August Festival in Acolla (In the Yanamarca Valley, Peru) A Poem

The great doors of the church, remain open, like winter

fragrance

seeps into the bones (morning party in Acolla),

and nobody knows what happens there.

What comes out of Acolla? Music!

The brass horns sound

and the violin strings tighten

and from there comes music for a private party;

If the strings break and the bridge falls,

and the horns creak, life does not stop,

There are more musical instruments than cars…

What comes out of Acolla? Dance!

And there’s a dance where hands and feet meet

many fingers about to glimpse, like a thousand petals;

many eyes look, like an exhibition;

and the Blessed Virgin, to hurt her,

and those who listen too.

Men and women who go to this party in Acolla in August

(who eat, drink and dance) will understand this poem.

Note: This poem is not about one soul connecting with another, it is about forgetting death and loss, about rising above, going out and being surrounded by all this joy of food, music, dance and song.

Note: Dedicated to Apolinario Mayta Inga, who took me to Acolla’s party as his guest (and my wife), on August 5, 2007, and introduced me to many people there in this little town, cozy as it was, and we had soup We had tripe, coffee, danced, went to church and had a parade around the Plaza de Armas, and listened to the many bands of this musical city. Nº: 1929, 8-5-2007. Written three hours after my return to my home in Huancayo, Peru.

Spanish version

August Festival in Acolla

(In the Yanamarca Valley)

The great doors of the church, standing open, while the

winter fragrance

seeps into our bones (morning party in Acolla)

and no one knows what takes place there.

What comes out of Acolla? Music!

The metal horns sound

and the violin strings tighten

and from this music sale for a private party;

If the ropes break and the bridges fall,

and the horns crack, life does not stop,

There are more musical instruments than cars…

What comes out of Acolla? Dance!

And there’s a dance where hands and feet come together

many fingers glimpse around, like a thousand petals;

many eyes look, as in an exhibition;

and the Blessed Virgin, bless this,

there are those listening too.

Men and women who go to this party in Acolla in August

(those who eat, drink and dance) will hear this poem.

Note: This poem is not about one soul connecting with another, this is about forgetting to die and lose, about getting up, and going out and being surrounded by all this joy of food, music, dance, and song.

Note: Dedicated to Apolinario Mayta Inga, who took me to the party in Acolla as his guest (with my wife), on August 5, 2007, and introduced me to the many people there in this small, welcoming town it was, and we ate Sopa de Mondongo, coffee, danced, went to church and the procession around the main square, and listened to the many bands of this musical city.

# 1929, August 5, 2007. Written hours after returning home to Huancayo, Peru.