Lost in perfect poetry of San Miguel de Allende

Patricia Dreyfus

The morning is crisp, and the weather here is like Southern

California. I wear my rebozo and good walking shoes to navigate the

ancient cobblestone streets of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. The

shopkeepers are washing the sidewalks before they open for the day. I

see no neon signs, fast-food restaurants, billboards or traffic

lights.

In the Jardin, the central plaza of the town, vendors are setting

up shop under the sheltering fig trees, and the pink morning light

glows on the facade of La Parroquia, the central church.

I am on my way to the Belles Artes, the Fine Arts Institute of San

Miguel, to attend the San Miguel Poetry Week. Poets from all over the

United States and a handful from Mexico, 30 in all, are gathered to

attend a workshop and read their poems.

The Belles Artes is a Moorish-style building. Two stories of

colonnades surround a garden and central fountain. Classes in

ceramics, music, sculpture, painting and writing take place here

daily. On the first floor is a coffee and pastry shop with tables in

the garden, where a gypsy guitarist sits in the sun and plucks his

own poetry.

Attendance at the workshop is by invitation. I provided four poems

to the jury, and to my surprise and pleasure, I received an

invitation. Had I known what caliber of company I would be entering,

I would have added terror to my list of emotions. As the week

progresses, I find that one of my classmates is the Poet Laureate of

Colorado, another, head of the poetry department at a major

university, and another publishes regularly in the Paris Review. In

fact, I am the only nonpublished poet in attendance. It is like

getting to play tennis with Serena Williams, satisfying but humbling.

Every night at 7 p.m., a crowd of about 100 people, many from the

town, gather to listen to X.J. Kennedy, Ruth Fainlight, Forest

Gander, C.D. Wright and several Mexican poets. On Friday night, the

workshop participants, meaning me, read their poems. The polite

applause after my reading feels like a standing ovation.

One night, a group of us head to La Gruta, the mineral hot springs

outside of town. It is exquisite to sit in the bubbling water under

the stars and listen to the mandolin of a local musician.

It seems every cafe in San Miguel has live music in the evening.

We hear everything from old-time jazz to Willie and Lobo. There is so

much going on in this small town that I can hardly decide what to do.

On Thursday night, I join a salsa dance class at Cafe Mama Mia. On

Friday afternoon, I attend a cooking class where I learn to create

chocolate mole sauce.

It is a one-hour drive to nearby Guanajuato, where on Saturday

afternoon, keeping the theme of the week, I check into El Meson do

los Poetas. Down the block is a marvelous museum, once the home of

famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera.

The University in Guanajuato specializes in music. Every Saturday

night, the students dress in medieval costumes and lead a serenade of

locals and visitors. I follow the music and join in the song, then

head to the hotel to dream in Spanish.

Sunday morning, after mass in the great church, I drive to Leon

and my flight home. It is a week of perfect poetry.

* PATRICIA DREYFUS is a resident of Corona del Mar.