Tropical Interlude
I Tropical Morning
In the mornings—Oh, the tropical mornings
When the bells are all so dizzily calling one to prayer!—
All my thought was to watch from a nook in my window
Indian girls from the river with flowers in their hair.
Some bore
Fresh eggs in wicker boxes
For the grocery store;
Others, baskets of fruit; and some,
The skins of mountain cats and foxes
Caught in traps at home.
They all passed so stately by, they all walked so gracefully,
Balancing their bodies on lithe unstable hips,
As if music moved them that swelled in their bosoms
And was pizzicatti at their finger-tips.
II Tropical Rain
The rain, in Nicaragua, it is a witch they say;
She puts the world into her bag and blows the skies away;
And so, in every home, the little children gather,
Run up like little animals and kneel beside the Mother,
So frightened by the thunder that they can hardly pray.
“Sweet Jesu, you that stilled the storm in Galilee,
Pity the homeless now, and the travelers by sea;
Pity the little birds that have no nest, that are forlorn;
Pity the butterfly, pity the honey bee;
Pity the roses that are so helpless, and the unsheltered corn,
And pity me….”
Then, when the rain is over and the children’s prayer is said, Oh, joy of swaying palm-trees with the rainbows overhead, And the streets swollen like rivers, and the wet earth’s smell, And all the ants with sudden wings filling the heart with wonder, And, afar, the tempest vanishing with a stifled thunder In a glare of lurid radiance from the gaping mouth of hell!
III Tropical Park
The park in Leon is but a garden
Where grass and roses grow together;
It has no ordinance, it has no warden
Except the weather.
The paths are made of sand so fine
That they are always smooth and neat;
Sunlight and moonlight make them shine,
And so one’s feet
Seem always to tread on magic ground
That gleams, and that whispers curiously,
For sand, when you tread it, has the sound
Of the sea.
Sometimes the band, of a warm night,
Makes music in that little park,
And lovers haunt, beyond the bright
Foot-paths, the dark.
You can almost tell what they do and say
Listening to the sound of the sand,—
How warm lips whisper, and glances play,
And hand seeks hand.
IV Tropical Town
Blue, pink and yellow houses, and, afar,
The cemetery, where the green trees are.
Sometimes you see a hungry dog pass by,
And there are always buzzards in the sky.
Sometimes you hear the big cathedral bell,
A blindman rings it; and sometimes you hear
A rumbling ox-cart that brings wood to sell.
Else nothing ever breaks the ancient spell
That holds the town asleep, save, once a year,
The Easter festival….
I come from there,
And when I tire of hoping, and despair
Is heavy over me, my thoughts go far,
Beyond that length of lazy street, to where
The lonely green trees and the white graves are.
V Tropical House
When the winter comes, I will take you to Nicaragua—
You will love it there! you will love my home, my house in Nicaragua, So large and queenly looking, with a haughty air That seems to tell the mountains, the mountains of Nicaragua, “You may roar and you may tremble for all I care!”
It is shadowy and cool,
Has a garden in the middle where fruit trees grow,
And poppies, like a little army, row on row,
And jasmine bushes that will make you think of snow
They are so white and light, so perfect and so frail,
And when the wind is blowing they fly and flutter so.
The bath is in the garden, like a sort of pool,
With walls of honeysuckle and orchids all around;
The humming birds are always making a sleep sound;
In the night there’s the Aztec nightingale;
But when the moon is up, in Nicaragua,
The moon of Nicaragua and the million stars,
It’s the human heart that sings, and the heart of Nicaragua,
To the pleading, plaintive music of guitars!
[signed] Salomon De La Selva.