Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems

by Lynette Roberts

  I would see again São Paulo:

  The coffee coloured house with its tarmac roof

  And spray of tangerine berries.

  I would again climb the mountain cable

  And see Pernambuco with its dark polished table,

  The brilliance of its sky piercing through the trees

  Like so much Byzantine glass or clear Grecian frieze.

  As we stumble higher, strolling gourds and air-plants

  Spring from muscoid branch to barnacle wire:

  I would see old man should it come my way,

  The mahogany pyramids of burnished berries, gay

  With surf-like attitudes of men sitting around

  In crisp white suits, starch to the ground.

  The peacock struts and nets mimicrying butterflies,

  And the fazenda shop clinking like ice in an enamel jug

  As you open the door. The stench of wine-wood,

  Saw-dust, maize flour, pimentos, and basket of birds,

  With the ear-tipped ‘Molto bien signorit’, and the hot mood

  Blazing from the drooping noon. Outside sweating gourds

  Dripping rind and peel; yet inside cool as lemon,

  Orange, avocado pear.

  While in this damp and stony stare of a village

  Such images are unknown:

  So would I think upon these things,

  In the event that someday I shall return to my native surf

  And feel again the urgency of soil.

  And then on these same journeys almost as soon as the ship had dropped anchor off the Cape Verde Islands, Las Palmas, Madeira, a great sweep of hundreds of boats frail as matchsticks, overloaded with lace trinkets and shawls, and up these men would scramble and without pause for the eye to rest, in a flash the long stretch of the main decks were transformed into gorgeous bargaining bazaars. The gulls screaming and gliding overhead the farewells. Here then is the ‘Seagull’ poem:

  Seagulls’ easy glide

  Drifting fearlessly as voyagers’ tears:

  Quay and ship move as imperceptively,

  Without knowing we weep.

  Cry gulls who recall

  An ocean of uncertainty;

  Greed of rowing men

  Mere flies at the ship’s sides.

  Last bargains roped and reached:

  And as imperceptively regretted,

  Tears of fury and stupidity

  Reel down the runnels of those cheeks.

  And then after a long interval, as I drew upon the rich store which this lovely country had given me, I wondered if I might not write a long ballad, an autobiography of my early childhood. Then I again rebelled. There were too many books, poems, etc. of childhood memories. I resolved then to write about a true [story] which had occurred on the pampas, in surroundings which I knew. Mr Cadvan Hughes had sent me many letters about [an] expedition his father-in-law had made into Indian territory. And as this had been conveyed to him personally, while Mr Evans was living, I choose this theme. And so the Ballad of ‘El Dorado’ was born. In it of course I used many of my own memories, as a background, or reconstruction of the event. For instance, a habit we have on the pampas when out riding of continually tightening or loosening up the cincha, the belt which holds down the sheepskin, the leather stirrups, the hooded ones that I had seen and the looped leather stirrups which I had used. The quality of the thistles which they used for fuel and making rennet, their hollowness and crack, seeing iguanas as they flashed past from before the horses’ hoofs, the legends, the racoon that I found on my dressing table, and who later was found curled up in sleep in my bed, the nutrias in hundreds, and flight, colour and song of the myriad birds, these I wanted to recreate. And so from the journey out of four companions, the Indian massacre of three and solitary return of Evans to his Patagonian soil, there remained for his comfort the pampa lullaby, one that the great naturalist W.H. Hudson quotes as being two centuries old. The same lullaby which my mother in Mechita sang to me and is recorded here at the end of this ballad, which was broadcast in the early months of this year, and from which I will only read a few stanzas of the setting out, and a few stanzas of the return of Evans alone:

  Up then leapt the leader Evans

  On his favourite spirited steed,

  High and proud on his mounted pack

  A pioneer in the lead.

  A pull on the cinch and Davies was up

  On Zaino with new head gear,

  The raw hide bridle upon his horse

  Incenses him to rear.

  They would ride they said for gold, Hughes

  Evans, Davies and Parry,

  To mountains unseen, and unknown places,

  For its hidden in dust or scree.

  The bells rang as the mare set off

  With tropilla of packs and hide,

  Thirty horses followed her pace,

  The wilder one tied to her side.

  They moved dark forms from out the corral,

  Creating light on their way:

  Quiet and silent as gauchos ride,

  Who leave at break of day.

  A creak of leather fills the air

  And rhythm of their hoofs,

  The lights soon twinkle in distant huts

  From holes in iron roofs.

  The siskins upside down on thistles,

  The migrants yellow and blue,

  The scarlet cardinals, humming birds

  All shimmer as South Seas do.

  In space like this possessed by birds,

  The Indians cut a stalk,

  And piping still transform these birds

  And make the cuena talk.

  And then Evans with the solitary return journey, riding for days over the desert and unknown lands until he reaches his native river:

  Down towards the Chubut River

  Past the Iamacan,

  Evans sought the Indian trail

  Like the fox of man.

  It all was known and sweet to him,

  He spun through pampa blasts

  As it flickered high around his horse

  Like a sea of tossing masts.

  Then slower as he journeyed on,

  With sad reflection back,

  No friends, and no madrina bells,

  No flourish of hoofs on the track.

  The Chajá cried into the night,

  A wagon rumbled high

  With twenty horses leading abreast:

  Wistaria spread in the sky.

  As dawn arose, the Settlement,

  So quietly it would seem,

  No herd, or dogs had turned their head,

  It might have never been.

  A child had scampered out of bed

  Curled in the Patio sun,

  With corn cob hair and racoon bear,

  She sang this song to her son.

  ‘A ro ro mi niño,

  A ro ro mi sol

  A ro ro pedazo

  De mi corazon.’

  El Dorado

  Introduction: a ballad partly based on the true story of John Daniel Evans as related to his son-in-law Mr T. Hughes Cadvan in 1936. The expedition took place in Patagonia in 1883. (The Welsh, having landed in Chubut to found their Colony in 1865.) An introduction of Argentine music is suggested, but this must have a strong Inca flavour, as the Indians of that time predominated on the plain. Such music which contains the cuena or pincullo, drum with the metallic cord attached to it, and Indian guitar. This is made from the armadillo shell, is high in pitch and very clear. (The author has such records in her possession.)

  CAST

  The narrator

  John Evans

  Davis

  Hughes

  Parry

  [Indians]

  [I]

  Up then leapt the leader Evans

  On his favourite spirited steed,

  High and proud on his mounted pack

  A pioneer in the lead.

  A pull on the cinch and Davies was up

 
On Zaino with new head gear,

  The raw hide bridle upon his horse

  Incenses him to rear.

  They would ride they said for gold, Hughes

  Evans, Davies and Parry,

  To mountains unseen, and unknown places,

  For its hidden in dust or scree.

  The bells rang as the mare set off

  With tropilla of packs and hide,

  Thirty horses followed her pace,

  The wilder one tied to her side.

  They moved, dark forms from out the corral,

  Creating light on their way:

  Quiet and silent as gauchos ride,

  Who leave at break of day.

  A creak of leather fills the air

  And rhythm of their hoofs,

  The lights soon twinkle in distant huts

  From holes in iron roofs.

  The more they rode, each hut fell back,

  Until with leagues apart,

  The last mud hut with pelt hide roof

  Stood high as the wheel of a cart.

  Stealthy they rode, the cattle turned,

  The hens flew down from trees

  And squawked as ugly mongrels bayed

  Stabbing the sinister eaves.

  A ranchero stared. The plains received

  Strange waves and spells of fear

  As these young riders galloped past

  To find their way now clear.

  Dawn on the plains.

  In darkened light the scrub bush swayed

  Further than they could see,

  Cold waves of air rustled the stalks

  As water through stones of the sea.

  The steam arose from the horses’ backs

  And mingled with the plains;

  The mist flowed; the sun soon glowed;

  The gauchos drew in their reins.

  Faint bird notes.

  Each bush of thorn on fire, each bird

  Far wilder than they’d been,

  Each stone vibrating singing sweetly

  All nature in song and seen.

  In this new spirited air flashing,

  The cold night air creeps back,

  As plovers and plovers rise calling

  New wings in lilac and black.

  The siskins upside down on thistles,

  The migrants yellow and blue,

  The scarlet cardinals, humming birds

  All shimmer as South Seas do.

  Indian cuena music is heard in background, merging into sound of hoofs.

  In space like this possessed by birds,

  The Indians cut a stalk,

  And piping still transform these birds

  And make the cuena talk.

  II

  Six more leagues they’d make a halt

  So eager were they to ride;

  The madrina’s bell sweet to their ears

  As the birds that flew at her side.

  The horses were wild and hard to handle

  For some were still untame;

  Though branded clearly: they bucked freely:

  To throw the packs their aim.

  ‘But this was better’, Evans said,

  To console himself and friend,

  ‘These beasts caught in the wild state

  Fend for themselves, and tend

  Evans:

  If the rein is slack to dodge and guide

  Us over snake, iguana;

  Evans:

  Or avoid the holes of vizcacha burrows:

  Sense water from afar.’

  And as he spoke, the horse then shied;

  He patted the silken neck.

  Evans:

  ‘Now take this beast with white star head

  So dark with this white fleck.

  Mendoza, when he sailed, he left

  Twelve horses on our shore;

  The herd then spread throughout the land

  And raised our rich folklore.

  And such a one is this, my steed;

  The Indians fear the mark.

  ‘El Malacara’, bad face, they say,

  And turn morose, or embark

  On Spanish Conquests of their land:

  On bad or pioneer strangers:

  Falkner, Musters, Hudson, Darwin

  Whose virtues stick like burs.

  But one tall tribe was good to us

  And fought all other tribes;

  On our behalf taught us to hunt

  And fed us without bribes.

  They trusted us on Chubut soil,

  Brought ponchos, fur, and hide.

  And sold us horses in sixty-five,

  The Chief sought us with pride.’

  III

  When nine days passed they knew no land

  But only as it wound,

  The Chubut River with crystal quartz

  That shines up from the ground.

  It lit their drying faces. That night

  Parry dismounted first;

  He hobbled the mare and freed the horses,

  Untying the packs as he cursed

  Parry:

  And chattered, ‘The fire was hard to light.’

  They cut dried meat and drank

  Hughes:

  Some maté. Hughes then shouted, ‘Tie

  A horse to some branched bank

  Or bunch of pampas. With no food

  The mare may stray tonight.’

  The River shone and rippled clearly

  Pearly through the night.

  [Cry of geese heard.]

  The plain soon dipped towards the dawn:

  A wolf had chewed the tether,

  And stood to watch as they in vain

  Sought horse and broken leather.

  They searched for prints, uprooted grass,

  A stone knocked out of place;

  Then hours later found the rift

  The mare had made their base.

  Parry:

  ‘But Hughes will make another thong

  Or halter of raw hide.’

  He looked the gaucho in ‘wide-awake’ hat,

  And lived that life as ‘guide’.

  The rest wore tattered hats, tied scarves,

  Old ponchos on their back,

  Mugs and knives at their waist, bombachas,

  Boots and shoes of sack.

  Davies:

  Mocking Indians’ gold stirrups.

  ‘And make a pair of stirrups’, said Davies

  ‘Each gold for either side!’

  Hughes:

  Mocks back, offering inferior thonged and hooded leather stirrups of the country.

  ‘You’ll get looped pelts or hooded hide

  Iron spurs thrown in beside!’

  IV

  Music of the plains.

  Three hundred miles they kept the course;

  And hunted daily for food:

  They’d use the lasso, bola, or gun,

  Repair them while it brewed.

  And where the Chubut joined the Lepá

  And green willows unfold;

  To rest their mounts was their desire,

  And sift the beds for gold.

  Among the tall red canyon heights

  In the Andes iced domain,

  They queried cattle’s four feet horns

  That drift near guns to aim.

  In whining and in searing winds

  They sieved the River bed,

  With quilt that shone like gold on their faces,

  The gold-dust flushing them red;

  Hiding the grains in their boots – what’s that? –

  A thunder of hooves stiffened

  And shook the earth, as they leapt to their mounts

  To round up and defend

  Their troupe from a wild horses’ stampede.

  For they might attempt to draw off

  With caresses and neighing our thirty head:

  We circled our troupe to push off

  The endless hooves that passed for an hour

  By yelling and whirlin
g lassoes.

  The piebalds, black picasso with white

  Legs and face, roan blues,

  The yellow horse with the black stripe,

  The spotted and strawberry roans,

  The splashed horses, the good cruzado.

  ‘Such a mixed group atones

  Parry:

  For the fear once they are passed. And that white

  Horse with the black mane

  Ears, fetlock, muzzle, and tail,

  Is surely a Dynevor strain,

  One of the breed of the Sacred White?’

  The trees now buzzed with gnats,

  The madrina’s bell tinkled again

  And evening released the bats.

  Rejoiced they stood around the fire

  And fed it with dry stalks;

  While Davies sat on a bullock’s skull

  And started on one of his talks:

  Davies:

  ‘Not long ago when we lived in caves,

  And Indian stood bare…

  From nowhere… My father spoke:

  The Chief stood back with care.

  Suddenly the Indian’s wife bent down,

  And with thorn and thread as sinew,

  Without a word Father’s trousers tacked

  And repaired the tear as new.

  Look over!’ The dust rose red and high,

  They all looked, sheepdog,

  Horses, ‘If dust would only settle

  Instead of this red fog.’

  They saw. Now plovers rising up,

  And crying birds; guanacos

  Evans:

  Leaping with lowered necks; ‘Two Indians!’

  Parry: Evans:

  ‘Arucanians?’ ‘Foes!’

  They came, and bareback fast with spears

  Both lit with brilliant feathers,

  With copper shields and glittering beads,

  And gold and silver leathers.

  What shine of rich stirrup silver!

  With gold drops on their rein.

  The Indians grinned for they knew these men

  They had traded with them for grain.

  Indians:

  Low and slow of speech

  ‘Had they not met at Trelew once?

  What are you doing? Why?

  Where are we going? Why not home?

  This Indian land. Why?’

  We shared the rhea that they had caught,

  They swung their bolas with skill

  The lead and thongs had tied the legs,

  They drank the blood with will.

  We shared the night, and when dogs strayed,

  They stood on their horses saying:

  Indians:

  ‘Why don’t you visit our Sunica Chief

  In his ‘toldo’ camp laying

  A hundred miles to west.’ Persuaded,

  At sunrise two of us rode;

  Hughes and Evans with two Indian guides

  Not to disturb their code.

  Evans:

  ‘O ghost of Martin Fierro aid us.’