洞月亮 Cave Moon Press August 2018

FEATURED POET: Lauro Flores is Professor of Chicano and Latin American literatures and cultures at the University of Washington, Seattle. During his tenure at the University of Washington, he has been Chair of AES, Director of the Center for Chicano Studies, Chair of Latin American Studies, and Special Assistant to the Provost. Winner of a 2007 UW Distinguished Teaching Award, Dr. Flores has been visiting professor at Stanford University and UCLA.

Childhood Trip
           (Dream of Las Canoas)

Do you still remember, dear Alfredo,
that secluded green place nestled
atop a mountain, reclined on its foothills?
Do you still preserve the memory
of your first childhood trip over the grayish
slopes of the sleeping volcano?

Las Canoas, remote village near
the old hill where my ancestors settled,
the place where, on a clear day,
your grandfather, destiny’s rails,
an intrepid short-distance train
and three noble mule drivers took you.

On that concealed hillside,
you discovered kindling for the first time,
and saw the meandering flight of the swallow;
there, you felt, also for the first time,
the fragrance of the woods and spring,
and the persistent perfume of pine resin.

There, you counted the resplendent stars;
you gazed at the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper
until those droning voices,
modulated into muffled harmony,
and the brindled purring of the cat
finally closed your eyes until the following day.



Párvulo viaje

                (Sueño de Las Canoas)
¿Aún recuerdas, mi querido Alfredo,
aquel verde paraje recogido
en un cerro, reclinado en sus faldas?
¿Aún perdura en tu alma el recuerdo
de tu párvulo viaje por las pardas
laderas de aquel volcán dormido?

Las Canoas, rancho remoto, vecino
del viejo cerro, allí donde moraron
mis ancestros, y a donde un claro día
tu abuelo, los rieles del destino,
un intrépido tren de cercanías
y tres nobles arrieros te llevaron.

En aquella recóndita colina,
descubriste el ocote por vez primera,
y viste el vuelo errante de la golondrina;
allí sentiste, también por vez primera,
el aroma del bosque, de la primavera,
y el porfiado perfume de la trementina.

Allí contaste las fulgentes estrellas,
contemplaste el Arado y el Pequeño Cazo,
hasta que las voces aquellas,
moduladas en su sorda armonía,
y el abarcinado ronroneo del gato
te cerraron los ojos hasta el otro día.

WRITE YOUR POEM
How does your poem hold up in another language?
As an experiment, translate your poem into another tongue.
(Even if you use Google translate)
Show it to a friend.  Does it hold the meter?  Is that relevant?

Looking at your poem in another language forces to you to see 
if you are relying on linguistic tricks, (like rhyme) or thematic units.
Neither is good or bad.  It just offers a different path.  Write your poem!