Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota



James Wright



Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.

Down the ravine behind the empty house,

The cowbells follow one another

Into the distances of the afternoon.

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,

The droppings of last year's horses

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

Commentary on the above poem

Poem "Caju rain" from the book "Kupahúba" by Marcia Theophilo


Is it raining? It's raining caju:
soft waves of vermillon and yellow.
When Itajuba attracts a variety of trills, warbles
and other sounds
with trumpets, whistles and trocanos
we shall hug each other, Kuambú.
It's caju time, juice everywhere
fruits falling into our arms
in the month of September
Is it raining? It's raining caju.
In October the chestnut eyes
in your mouth, you feel my breasts
in your hands, downpours of love
flow of the river, fertility
of soil and of women, is it raining?
Caju rain invades your body
your blood, fire running
down your throat, rhythm in your hands.
"This is a little hammock"
and we'll remember
the Kaapós, the Tukanos
the Mundurukús, the Tupinambás
of the past.
Even the highest fruits are falling
at your feet, waterfall echoes
and juice are running on your lips
Is it raining? It's raining caju.

Márcia Theóphilo, 2000
English version by Riccardo Duranti