Last Night in Cusco

We waited for Wendy in her hotel foyer. It was an old hotel, just off the city centre — cool stone walls; plants on balconies; polished tables; graceful stairs. I tried on the cone-shaped black felt hat I bought at the market — not the tourist market; the people's market where Wendy took us, down near the station. As soon as I put the hat on, I saw pulsing flashes of light all around the walls and the high ceiling. I took it off. The lights vanished.  

a slender woman

walks up a slender staircase

tall green plants in tubs

Wendy arrived, all in black as always, with her own hat of high white straw, wide-brimmed, and her big smile. We were to meet three of her Peruvian friends. Just as they arrived, she received a message. The President's daughter was ready to take her to meet the President. Wendy's mission in Peru was to set up shelters and trade schools for homeless kids. She couldn't miss this opportunity. A brief apology, and she left us with her friends. She introduced them by name, but always spoke of them collectively as the Angels. They were a thin young man and two women: one young, shy, quietly pretty; the other older, full-figured, dignified. 

she dresses in black

with intent: the uniform

of the grandmothers

The Angels wanted to meet us because we were Reiki Masters. A man had come to Cusco only a few weeks before, and taught them hands-on healing. They were still thrilled, and wanted to compare. After a quick discussion with each other in Spanish, they took us to the young man's home, in a tiny old car that chugged alarmingly up the steep streets. We piled out at a high, blank wall. He opened a small door in the bottom right corner. We bent our heads to go through to a courtyard. Doors around all the inner walls. One was his; he let us into two dark rooms with weak overhead lamps.

rooms without windows

the blue of the Cusco sky

is legendary

They told us about their way of healing. "We pray," they said, "And light comes into our hands. May we show you?" 

We stood in a circle. The older woman prayed in Spanish. I don't know what she said. We had no Spanish much, beyond "Hola!" When she finished, she invited us to look at their hands, at little sparks of light dancing all over the palms. Then we all noticed Andrew's and my hands sparkling too. Everyone got very excited, pointing and gabbling. 

she stands in prayer

her speaking voice is music

on our last night here

They told us the light was a gift from the angels. I asked if the angels could explain what happened when I put on the black felt hat. She took the hat in her hands and closed her eyes. At length she told me it had belonged to a humble shepherd who prayed a lot to Jesus. She said I could summon Jesus whenever I put on the hat; it was full of blessings because of the goodness of that humble man. I supposed that the light-giving angels told her this, into her mind, while she stood with her eyes closed.

We felt nothing, no sensation; but the sparks of light continued for hours until gradually slowing, fading. We left Cusco next day. We never found out what words were used in the prayer.

in a small dark room

we meet with angels of light

farewell to Peru

April Poem A Day Challenge 2014, day 29: magical realism
(a realistic poem and a magical one, or both in one)

Also submitted for dVerse Meeting the Bar — the haibun

Machu Picchu

I watch the city of stone spread out again
across the peak of the mountain,
under the high shield of the other mountain
the dark one, younger and taller: my love.

I am sitting above the ruins, on the terraced hill.
We have walked through a place of fire.
Only last month this green hill burned,
and we can still see traces. And the sun
today has been fiery too; many tourist faces
have turned pink already. But I am at peace here.

There is a small hut close by. A decade later
my friend Helen will go and sit in its emptiness
and look out over the same view. She will adopt it
emotionally as ‘Helen’s house’. I in my time
do not enter the hut that will be her house,
but I like both its isolation and its implied shelter.

I almost dance down the steep rocks, fear of height
switched miraculously off, to wander through
solid buildings roofless to the sky. I hardly believe
I am here, touching. The altar to the sun is roped off.
No sacrifices today; the site is under repair. But we observe
the bowls and trenches that must have been for blood.

On a grassy space by a huge rock, under a frail tree,
we rest and contemplate. Later in meditation
I shall descend through hidden tunnels
over and over again, to meet my kin.


April PAD Challenge 12
Prompt: A city.


Also submitted 10 Dec. 2011 to Poets United's Thursday Think Tank #77 — The City

Valley of the Incas

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 23
Write a poem using iambic pentameter.

To Bill and Helen

I caught a glimpse of morning in Peru
through someone else’s holiday account
and suddenly I climbed those slopes again
the steep and winding streets, the blocks of stone,
the mighty, rocky Andes, homes of gods.

He writes “Ollantaytambo” and I thrill
remembering the amphitheatre there
and how I lay full length on one flat stone
and opened to the sun, while somewhere close
an Indian man played softly on a flute.

Another tourist came and gawped at me.
“The sacrificial altar isn’t here,”
he said. “You’ve got it wrong.” I turned my head
and went on with my ritual, silently
communing with the Apu of that place.

In Aquas Calientes when we strolled
along the river path to those hot springs
in nothing but our swimsuits and our towels,
it was the locals gaped (at work below
breaking up the rocks to clear the stream).

At Machu Picchu only half a day,
I sat beside a spindly little tree
alongside one great boulder on the grass
and watched the climbers from the Inca Trail
descend into the ruins single file.

We’d been through fire-black areas at height
and looked across to Wiracocha’s face
emblazoned on the great peak opposite.
I, with my fear of heights, had almost pranced
around those paths and ledges, those deep drops.

The shaman whom we met was prophesied.
It’s nice to read he still has that same shop
where we sat down eleven years ago
to take our journey to the jaguar cave,
and afterwards we wept as we embraced.

Those boys we knew are men already now,
the orphans of the streets who helped us learn
the good cheap cafes where the locals ate
and how to not say “good” when we meant “well” –
their English better than our Español.

The Urubamba River frothed and seethed
beside the trainline for a certain way
and glaciers gleamed along the topmost peaks.
Inside stone walls now topless we could hear
the screaming victims of the sacrifice
loud in our heads, and clapped hands to our ears.

We talked with healers, three, just newly trained.
“Show us your way,” they said, “and witness ours.”
They stood and prayed. We joined them. Sparks of light
danced across their palms and ours too.
The older woman channelled messages.

“Return!” the angels said. “They love you here.”
And down in deepest jungle lies the skull
of amethyst, that Andrew is to guard.
But that is in another time, or else
his spirit guards it, being everywhere.

I tossed into the ocean one black stone
hollowed on the top, that I brought back –
a shallow dish perhaps, for catching blood.
At any rate, it seemed to make us ill
and once it left, so did our heaviness.

Eleven years. Jaguar, condor, snake
were my protectors there, guiding my steps,
and still would come, but now I seldom call.
We do return in dreams, but otherwise
Australia is home; this too is good