The Treasure

Alvaro Cardona-Hine is a treasure. There’s just no other way to put it. He was born in Costa Rica 84 years ago to a literary family, has published 18 books in Spanish and English, has composed works that have been performed by symphony orchestras and has painted masterworks that are collected all over the world. He lives here in Truchas and he is my friend.

A few days ago he graced us with a reading of some of his poetry at the Truchas Library. I am continually amazed by the wealth of culture available to us here in these remote mountains of northern New Mexico. The poet laureate of Santa Fe was in the audience—here to experience this living master.

The library itself is a minor miracle. Starting in the 1960’s the State Library offered the services of the Red Van Book Mobile. Then in 1972, the building that was formerly the Mission School was converted into what is now the library. Closing from 1990 through 1999, it reopened in the spring of 1999 with a private donation and has continued to serve the communities of Truchas, Ojo Sarco, Cordova and Chimayo ever since. The library offers Preschool Reading two times per week as well as the Truchas Arts Project, which includes weaving, quilting, carving, and music education as well as art classes for children during the summer. Alvaro’s reading was one of two I’ve attended at the library since I moved here.

I offer, here, a few poems from an unpublished manuscript titled Memory’s Village, about his life in Truchas, which is being prepared for publication and from which Alvaro read that day at the library.

An introduction from Alvaro: These poems deal with life in a small Hispanic town in the mountains of northern New Mexico. Eight thousand feet altitude… poverty… a culture in part destroyed by over one hundred years of Anglo domination. My wife and I first came for an extended visit of two months. We rented a three-room adobe dwelling heated only by the cooking stove. The first part of this book, The Visit, was written then. A year later we returned to stay, and bought a house in the village. The poems of part two, The Stay, are the result of a commitment to the silence of a silent world and the light that burns the land.

From The Visit:

one

come visit
I’ll show you
a fire engine rusting
in the yard
and the rust
of the mountains
in the sky

two

a candle in the dining room
a kerosene lamp in the bedroom
everything else
utter darkness

four

two hours before dawn
the tea
tastes bitter

five

snowflakes
loose stars

eight

when I was young
I thought I had
everything
and I did
now all I have is
my breath and
my breath is dancing
out of reach

nine

above Truchas
in meadows
shorn of wheat
the snow
and the horses
invent a December
of patience

ten

today
at the cemetery
the wind
and the snow
are quarreling
over which graves
to bury

fourteen

how great
for this land
of the sky
to let drunk
light
drive home
without
a license

twenty-three

each piece of mica
in this immensity
allows
whatever moon
is up
to alight
on its flanks

thirty-eight

three horses
loose on the road
one of them wants
into the cemetery
where the flowers
are plastic

From The Stay:

three

the new cat came
in the arms of the town drunk
we don’t want a cat I said
he said your wife
sends it

smiling
the way I like him best
when he’s not sober

are we clouds
if we pass? I ask him

he comes into the house
to explain how the cat
kept flirting with her
up a ways where Redford’s
filmmakers have attracted
so many cars she thought
the animal would be killed

I offer him a drink
things are not bottled up
between us are they?
he asks

fourteen

over the peaks a constantly hovering
Venus burns her diamond past
the Jemez Range an Arizona
is where the light is pink
and then a lengthy corpse

in fields here scattered horses
neigh a dog pisses against
a final stone all one can see
turns black

the tender blue has said goodbye
the world was that something
of desire which can wound
a million persons in a planet
lurching sideways all of us

are ready and willing but now
time has come to rest all
of us want to sleep under
a mother’s blanket warm

can you hear that distant humming?
someone is baking bread somewhere
Wolfgang’s music is being played
without its codas dawn has yet to sniff
the distant odor of a skunk

I went by Alvaro’s to get a few photos for the post. He read some more to me and then we talked a little bit about poetry. He says that when we write today it’s organic in the sense that each poem is different the way human beings are different and that poems should include the element of surprise, “The world is surprising, ” he said, “it’s just that we’re so busy, normally, that we don’t bother to accept the surprises, so we ignore them.” I think Alvaro’s wisdom can be applied to more than poetry. What he’s really saying is that we need to slow down and take the time to be surprised.

You can see Alvaro’s paintings at cardonahinegallery.com.