Vanilla

Mark was invited to join a poety club. He had to write a poem to vanilla...though he had his doubts, I think he did a good job. He will read his poem Saturday night in front of the mural across from the central park.

Vanilla,
What should I venture to call you
--I, an Odysseus part-gringo and part-chilango
Never a laborer in your vineyards,
Pen in hand instead of shovel or machete?
What to say to you?

I will venture nontheless, and call you
Aromatic siren of the land of my birth
Yes, a siren,
For having called me here again
--Or, better yet, for having called us here--
My head being silvered a tad by the snows of time
And my children's heads with their Viking hair,
Small pacifist Vikings
Invading your palm-trees and your plazas with Nordic vowels.

And, besides being siren,
I call you furtive fellow-wanderer.
For I believe- if I am not mistaken-
That I've see you in some African port
In the company of French tradesmen,
And among the Indonesian archipelago.

But, when it's all said and done,
You don't belong to the French colonies, nor the Dutch, not to Coca-Cola.
Your aroma was made to mingle
With the music of Cri-Cri
The voice of Negrete, Mexico lindo y querido...
The murmur of the mockingbirds
And the daring of your Voladores.

I know this because I, too, after so much wandering
Have come to find repose
Among the murmur of the singing cricket
The plazas, the palm trees and the mockingbirds.