Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems (17 page)

BOOK: Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems
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‘They’re gathering fuel stalks

With sheepskin gloves to avoid the thorns.’

‘The shrilling wind through the hawks.’

Hughes:

Davies:
[
Quietly and with emotion.
]

‘Wonder how my ‘china’ is?’

(joking, ‘china’ means Spanish girl)

Evans:

‘The corn with bad harvest

And all that irrigation we did.’

Parry:

‘The mare won’t sleep or rest

One ear forward and one ear back

She knows an Indian death.’

Hughes:

‘What’s that?’ ‘To one man dead they kill

Parry:

‘Fifty living horses… death

Is Alhuemapu. Around the square grave,

Standing dead on their legs,

They wait to carry their skeleton riders

To heaven on stilted pegs.’

Quickly,
Davies:

‘Loók at this skéleton with an árrow in his ríb!’

Slowly,
Evans:

‘The Malónes were a terrible race.

They killed at sight, but here we’re safe

Under the Évil Spírit’s rockfáce.’

V

They dozed, and at dawn were hungry, but moved –

They packed away their guns

And set off towards the Vale of Kel Kein.

The sheepdog turns and runs

As Evans, set on his favourite steed

Raced to get fresh food.

He returned with cavies tied to his horse

And knew the food was…

A piercing yell!
The Indians’ War Cry! –

Spears and bodies jerked high,

As they leapt to their mounts unseen till now

In pampas grass or sky.

A flurry of frenzied beasts shot out,

Evans:
[Here speaks in action and in galloping away from the Indians and attacked by them
as he speaks, he can only get quick glimpses of his friends. The speech though still
in lines of 4 and 3 feet is therefore disjointed.]

And clouds of dust.
‘We were stunned!

Our horses leapt in terror they were through

The tropilla on top of us, stunned, –

With hardly a glance – Parry seated

With a spear in his side – at the rear

Young Davies falling a lance splintered through

His neck… I pushed the spear

And down… just in time, the Indians missed

Hughes? at that moment the point

Of a lance, cut my arm and I spurred

And lashed the horse… the joint

Read with
speed
and
smoothly
but accentuating change of 4–3 feet lines from iambic to anapest

–.|–.|–.|–.

–.|–.|–.|

–.|–.|–.|–.

–.|–.|–.|

Of my arm held
.’ A powerful plunge,

Eyes out, the terrified steed

He then bolted, to the hills, to the peak, with the Indians

Pursuing, with neck breaking speed,

And the tossing, of his mane, and the foam, as it floated,

As they raced, to the chasm, only proved,

That he flew, with a speed, that he could, not exceed,

Even so, Evans lashed, as he moved,

For a húndred yards ahéad, the dárk gorge gróws,

The precipice expands,

The horse flying leapt into the air… apart…

They landed on trembling sands.

Then mounted again without looking round;

Climbing with loosening pack,

As lóoser rócks fell dówn on thém

The Indians halted. Turned back.

Read with pronounced trotting rhythm, 4 and 3 feet lines of trochees

–.|–.|–.|–.

–.|–.|–.|

–.|–.|–.|–.

–.|–.|–.|

Their yells echoed, but they would not jump:

Two times, three times, four and

Evans let his horse now trot, and

Owl flew in his lap, and

Swível-ling her head she hoot-ed

Stumbling horse, but Ev-ans

Noth-ing no-ticed, on he rode, the horse did

Trot with two winged orphans

To a saline lake the black silt cracked,

The water powdered white;

Through vampire flies, and stench and slime,

To air so fresh and light

That held caranchos and vultures circling

Pin pointed to their prey,

Above this Valley of Kel Klein

Now five salt miles away.

Evans:

‘Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau’

(This was the actual hymn which was sung in the Valley.)

O mutilated beyond all rage:

His three friends dead, and the sight

And lament of their dogs graying the air

With necks stretched out to night.

His noble steed drooped. The sedge

Half buried in sand, cut

His hoofs while salt lay raw on the wounds

He’d climb and take the rut

Towards the marsh to water his beast

Before the desert plains.

A cloud of crimson wings arose

The flamingoes flushed up rains

And sprays of water over the two; –

Tired and solemn with pain.

The green shadow caught in the leaves

Ease the throbbing brain

As it shuttles out vision after vision, taut

From the haunted mind;

His friends neglected by him, yet close,

As orange fruit to rind;

Evans:
Read with sense of peace.

With what térror they hád fled as ‘dóves before háwks’.

A fox lifted his head

To swallow evening water the peace vibrating

As other beasts were led

To lift their muzzles, masks and beaks

To some unknown grace

Or favoured god: Evans prayed:

Held a marsh birds face –

Evans:


Chorlito
’ warm to his hard cracked skin.

The wild bird circled his sobs,

And flew in brilliant clouds of rainbows

Above the palpitating throbs

Of his heart pulsing like a lizard

On the flowering banks of the lake.

That night, the horse’s back was raw:

Into the middle of this lake

He threw the recado-saddle, it sank

Like the Golden Statue of Peru

He greased the forelocks and mounted on sheepskin

Coaxed the bleeding hoofs through

The twenty miles of waterless land.

He took the stiff route

Avoiding the trail: then dismounted and walked:

And after a compass dispute

With stars, lead El Malacara

Towards the Iamacan:

So high: so dry: so lonely: that a Spirit

Gripped his will and he ran

With madness over the plain seeing

High hipped sloths and curs

That blot out his brain, blackness

Swirls forward and unfurls

A South West Wind as it rushes driving

Before it screeching birds

Caught up faster than sound driven

From miles around, the lake birds,

The herds hit by the hail, the horse,

Evans beside it, fell,

They clung as one drowning, the rising sand

Hid them like a spell.

Then found them at sunrise like a thirsty boulder

Set in the sand. For miles

And miles wounded and dead now lay

In desolate sandbaked piles.

VI

Bones of Toxodons bleaching the sky,

Exposed by drifts of sand,

Stratas of quartz and fossils brought

The eight footed horse to hand.

Pumas, rheas, armadillos hit

By hail as large as eggs

By the atomic hand of God, lacerated,

Groaning with broken legs.

He stumbled out to get away,

He saw fresh grass, a green spread

Through the haze of his eyes, green water,

But the parroquets lay dead:

Their wings scattered green all over the plain.

He tugged and pulled at his horse:

For miles he faltered bent like a hag

His twenty years bent to the course.

The horse as though their fate were known,

Pressed on, his tongue now hanging

And swollen, sucking the dry stones for moisture,

Limps white-eyed to the spring.

The canyon grew higher and redder as they neared,

A rider stood still on the ridge:

Evans laughed but made no sound;

Evans watched that ridge.

And watched that rider. Should he move

Evans – would – not show?

The rider from the Welsh Colony

Watched in the valley below.

A team of guanacos. He saw Evans.

He trembled at the tale.

Muttered between sips of water:

He trembled at the tale,

And wail of absence of all. He took

El Malacara; gave Evans

His mount and favoured his return to Trelew;

He’d wait for the wagon vans.

Down towards the Chubut River

Past the Iamacan,

Evans sought the Indian trail

Like the fox of man.

It all was known and sweet to him,

He spun through pampa blasts

As it flickered high around his horse

Like a sea of tossing masts.

Then slower as he journeyed on,

With sad reflection back,

No friends, and no madrina bells,

No flourish of hoofs on the track.

The Chajá cried into the night,

A wagon rumbled high

With twenty horses leading abreast:

Wistaria spread in the sky.

As dawn arose, the Settlement,

So quietly it would seem,

No herd, or dogs had turned their head,

It might have never been.

A child had scampered out of bed

Curled in the Patio sun,

With corn cob hair and racoon bear,

She sang this song to her son.

            
‘A ro ro mi niño,

            
A ro ro mi sol

            
A ro ro pedazo

            
De mi corazon.’

From the early maps cut out in wood to those engraved and shining in their original
glaze, we are able to trace the first shapes and histories of Patagonia by such distinguished
cartographers as Ptolemy, W. Blaeu, and J. Jansson. During this period men of letters
also contributed to this early form of documentation, and among them were Sir Walter
Ralegh, Sir John Davis, Sir Francis Drake, and Michael Drayton. A.F. Tschiffely in
This Way Southward
*
suggests that Fernão de Magalhaes may have obtained the idea of a sea passage existing
between the Pacific and Atlantic Ocean by an early map which was issued in Portugal
some years before he made the Strait discovery; and it was this tract of land, named
after him as Tierra Magellan, that now exists as Patagonia. Today as we look at these
maps, what do we find? Tribal men riding bareback or on saddles of extravagant height;
Indians facing and going in no particular direction; sleeping in woven cloths slung
to trees; or crouched in groups around a sheep gently cooking over the quiet embers.
Monsters and beasts of the sea leer and prowl out of their shaded haunts; the scaled
and heavy sea beasts drag their heavy crested tails through the hot dry sand; while
the high-hipped Toxodons stand awkwardly out of the sea. Fish fly like birds over
the surface of the Ocean. The ship
Vittoria
harbours triumphantly among the curving scrolls of the cartouche, and the men on
this ship, once awake in their time, took back to their families the legends of ostriches,
gold-dust, and hardy creollo sheep.

This afternoon, when I had finished reading
This Way Southward
, which is a description of a tour made by a Mr Tschiffely around and into the
interior
of Patagonia and extending as far south as Tierra del Fuego, I was very much aware
of this primitive and magical force of life still existing, besides having my own
memories of this strange and illusive land. I remembered as well, how W.H. Hudson
had called this region his
Parish of Selborne
and his description of the creollo sheep; Mr Tschiffely’s references to the long
bones of Toxodons found in the sand; the woven cloths and guanaco furs pieced together
by various Indians; the chapters on the various Tribes he encountered, and with the
exception of one misunderstanding, the Indians’ devotion to the Welsh. This incident,
and many others of the great
hardships
which are still endured by such persons as E. Lucas Bridges of Rio Baker, who in
our lifetime was forced to suck putrid hide and eat the
half-digested
food from a guanaco’s stomach, links up with similar hardships which Fernão de Magalhaes
had to resort to when he practically starved to death. The author’s best descriptions
and sympathy are with these early 130 collected poems
Tribes and pioneers; and this is only natural considering that he is, in a sense,
a pioneer himself. He writes briefly but well, of the faith shown between the early
Welsh Settlers and the preconceived dreaded savage Indians. A number of wild-looking
Tehuelche Indians suddenly arrive at the Colony; one of the settlers describes this
incident to Mr Tschiffely, and the author writes: ‘He was standing talking to a wild-looking
Indian, when to his surprise, one of the Indian women knelt down beside the Welshman
to mend his trousers which were torn at the bottom where he had caught them in a bush.
Without saying a word, the Indian woman produced a needle, made out of a long thorn,
threaded it with some finely cut ostrich sinew, and neatly mended the tear.’

This act of humility, and the other of faith when the Indians brought the Welsh Colonists
a guanaco to cook for them and said they would return to eat it towards the end of
a few days; and that it was cooked, and they did return to eat it, shows how well
both sides trusted each other. Of the one misunderstanding: this tragedy upset the
Indian Chief so much when he heard about it, that he went in person to apologise to
the Welsh members of the Chubut Valley. When Mr Tschiffely wrote about this incident,
which to me has all the epic simplicity and intangible wonder of Ibsen’s great plays,
the Welshman who had experienced this miracle was still alive. He, and three other
settlers, disheartened by a bad harvest, set out to find some gold-dust, and their
direction took them towards the foot of the Andes where at that time, Indians were
being badly attacked by Argentine soldiers. The Indians met these Welshmen and questioned
their direction. They became suspicious, as the Welshmen, unknown to themselves were
heading for the soldiers’ camp. They therefore asked the Welshmen, who had never covered
this territory before, to return and speak with their Chief. This the settlers promised
to do, but on the following day, thinking they were left alone, they suddenly decided
to continue as quickly as possible in their
original
direction. The Indians, suspicious and skulking behind bushes, had seen them: ‘To
their horror, the four Welshmen realised that they were being pursued; worse still,
that they were cornered at the bend of the river, where deep precipices barred their
flight. A number of yelling Indians were rapidly catching up with the terrified fugitives,
three of whom were horribly slain. In his terror, John D. Evans, who was in front,
riding a swift mustang, made straight for the precipice, across which his gallant
animal, obviously realising the danger, made a tremendous leap, thus saving his master’s
life, for no Indian had the courage to follow this desperate course.’ Towards the
end of his tour, Mr Tschiffely one day entered Trevelin on a Sunday when everybody
was at Chapel. On their return from the service, he met Mr Evans who took him out
‘to a shady glade where he halted in front of a big rock on which was carved:

AQUI YACEN LOS RESTOS DE MI CABALLO EL MALACARA QUE ME SALVO LA VIDA EN ET ATAQUE
DE LOS INDIOS EN EL VALLE DE LOS MARTIRES EL
4.3.84
AL REGRESARME DE LA CORDILLERA. R.I.P.
JOHN D. EVANS
.

(Here lie the remains of my horse ‘Whiteblaze’, who saved my life during the attack
of the Indians in the Valley of the Martyrs, on the 4th of March, 1884, as I was returning
from the Cordillera.)’

These accounts of hard and wild life, together with the mystery of much of the unexplored
territory in Patagonia, are not sufficient in themselves to represent the modern conditions
which exist today, if we are to know the Welsh Colony in its true perspective. We
need more sincere travellers like Mr Tschiffely, besides the interpretation and sensibility
which
distinguished
writers, artists and poets could contribute. A more comprehensive and up-to-date
index of its natural history is also required. For instance, I have often wondered
whether the colder regions of Patagonia ever had butterflies. Then, there is the more
progressive side of the Welsh Settlers themselves. The fact that they overcame, and
are overcoming, the great shortage of water. How through their tenacious spirit and
persistence, over half a million acres of desert land were put under cultivation.
How much of the valley – growing part fruit and corn – came into existence by the
scientific irrigation system cut out by some of the early Welsh Settlers. Patagonia
is no longer a backward sheep-rearing concern isolated from the outside world. They
have the oil-field industry, chilled meat factories, fruit, wool, and wheat exports.
There are the new methods of collecting water. Santa Cruz has water laid on, and Deseado;
others are to follow. Sole reliance of depending on rain water is quickly disappearing,
which is more than we can say of our lethargic methods of water collecting in the
various rural villages of Wales. The vast low-lying tract of land in Patagonia has
lent itself to flying, and many airlines run regularly so many times a week as far
South as Tierra del Fuego. In this way both Argentine governed and private planes
belonging to families and firms help to make this part of the world, not the most
isolated, but the most up-to-date in transport. There could be much improvement in
this field; and perhaps after the war, more transport with cargo will be carried by
air in this way, overcoming the shortage of ships for export and the lack of good
roads. The immediate petrol and tyre shortage will probably be restored at the end
of the year. The Welsh people not only have contact with their wireless sets, but
often make frequent visits to Buenos Aires. They also have ‘their own unofficial Parliament
where important matters are discussed’. And these in Welsh. In fact, the Welsh language
does not seem to be dying out as quickly as the English press is inclined to think.
The same mistake is made with regard
to the Welsh-speaking peoples in Wales. The language which is dying out in the Welsh
Colonies both in the Chubut Valley and in the Settlement Colonia 16 de Octubre, is
no other than the English language. I wish to make this clear, as Mr Tschiffely has
been misquoted on this point. He writes: ‘looking back, it seems incredible that I
had to go all the way to Patagonia to learn a few words of Welsh.’ The very fact that
Eisteddfods are still held, shows that not only can many of its competitors express
themselves
in Welsh, whether in the plays, poetry, or choir singing; but that the audience to
whom they speak, and the adjudicators themselves, must be fluent in their Cymric tongue.
The last of these Eisteddfods was held at Trelew this year, when Evan Thomas of Gaimon,
won the Bardic Chair.

I should like to think that today, when Wales seems oppressed partly through her own
misdirection and partly through outside jurisdiction, she could turn and concentrate
more on her Welsh Colony in Patagonia. This would help to extend her vision, which
at the moment, through suffering has become too parochial. An exchange, I believe,
on all matters, such as agriculture, political and cultural, would stimulate and help
both Countries to develop. How do the sheep farms in both Countries compare? Are the
owners of these camps interested in the new breeds of sheep? Have they yet found an
animal which will live with a scanty water supply, produce strong wool and a good
depth of flesh? Have they tried the Welsh Mountain Sheep recommended by Moses Griffith?
What sort of year have they had with regard to the wool export? Fruit and corn harvest?
What do they, the Welsh in Patagonia, know of the younger generation in Wales? Of
the living young writers and painters? I should like to see what use the Welsh in
Patagonia have made of their magnificent lakes; woven samples of the remaining Tribal
Indian culture; attend lectures on Patagonia illustrated with film documentaries.
See the actual botanical plants displayed, together with the birds, fossils, and original
samples of the rock; to see their colour, texture, and mineralogy defined. See photo
exhibitions exchanged between both Countries. The work of artists who have painted
Patagonia. Their weaving. Leathercraft. Plan of airfields. Airports. Style of architecture.
I should even like a weekly column on Patagonia in the Kemsley and Northcliffe Press
which represent South Wales (the
Western Mail
and
South Wales Evening Post
).
Y Cymro
and
Y Faner
do occasionally publish news or letters from this Welsh Colony. But perhaps my interest
in this matter is singular. For it pleases me very much, when I read in letters from
relations that ‘they came across a tame King Emperor Penguin, a highly intelligent
bird which had started to get its colourful plumage, the bright yellow turning to
orange around its supposed ears’; this creature had been kept as a pet in Tierra del
Fuego, ‘until he intended to wander off to the sea again.’ Of the cocktail party which
‘gathered at Rio Gallegos where in
one evening 2,000 pesos were gathered for the British Red Cross, besides the auctioning
of a trout which had been caught, for 117 pesos.’ Of the terrible floods this year,
that not only held up the fishing but cut the railway line to Zapala, bringing down
sides of the hills in the Cordillera. ‘The water was dark brown, which means no fishing
in the Aluminé, but luckily the Quillan was clear so we were never without enough
fish for the table.’

A.F. Tschiffely, in a Postscript, written some years after his Patagonian tour, speaks
of his present occupation, which is lecturing for the British Council in Buenos Aires;
may he, and other persons of distinction, who also have a first-hand knowledge of
Patagonia, bring back that link which we have too easily lost; and help unite the
Welsh people in these two Countries whose interest on both sides have fallen into
such neglect.

*
This Way Southward
by A.F. Tschiffely. Hodder & Stoughton, Ltd. 10/6 [LR]

BOOK: Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems
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