Brazil Poems  -  Charles Levenstein

Industrial Park

Hawk hovers high o'er
chlorine plant, hungry for Spring's
new born monkey babe.


We stand in a tower
to survey the factories,
refineries linked to chemical users
linked to waste treatment and
re-use.  The engineer trained
in Germany, his facility was
ISO-certified two years ago,
making it plain:

There are no savages with bows and arrows
behind the great tanks of modern poison
and other useful materials.

A modern country.


Monkeys played like squirrels
in the clumps of greenery
left in memory of Brazil.


Consolation

We made one wrong turn
And walked across Sao Paolo;
Fought traffic, fought noise, breathed
Air when we could, smog when that
Was all available.  The street we sought
Went into hiding, others, many others,
Leapt forward, isn't that an interesting
Shop, look at the construction, I'm
Remaking my face! Until we were
Far from our objective -
Not Tiffany, not the museum of
Portuguese antiquities and obscure
Musical instruments -

The museum guards enjoyed cross-cultural multi-lingual
Portunhol and told us to take the Consolation bus.
We counted our change and the guard said
Watch out for robbers!  -- I thought I was but
They said, Apparently not -

The route went on for miles,
For days, for an eternity of twists
Until the driver found the very street
On which we went wrong and remedied
our error.  Consolation prize.


Corazon

I
The medical center specializes
in transplants, hundreds per year,
the numbers so large they evaporate like
molecules too good to be true, but true
nevertheless -

The street, buildings, sidewalks clogged
with hopeful patients.  Doctors, nurses, aides
rush about on errands of ultimate mercy,
all this is familiar, signs in Spanish, Latin
or English, no matter, the language
of high tech medicine is in beeps, global
and urgent.

We visit the safety director who is moving
to more spacious quarters, a good sign,
the hospital has elevated employee well-being
to a new level, aching backs to the top of the lift.
They are interested in our calculations and invite
a proposal for collaboration --  a matter
for boards of directors, science committees,
review at the highest level -

We are suitably impressed with them
and with ourselves.  My nose considers
bleeding at these altitudes, but
I am happy for my colleagues.

Corazon - such a romantic word.


II
Up early, table arrayed with foods,
American eggs, Brazilian fruits, breads
almost too tempting for my fat appetite,
and coffee.  Good coffee.


The Health Ministry is in one of the great white buildings,
across a parking lot and pond from Foreign Affairs,
all built to impress upon the world the weight of Brazil.
Health has metastasized from one structure to another,
connected by walkways and bridges. (But the good restaurant
is in Foreign Affairs where everyone wears suits.)

I am ushered through security, tagged as a visitor;
caught in the bustle of colors and earnestness,
carried to the right corridor, the right floor.  I pass
women's health, old people, young people, environment,
to my very own, workers' health.  The healthy heart
of economic development.  Or not.

Within two or three years,
there will be a network of clinics across the country,
linked by an electronic observatory with virtual library,
online courses, protocols for data collection, hard-to-get
information and action alerts.  Five universities
will provide back-up:  short courses, special knowledge
about informal markets, women's occupational health,
benzene, asbestos, pesticides, all the wonders of high
technology hazards mid low tech work sites.  The clinics
will train workers, investigate hazards, assist the rural women's
movement - fatigue and agricultural poisons have a special way
with the fetus.

A formidable accomplishment for a young man without tie,
without suit, without a home except the blank apartment
where he touches down between forays into his web of
health advocates.  A young man without airs.  Formidable.


I meet his boss and review the hierarchy of the Ministry.
She is in charge of Strategic Planning and other things
but is so beautiful, dark and elegant, I cannot concentrate
on bureaucratic boxes, I cannot even remember her name.
I tell the tall Bahiana about whom I represent and why;
she is suitably impressed, promises cooperation.  I agree
to whatever she wants.  Today will be spent in a meeting
with three ministries, but I'm sure none can compare.


I have forgotten to eat.

Charles Levenstein, is among many other things, a contributing editor for Poems Niederngasse.  Bio
06-04