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OASIS MULEGÉ
by Daniel Charles Thomas, 2001.
1.
the gringos say there is a myth
in el pueblo de Mulegé
that you can get trapped
here and never leave
but it only seems, at first,
that snowbirds come
back every
winter
to make feliz año nuevo
new year night
and
day
as a small army of foreign fish
swimming through this ranchero
sea .
2.
the curving
valley
bends crescent
lagoon
green water
emerald palms
below mountain hills and
rocks of seven different
colors
mineral blue iron red
clay green lava chocolate
background peaks fold the coast
to create and guide
the river canyon
living water
first come to surface
in jagged mountain arroyos
holy baby stream wrapped in
cactus boulder swaddling rocks
trickling blood of sierra where
Indians scratched & painted
their fading past
COCHIMI
water brushes a wider valley
where today's cattle forage
RANCHERO
then flows between walls of palm
toward a man-built dam of stone
here the priests built their misión
JESUITA/DOMINICANA
& just downstream
across the little rio
still two miles from the sea
above the head
of a long & narrow tidal lagoon
the town took root and grew
este pueblo de Baja California
Santa Rosalia de Mulegé
- now just plain Mulegé -
but nothing plain about this
little old
oasis village
beside its carpet of hairy
palm tree heads
nothing plain at all
about this
hidden corner where Europe and America
meet a tiny outpost of Mexico
between twin lagoons
of sweet and salt
fresh and sour
the town waits
to capture you.
3.
pelican flies broad-winged
up the turning canyon
planes over
water body
stretch
and
bend
around the
corners of
arroyo
rio
the only river
in many hours
or days
of
travel
all else is wild, dry
jagged, stony desert
until this rare, wet canyon
where the pelican
Señor Pelicano
after endless flight
along the rocky
coast of fish
turns inland
to hunt the marshy swamp
and brackish tidal lagoon
with arcing bend
of heavy spread
he turns the corner
upstream
from salt mangrove
toward valley reed
measuring wide palm tree
walls on either side
like fur in his
wings gone feather
shifting ever so slightly
no hummingbird possible
he gives the slow turn through
barely five degrees of twist
and then
catching some little movement
in his eye
he rises up, folds,
and plummets
like a rock
into the wet, flat water
to emerge
a moment later
in his own ripples
his mouth fat with supper.
4.
two nights before new year
Mulegé holds a wedding of
earth and sky, sea and land
the stars crawl overhead
town whore taps hotel door
and three bands battle for
rulership of the night
for sacrifice, two young men
battle in the street until
their friends take them away
saying "vamos a la boda"
next day
shops take siesta or don't
depending on customers and trade
and a distant rumor
reaches the poet's ears
when someone says
all the bus seats are sold.
5.
at the highway junction into town
- the "Y" - (la i griega) -
a monument by the bus stop
celebrates heroic defensores
de Mulegé against invading
Northamericans
154 years ago
today they buy groceries, eat tacos,
or wait for the bus on a shaded
concrete bench built for
summer's blazing sun
the poet, in the night of the
day before the end, walks
with Fred and Joe and Ben
past the I-Griega Market
to a roadside stand reputed to serve
los mejores tacos de todo Mulegé
he eats six in company with
gringos and Mexicanos
a middleaged couple say "we were
just passing through when our
radiator hose burst - stopped
to have it fixed, and thought
we'd come over here
to try a few..."
Another man, silver-haired, stands back
watching, declining the poet's offer to
move forward and order - "No, it's
magic just to watch them work -
he chooses the freshest meat every day,
and look - she never touches the money...
always uses a plastic bag...
"I've been coming here for years, yes,
that's right, they told you true, these
are the best in or out of town
"and like much in Mulegé, once you
taste it once, you'll never want to
leave
again..."
6.
on new year's eve the village,
ranches, and roads between all
merge for the last night
and first morning
of a different millennium
the drinking town holds even more bands
than the night before
visitor and local, Mexican and foreigner
all sit down and stand up together
to remember life is new and old
come again fiesta
feliz año nuevo
gracias a Dios vivimos ahorita
in the river next morning, the
qui-qui-qui coot calls
from lagoon
to lagoon
this California
could have been
the Nile
in miniature
and the foreigners and natives
like Greeks and Egyptians
downing beer in the dead
rebirth of winter
nor any thought of new
world short order minimarkets
or
telecommerce
from Los Angeles or Tijuana
could stand against Miguel in his cantina
or Emelia in her bar restaurante
or the hundreds local other slowly
working their shops, hotels, bars
three thousand Mexicans and five hundred
gringos, a very post-modern mix
of nuts and bolts, all sorts
enfolding the village of ranchero birth
never forgetting whose is la patria
Frontera Baja California Sur
says
each license placa
carro in
this enchanting entrapping town.
7.
the busses pass north
without any open seats
lucky few bought their
tickets weeks ago
poet only got a one-way
south
now watches them go
January 1st, January 2nd
walks away to stare
@ the precious river
while a truck downshifts, dropping
from the pass, carressing the hills,
slowing to crawl the Y-Griega for
those inevitable speed bumps
which announce the town
then gearing up again on highway
bending new bridge across river
south
[well, he's got through, at least]
a coot flutters his wings in water
preening and dancing for his mate
the buzzards circle overhead
like eager aspirants for work
their broad, straight wings stretch
to catch every updraft interview
every carrion opportunity
but the poet, unable to
buy a ticket
walks beside the river, climbs that
rocky knoll behind the mission, looks
out over open water pathway
rippled by
breezy wind
which drops
between thick palm walls
to embrace
the curved lagoon face
lacuna entre / between
dos lados / sides
de tules y palmas
where the frigate-pirate birds, riding
that gentle breath, bend their jagged
wings and dive toward the water, pretending
to fish
tempting smaller birds
to come out and be eaten
the poet thinks of hitchiking
watching
a folded wing, a false dive toward
the water, and then
recovery
with a quick skim over the wet surface
that echoes the truck, speedbump and road
as
ten thousand palm fronds sigh in concert
their carpeted throat unrolled down canyon
conspiring with the wind to
overpower the highway
casting a spell of delicious sound
enchanting, entrapping, rustling the
wanderer
until traffic growls and automobile
truck dreams become real again
& poet remembers
hard world waiting out there, and
here - no seats on the bus...
after all that talk, you
are trapped in Mulegé...
and it's
time to look for a cheaper room.
from 2001
OASIS MULEGÉ
by Daniel Charles Thomas, 2001.
1.
the gringos say there is a myth
in el pueblo de Mulegé
that you can get trapped
here and never leave
but it only seems, at first,
that snowbirds come
back every
winter
to make feliz año nuevo
new year night
and
day
as a small army of foreign fish
swimming through this ranchero
sea .
2.
the curving
valley
bends crescent
lagoon
green water
emerald palms
below mountain hills and
rocks of seven different
colors
mineral blue iron red
clay green lava chocolate
background peaks fold the coast
to create and guide
the river canyon
living water
first come to surface
in jagged mountain arroyos
holy baby stream wrapped in
cactus boulder swaddling rocks
trickling blood of sierra where
Indians scratched & painted
their fading past
COCHIMI
water brushes a wider valley
where today's cattle forage
RANCHERO
then flows between walls of palm
toward a man-built dam of stone
here the priests built their misión
JESUITA/DOMINICANA
& just downstream
across the little rio
still two miles from the sea
above the head
of a long & narrow tidal lagoon
the town took root and grew
este pueblo de Baja California
Santa Rosalia de Mulegé
- now just plain Mulegé -
but nothing plain about this
little old
oasis village
beside its carpet of hairy
palm tree heads
nothing plain at all
about this
hidden corner where Europe and America
meet a tiny outpost of Mexico
between twin lagoons
of sweet and salt
fresh and sour
the town waits
to capture you.
3.
pelican flies broad-winged
up the turning canyon
planes over
water body
stretch
and
bend
around the
corners of
arroyo
rio
the only river
in many hours
or days
of
travel
all else is wild, dry
jagged, stony desert
until this rare, wet canyon
where the pelican
Señor Pelicano
after endless flight
along the rocky
coast of fish
turns inland
to hunt the marshy swamp
and brackish tidal lagoon
with arcing bend
of heavy spread
he turns the corner
upstream
from salt mangrove
toward valley reed
measuring wide palm tree
walls on either side
like fur in his
wings gone feather
shifting ever so slightly
no hummingbird possible
he gives the slow turn through
barely five degrees of twist
and then
catching some little movement
in his eye
he rises up, folds,
and plummets
like a rock
into the wet, flat water
to emerge
a moment later
in his own ripples
his mouth fat with supper.
4.
two nights before new year
Mulegé holds a wedding of
earth and sky, sea and land
the stars crawl overhead
town whore taps hotel door
and three bands battle for
rulership of the night
for sacrifice, two young men
battle in the street until
their friends take them away
saying "vamos a la boda"
next day
shops take siesta or don't
depending on customers and trade
and a distant rumor
reaches the poet's ears
when someone says
all the bus seats are sold.
5.
at the highway junction into town
- the "Y" - (la i griega) -
a monument by the bus stop
celebrates heroic defensores
de Mulegé against invading
Northamericans
154 years ago
today they buy groceries, eat tacos,
or wait for the bus on a shaded
concrete bench built for
summer's blazing sun
the poet, in the night of the
day before the end, walks
with Fred and Joe and Ben
past the I-Griega Market
to a roadside stand reputed to serve
los mejores tacos de todo Mulegé
he eats six in company with
gringos and Mexicanos
a middleaged couple say "we were
just passing through when our
radiator hose burst - stopped
to have it fixed, and thought
we'd come over here
to try a few..."
Another man, silver-haired, stands back
watching, declining the poet's offer to
move forward and order - "No, it's
magic just to watch them work -
he chooses the freshest meat every day,
and look - she never touches the money...
always uses a plastic bag...
"I've been coming here for years, yes,
that's right, they told you true, these
are the best in or out of town
"and like much in Mulegé, once you
taste it once, you'll never want to
leave
again..."
6.
on new year's eve the village,
ranches, and roads between all
merge for the last night
and first morning
of a different millennium
the drinking town holds even more bands
than the night before
visitor and local, Mexican and foreigner
all sit down and stand up together
to remember life is new and old
come again fiesta
feliz año nuevo
gracias a Dios vivimos ahorita
in the river next morning, the
qui-qui-qui coot calls
from lagoon
to lagoon
this California
could have been
the Nile
in miniature
and the foreigners and natives
like Greeks and Egyptians
downing beer in the dead
rebirth of winter
nor any thought of new
world short order minimarkets
or
telecommerce
from Los Angeles or Tijuana
could stand against Miguel in his cantina
or Emelia in her bar restaurante
or the hundreds local other slowly
working their shops, hotels, bars
three thousand Mexicans and five hundred
gringos, a very post-modern mix
of nuts and bolts, all sorts
enfolding the village of ranchero birth
never forgetting whose is la patria
Frontera Baja California Sur
says
each license placa
carro in
this enchanting entrapping town.
7.
the busses pass north
without any open seats
lucky few bought their
tickets weeks ago
poet only got a one-way
south
now watches them go
January 1st, January 2nd
walks away to stare
@ the precious river
while a truck downshifts, dropping
from the pass, carressing the hills,
slowing to crawl the Y-Griega for
those inevitable speed bumps
which announce the town
then gearing up again on highway
bending new bridge across river
south
[well, he's got through, at least]
a coot flutters his wings in water
preening and dancing for his mate
the buzzards circle overhead
like eager aspirants for work
their broad, straight wings stretch
to catch every updraft interview
every carrion opportunity
but the poet, unable to
buy a ticket
walks beside the river, climbs that
rocky knoll behind the mission, looks
out over open water pathway
rippled by
breezy wind
which drops
between thick palm walls
to embrace
the curved lagoon face
lacuna entre / between
dos lados / sides
de tules y palmas
where the frigate-pirate birds, riding
that gentle breath, bend their jagged
wings and dive toward the water, pretending
to fish
tempting smaller birds
to come out and be eaten
the poet thinks of hitchiking
watching
a folded wing, a false dive toward
the water, and then
recovery
with a quick skim over the wet surface
that echoes the truck, speedbump and road
as
ten thousand palm fronds sigh in concert
their carpeted throat unrolled down canyon
conspiring with the wind to
overpower the highway
casting a spell of delicious sound
enchanting, entrapping, rustling the
wanderer
until traffic growls and automobile
truck dreams become real again
& poet remembers
hard world waiting out there, and
here - no seats on the bus...
after all that talk, you
are trapped in Mulegé...
and it's
time to look for a cheaper room.
from 2001