Fragments of a Continent:
A selection of poetry and prose from a South American
adventure written for the June 2010 task of travel
by Sam Cunningham
Monserrat
What if there was peace between the nations of the world?
This is like no scene I have ever seen painted or created.
The complexity of the landscape and lives cannot possibly be overstated.
To my right the heavens alight the north west of the city,
But everything from the glamour to the slums is almost too pretty.
It seems impossible that this ever exists, across hills and between mountains,
Yet here it is before my eyes,
The clouds crawl across the mountain tops,
And though I feel this should defy,
The reality is the landscape never stops.
©
Argentian in 48 hours
Argentina rushes by at the speed of not enough time,
but with the rest I at least now only feel partially blind.
One small Island that consumes most within it
floats only weeks away; hungry with the jaws of a bottomless pit.
From people who want to kindly share with you
without even the necessary language due,
back to a land of fear at a wordless look
or aggression at a gesture mistook.
There is never enough time in our mentality,
as if we live in some kind of bent reality.
Two months is no way near enough, finally,
I just hope I can see again, eventually.
Fragment
A land uncarved, unsculpted, in
comparison largely untouched.
A running girl
A small, young girl runs across the dirty, moist ground barefooted.
She rushes towards their makeshift wooden family abode.
Lush forest backdrops her steps, that provide the foundations of their life.
Through one tiny gap in a window this scene flashes by:
The earth is a deep reddy-brown juxtaposed against shocking green grass,
The home is manmade but fits as if part of the nature itself.
Meant to be there in some way.
She runs, and runs, and runs, little legs moving in a blur towards her destination.
In ragged attire, she seems to fit, to understand, the world better than the rest.
The Solo Surfer
He paddles hard on his vessel,
An extension of himself.
For hours – it seems – he struggles against that will of the waves.
They will not relent, but he,
Who has devoted years to learning their ways; persists, insists he
Reaches his destination. Then,
For hours, he sits – calmly, softly
Lulling against the rhythm of the sea.
The sand rolls across the dunes in the light breeze, with as much time as he has.
The shells, washed upon the shore by his friends, rest as still as he does.
He bides his time with the patience of a card game – for too long, it seems, to the untrained senses.
Then suddenly he moves; he explodes, he soars, so effortlessly,
On the curling, tumultuous chaos below.
He is like a bird gliding along the tops of clouds,
Gently trailing their wisps with its feathers.
After minutes, that feel like hours,
The scene crashes and he rolls into the soft sand from which he set off.
His patience rewarded with that feeling.
Ipedema Beach
The sky turns ruby red, slowly;
merging with the blue so, totally,
reflecting with the sea a hot glow;
it is at boiling point, ready to blow.
The Favelas clutching nearby hills
begin to sparkle as the air chills;
each life lights up so far away
yet even from this distance, on display.
They clutch and cling on, toughly tight,
as the stars do to the darkest night.
The shore curves around, at their feet,
joining the redness of the sky, the three meet.
Like old friends, they embrace and greet,
the day now rests – and takes a seat.
The Green Bikini
She walks past not once, but twice.
Yes; twice.
A splendour of soft milk chocolate,
so pure it is almost fiction –
Yet there is not an ounce of fat on a single segment of this bar.
Curving away, like the soft divots that erupt from the sand beneath her feet.
The emerald green of the tiny material,
could match her eyes that I did not see.
But either side of those mysterious eyes,
falling around slender shoulders,
are gold brown strands of ribbon
that crash with the passionate waves
that erupt from the sea
that meets the sand
beneath her feet.
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen
walked past; not once, but twice.
The room rests
The room, rests.
A passed test.
A past, gone.
A job done.
A long quest.
The room, rests.
Nauto Bus
The room, rests.
The bus, full to the brim.
Shifty kids saunter,
further stretching the seams.
The road ahead glows ambiently.
We transcend both sides
in the darkness.
An 80s English rock song blares
in the background.
At time, up hills,
we chunter to almost a standstill;
like a jungle beast,
on its last legs,
close to death.
Until we hit the summit
and roar into life
towards our prey.
The Unnatural Bird
Up above a strange new bird –
almost a dinosaur – soars through the air.
Its wings, though, rotate furiously
above its body, as opposed to flapping.
Two firm limbs, spinning powerfully in union
so that the beast gracefully, steadily,
glides through the air as if following
a taught wire strung at its destination.
The body is almost fish-like;
round main, with short tail flicking up behind.
This beast does not fit in these surroundings –
its tough, from a distance, glinting leathery
exterior, conflicts with the soft lull
of the murky, deep water.
The fluidity of its flight is at odds
with the chaotic trees that stretch
forever onwards.
They look on, afraid:
They in their handmade attire,
barely covering – as is naturally necessary –
their rugged forms.
They know not if this towering form
will suddenly plummet from the
sky and strike, or how.
They know not if it will carry on
its way, indifferent to their presence.
But the beast is coming;
this is simply the start.
The room rests
Overlooking the great
Inca city like a god;
on high in clouds,
touching the sky with its eyelashes.
360 degrees of mountain and jungle
combined, as each terrain
blurs into the other.
A green mist covers all,
casting a stilted glow
over the ancient construction.
An artificial road curves
up the mountainside;
earlier transcended in a rush
at 4am, to the top.
But the city, in comparison,
stands perfectly, yet somehow
more naturally, in neat rows
and slight curves.
Deep pastel colours fill
large expanses, mimicking
a cartoon sketch, with
thick, grey, smooth outlines.
The great Inca painter
then finishes with green
watercolours to complete
his masterpiece.
Wayna Picchu (I want to pick you)
Overlooking the great
Inca city like a god;
on high in clouds,
touching the sky with its eyelashes.
360 degrees of mountain and jungle
combined, as each terrain
blurs into the other.
A green mist covers all,
casting a stilted glow
over the ancient construction.
An artificial road curves
up the mountainside;
earlier transcended in a rush
at 4am, to the top.
But the city, in comparison,
stands perfectly, yet somehow
more naturally, in neat rows
and slight curves.
Deep pastel colours fill
large expanses, mimicking
a cartoon sketch, with
thick, grey, smooth outlines.
The great Inca painter
then finishes with green
watercolours to complete
his masterpiece.
Machu Picchu Mountains
Mountains fall around each other for 360 degrees, not clashing but harmoniously encasing their surroundings. Their tips trace lines in the sky that spills itself into their embrace. The clouds crush their tops but then become them in the same instance. Trees if the deepest greens fluff the surface that is at once flat but erupting thousands of metres from Mother Earth’s womb. Not much human touches here; thankfully, but still too much.
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