dawn among the vicuna – 16 tanka

The tanka is a five-line Japanese poetry form from which the haiku was derived.   A tanka is 31 syllables arranged in five lines: 5-7-5-7-7.   [Haiku = first three lines of that, 5-7-5.]  I have written many tanka, and have, in particular, combined tanka with photographs elsewhere.   Thus during this Peruvian journey I slipped into that mode on occasion.

 

To the vicuna,

after long, cold mountain nights,

dawn’s a mystery.

he leaps, then stares in wonder,

as I stare in awe at him. 

 

Above the steep cliff.

burros munch grass. Clouds drift past

below them. Inside,

kids’ eyes, bright in the dim light,

point us toward the next world. 

 

 

 

 

Surrounded by sheep,

pretty in pink, la nina

pays no attention

to sunset or shadows, but

her childhood is magical.

 

  

Clouds cling to the peaks

like that child to her mother

on their patient horse.

They have ridden from their farm, 

which wires and roads do not reach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the high mountains, 

purity not found in life.

it must be a dream!

No one is here to wake us.

Or were the cities the dreams?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Silent brown village,

high green hills, children’s laughter, 

Lazy animals . . . 

Knowing each face in each home

comforts, but is not enough.

the village market 

fills with motion, sounds, and scents

– and a mother’s love.

her hands quickly fill orders,

make change. Her eyes do not move. 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

those eyes! You behave

– but not from fear. Just because

those eyes protect you

with love and faith and patience.

To ease sorrows she denies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

gossip and giggles. 

why should you be in a rush

to take our pictures?

we have chattered here for years

and still have years left to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five hundred stone steps.

This old man never hurries,

always he’s smiling.

Ask why, he shrugs. “Top, bottom,

any step, I am still me.” 

 

 

 

Like an awkward child,

the vicuna sits, listens,

watches her bright eyes

– as if she were telling him

long-ago tales of magic.

 

 

Turquoise mountain lake.

Sun striking white peaks, bright clouds  

hugging them softly.

I should return here to die:

my final view of this world.

 

 

 

 

 

Racing home, the sheep

kick up dust the setting sun

turns to an aura.

Thinking of boys or schoolwork,

a mythical shepherdess! 

 

  

Passion like the sea

is full of powerful waves

that crash and roar

then ebb all too rapidly

into the sea’s great stillness.

 

  

 

Late afternoon light

fills the scene with extra life;

children laugh and scream, 

desperate to keep the day

from ending; as do we all.

 

the blinding river

flows past our thin silhouettes

in afternoon sun.

dance of boyhood, dance of life,

it is ours for the moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Centuries have cleaned

from our bones all that we were.

Each skull’s smooth baldness

is like another’s – yet you

imagine you are unique?