22 February 2011. Beautiful and fresh sunny morning. Yesterday, late afternoon--snow on the hills behind Oakland, white...
Jaime Dávalos, from a live recording, early 1960s? In Salta--a child of the mountains. Writer of songs, and a poet, like his father (in his own words--"un homenaje a mi padre, quien me espera bajo de la tierra.") Yet here: Pato Sirirí. A river song. Patient, whistling call of a water bird, in the night--"que de noche pasa..." Dark head with striking white face, white blaze on dark breast.
Jaime. Image of fire, the three of them, seated around the fogón, even if it's indoors, even if it's been filmed--still the chance to feel something of his spirit--the spontaneous intelligence of his words... Su pasión...
"Poesía que nombra como ninguna las cosas de la tierra, sin gastados lugares comunes, con las palabras del alma..."
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(Note: The last line quoted from an anonymous admirer of Dávalos, posted on line)
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