by Carlos Raúl Dufflar
The very poem that I sent thee beholds the verses of my heart
a common laughter and a passion into a universal chant
from the past to the present the art of learning.
The beginning of my studies inside of Raimunda’s kitchen
on a Saturday morning, we will sit by the table with a taza de café
and some biscuits, guava, and goat cheese.
Facing the window as the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad passes us
by a wonderful gift and a rhythmic sound of Leocadia
my great-grandmother, poetry in a high-flowing language
that Pachamama is in hardship and we need to change
our living heart for harmony and respect for Mother Earth.
And now we may find ourself at home, beneath the shadows of a tree
where the birds sing for hours arranged on the branches
while I circle the Hopewell Mound and pour some water at the spring
as a ritual of passage at Glen Helen besides Livermore.
At an Antioch reunion honors 37 years and in the tradition of Yellow Springs
by Xenia and Limestone, everybody is talking about the bridge of
peace and justice now.
And at Horace Mann’s monument, like an echo of an ancient sentiment
of my pledge that poetry is a way of my life.
And on this beautiful month of August, the family celebrates:
Angel has returned to the sources to become a PhD
like a drum sound of Ray Barretto roaming over the universe.
And when I read this poem from my book, which gives me
what the soul speaks from the heart for the past 50 years.
My heart has taught me to give to my voice
and spread the very word of Love Supreme
within the circle of the elders.