Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Friday, February 06, 2009

#149 Morning poem . . .

Chip-chip-chip the beja flor
calls: Awake. Awake.
It is the last day in Ouro Preto, this valley
of nameless trees and red tiled roofs
brightening in the morning sun.
Trucks lumber up cobblestoned streets where
last night orixas and students danced
in samba, lace, bead, and drum, joyous.
So many have slept
anonymously, abandoned,
to waken here, in your room, Pablo Neruda,
whose lines make me want to sing.

The morning does begin here in Ouro Preto with hummingbirds, and last night students did dance in the streets, practicing for Brazil’s famous Carnival. This week’s prompt from Sunday Scribblings is simply art. For every person who takes pen or brush, and dedicates time, talent and effort to express some interpretation, past the senses and rhythm of pure line and color, to heighten our awareness of the meaning of life, I wish another someone who looks deep and says: Ah. Yes.

13 comments:

  1. There was an excellent sense of what was going on in this. You took me there.

    ReplyDelete
  2. A lovely poem, Beth. Thanks for sending back a taste of Ouro Preto for all of us. Would that we were all "in samba, lace, bead, and drum, joyous." Peace.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Anonymous5:00 AM

    i feel the words dance. great ending with pablo neruda.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Feel like I was there! Pity you're leaving before the real Carnaval.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Beautiful...I felt like I was there in a dream. Thank you for letting me go along!

    ReplyDelete
  6. How beautiful! The energy of that piece is lovely indeed! Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  7. love your final thought about art being balanced out between those who create it and those who enjoy it!!!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Thank you for momentarily taking me away from the frozen tundra of Wisconin.

    ReplyDelete
  9. How true. Some of us can only appreciate it. Beautiful art leaves me breathless.

    ReplyDelete
  10. This sounds like a wonderfully exotc place to be.
    Thanks for visiting me, the fires are still going and the toll still rising.

    ReplyDelete
  11. This is inspired writing, Beth. Something pure in this, and beautiful. Cathartic to read. And the shout-out to Neruda is an endearing touch. ;) Cheers.

    ReplyDelete