This Small, Precious World

Mundo nomasito/This Small, Precious World, a book of 6o poems, published in 1975, just months before his death, was Salarrué’s last gift to Cuscatlán.  He subtitled the collection “an island in the sky.” He prefaces the book, characteristically, with an explanation to his readers.  This is yesterdays’s book, he says, written today.  When I was young, walking a path, I dropped a mirror; 30 years later I’ve returned; weeds covered the path but I found the mirror.  He has returned from New York to his home in El Salvador, able to see it and appreciate it with even greater love and compassion.  These poems are a lyrical complement to his earlier Tales of Clay.

The 3 poems I have translated exemplify his spirituality, simplicity and love for Cuscatlán’s natural world.

The Mango Trees

Three tall mango trees

on the hill,

three circles of mist

standing together amid wild grasses

wet with morning dew,

heavy with fragrance,

there, where yellow flowers cluster.

            Leafy islands.

            Seated shepherds

            wrapped in clouds,

            looking south . . .

With many tender hearts they love

the quiet on the hill.

They play their mockingbird flutes

for their flocks.

Their shoulders droop,

the years weigh on their knotted

and calloused roots.

            From afar you can see

            the three on the hill . . .

            You come closer:

            first they seem of the earth,

            then they are of the sky,

            heavy in the sultry clime;

            airborne between the rain and the mist;

            rooted,

            floating . . . according to the time and weather . . .

A shadow sleeps naked

under their solitude.

In the heat of the day

you embrace the shadow

and sleep beside her.

The smell of honey wakes you.

            Your eyes mistake

            the fruit for the bird.

            You listen, but what do you hear?

            Ah, yes! . . . harps strummed by the wind

            Ah, yes! . . . the rustling of leaves;

            shouts from the distant blue,

            from the faraway valley;

            shouts that are the echoes of shouts,

            someone calling, a muted bellowing:

bulls, ranch hands, school children

playing tag, a maiden pursued,

the blowing of a horn?

Screams of screams . . . ;

ghosts of howls . . .

And up there, eternal silence

and clouds that noiselessly collide:

ghosts of shadow and water,

never the same, always silent.

Among the clouds

pass years

that themselves are echoes of clouds more subtle,

more silent . . .

The Garden

My house sits so high, so high,

so high up

that my front yard

is the sky.

I have a garden for daylight

and another at night,

where bright stars flower

on crystal stems.

In the daytime garden three flowerpots

like canoes filled with violets

float on the horizon.

There are carnations in the window boxes;

wildflowers snake along the swail;

maguey on the hillside

and in the washtub in the East,

a grand and golden sunflower.

This garden is my world! . . .

The Path

  

A path

alone:

a hollow,

a tall and smiling

eucalyptus,

dancing a waltz as it dreams

on pillows of air

beside the laughing spring.

Grassy path . . . .

Mozotes that play a circle game

around the weeds

and cling to skirts

like children,

stick to pant legs,

hang on the dog's

shaggy tail.

The shade is like a cool shower.

The milky lily grows there,

the quequeishcón

(with its ivory-tipped

carnelian tongue);

“Mary’s Heart;"

ash-gray mushrooms,

and along the fence,

lemon grass

and "St. Peter's Tears."

Lonely path,

you hear the thud of the sapodilla plum

falling on the dried mud.

A songbird's desperate call, chío,

is repeated in the distance.

Is it an echo or his twin brother?

Both sing their shrill song

and fly from post to branch,

their breasts yellow

like the zapote flower.

What time is it? . . .

It is the deeply fragrant

hour of midday,

bluest of blue

lightest of light.

The wind sets the wire fence humming;

it blows on the back of the

brush-laden hill;

the flirtatious butterfly flutters

her yellow wings;

one, two, three,

like a litany

of rose petals falling.

Faintly marked path,

traces of absence,

ribbon of illusion,

a longing that disappears

like the trail of a snake:

a deep, unmarked longing

that we followed

like wandering sleepwalkers,

touching, smelling,

hearing everything

without analyzing . . .;

looking toward infinity,

where memory is a lavender pool

and a kiss is a tranquil island.

We are beside the rock,

among dry mango seeds,

where we roll on the grass

holding our head in our hands;

where we smell father-mud,

dung and carao honey,

and tannin that bleeds from the tree trunk

and a sweet, sweet aroma

of some unknown, hidden

flower.

What is this flower, Lord?

Is it the blossom

of the bee and the hummingbird,

or the "forget-me-not,"

or the flower of life,

that opens in the depth of feeling?

Dear solitary path,

I love you like a beast of burden.