Sala features three writers,
June 1, 2007

Manja Argue

When Manja Argue retired, she set out to discover her creative self. She had written poetry in personal journals but began writing seriously after the age of 60. She has self-published four chapbooks of poetry and short fiction: The Wolf Aproaches/El Lobo Se Acerca, The Slide/El Tobogán, Passing/Transito, and Short Stuff. She will read an assortment from these books.

What Sadie Saw

Flash Fiction by Manja Argue

Sadie saw the snake coiled up next to her brother, Tom, who was lying on the path next to the creek. “Tom, Tom,” she called but Tom did not answer. She turned and began to run. She ran along the creek but did not see the beaver swimming in the water or see the ripples his smooth body made as he moved effortlessly through the cold stream nor did she see him climb onto a rock where he proceeded to stretch out in the sun. She ran across the little wooden bridge that her father and Tom had built several years ago. She did not see the rotting planks nor hear her shoes clomping as they sped to the other side. She did not see the small mound her feet flew over that was teeming with ants or the blue bird that had just landed on a branch above her head. She ran, her lungs burning her chest with searing pain and did not see the leaves wafting slowly down to alight on the ground where her pounding feet had just passed, their green and golden bodies mingling with the earth. Her legs trembled with fatigue as she c
limbed over a fallen tree and she did not see the furry blurs of moles as they popped back into their holes or the small fox in the bush whose hungry eyes shifted from them to her as she flew by. She ran until the woods receded behind her and she was soon across the meadow where she did not see the apple tree laden with fruit nor did she stop to fill her pockets or grab one to eat like she usually did. She did not see the cows that stopped munching on grass long enough to observe her swift passage and then went back to their daily task. She crossed the meadow to the road where she turned right. She did not see the rabbit that streaked across the road in front of her did she see the dog that followed a second later just after she had passed by. She ran as tears scorched her cheeks and her breath came in loud painful gulps. She turned right again and ran the last one hundred yards to the yard in front of her home, to the oak tree under which sat a group of women shelling peas. She did not see them, did n
ot see them turn in her direction, did not hear them call her name. She saw only one face, the face of her grandma. Sadie ran to her and threw herself toward her. “Mamaw”, she grasped, “Snake, Snake, Tom oh Tom”. She collapsed into her grandma’s arms and buried her face in her bosom. She did not see the horror in her grandmother’s face as it turned to look back in the direction that she had come. She did not see the advent of grief in her grandmother’s eyes. 


Ros Campbell

Ros Campbell is known in San Miguel as an accomplished painter and has spent most of her life as a professional artist. However, Ros’s artistic talent also extends to her poetry. She paints words from the canvas of her mind with a wonderful love of nature, and her poems are as colorful as her paintings.

Born in India in 1919, where her father was an inspector of schools, she moved to Australia at the age of 2 ½. She grew up in Adelaide, South Australia. In 1947, she moved to England, where she lived 9 years. In 1956 she married a Canadian, Ted Campbell, and spent another decade in Canada before moving to San Miguel some 40 years ago.

Ros’s poetry, which will be read by Tony Forster, has been chosen to reflect her life story starting with Australia and moving to England, Italy, Canada and, finally, to Mexico.

Dilemma
By Ros Campbell



Who can explain the mystery of glass?
A conjuror with mirrors
can distort reality, and vision’s tricked
to the tune of a polished surface.

Travelling now in the wide-windowed bus
I see the reflexion of the man in front,
dark silhouette,unruly hair,
and in the same glass I see reflected
the other side of the road,
with traffic hurtling by,
rolling along,
where no road cleaves the sky.

In reality all I see of the man in front
are his hands clasped above his head:
they seem to have a life of their own,
they stretch, scratch,
tap to an unknown tune.
As I look through my window at the real sun
reeling in the pale sky, I also see
(in the glass next to the man in front )
other mountains other trees,
superimposed from the other side of the bus,
and these two visions act in counterpoint
to distort reality.

Through my window campesinas
scrub clothes in a muddy stream,
hang their washing from bare-limbed trees
stuck in the shallow river bed,
Through the glass in front reflexions show
pig pens and cattle, Bievenidos spelt backwards.

Over the dashboard, Jesus reveals His bleeding heart.

I can look from reflexion to reality again,
as Alice looking in her looking-glass,
stepped through a third dimension
into a world of