Lorraine Caputo, Equatorial Andes
Being
I float on the sea
a coconut, a mangrove
shoot bobbing on the
slight waves of this quiet gulf,
slowly washing to the beach
floating, not being
just being coco, shoot of
mangrove washed ashore
Volcanic dreams
Despite the horrors and dangers Nature has surrounded them with, the inhabitants of Quito are happy, lively and kind. Their city breathes only voluptuousness and luxury, and in no other place does such a decided and general pleasure to enjoy oneself reign as there. Thus, man becomes accustomed to sleeping on the edge of a precipice.
—Alexander von Humboldt, from a letter to his brother
Ecuadorians are rare and unique beings: They sleep peacefully among crackling volcanoes; they live poor amongst incomparable riches, and they rejoice with sad music.
—Alexander von Humboldt
I.
Every day I search the horizons for your ghostly shapes
beyond the layers of clouds that settle in this rainy season.
Sometimes, Cayambe, you rise bold against a clear blue
of morning.
But most dawns, most noons, most dusks I search
in vain.
II.
I remember when I first came here thirteen years ago,
we’d climb the roof to see the wonder of six snow-capped peaks
so near the equator.
III.
On a rare day, walking down the narrow steep streets
of this Old Town, I will spy you, Antisana & Sincholagua,
rising beyond Itchimbía.
IV.
I drift into sleep, blanketed by a midnight,
& one of you shakes me to consciousness
with your presence.
V.
& later I dream of photographing your panorama.
Again I look out my window, studying the horizon.
Again I approach, formulating how to capture you.
Can you all… in that space upon mere paper… ?
Again I view you… preparing…
VI.
& come clear dawn, Cayambe, you are brilliant,
your western flanks mottled black-white against
the sunrise.
VII.
During an icy night your shapes tower
in my Kodachrome dreams: Ebony cones,
ebony ragged peaks, ebony...
… looming…
VIII.
This cold morning, I glance at your vista,
Cayambe, Sincholagua, Antisana & those lower lomas
now bright with new-fallen snow.
IX.
Reventador stirring anew & Tungurahua
& Galeras over the north border. On Fernandina Island
the lava crackles.
Sangay… like always
glowing red against the junglescape.
X.
An afternoon I sit and listen to you, writing
these words flowing through my arm,
through this pen, onto this page.
Why are you calling me?
XI.
In my warm room, bright full moon
through chilled panes, I sit silent, eyes closed,
meditating…
& I feel a tremoring, a long trembling.
Is it I who am quaking or is it,
again, one of you?
XII.
From atop holy Yavirac, an ancient still-
born volcano, I see this modern Quitsa-to
spread its carpet of buildings.
Sunlight plays across the valley, glinting
off distant façades & windows.
I wrap my shawl tighter against the gusting
wind & meditate upon the nebulous horizons.
my soul walking those páramos beneath your slopes.
Your visages are veiled from my hopes.
Only the nearest do I see, its charred cragged
crater stormy beneath roiling clouds.
XIII.
I watch Cayambe with its sunset alpenglow
concealed by scuttling clouds.
& I wonder in what unforeseen moment
will you again
speak to me.
Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 180 journals on six continents and 12 chapbooks of poetry – including Caribbean Nights (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Notes from the Patagonia (dancing girl press, 2017) and Fire and Rain (Red Mare #18, 2019), a collection of eco-feminist poetry. She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In March 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done over 200 literary readings, from Alaska to Patagonia. She travels through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.
