forgetting what they once meant. Perhaps that is why they are so beautiful. An area once inaccessible by the agency of history, now yielded by the progress of modern thought. A group of three women he had never seen before, deemed familiar by previous childhood experiences. The family trips to Peru enabled him to recognise these women, a mother and her two daughters. To others they would have been another trio of strangers hidden amongst the crowd of tourists. Yet to him, they almost shared a familiar history. He wanted to talk to these three, to establish some form of repour, yet his anxious mind halted him from doing as such. Sometimes there are stories waiting to be told, ones that simply pass by you every day. A moment of courage allows two worlds to collide.
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