Pablo's
Letter to a Former Lover
by
Sheri Grutz
Dear
Margarita,
The
elimination of communism around the world has of course come to
Chile, and it looks as if it is here to stay. The
Damned Law clearly states, to ban
the expression of ideas which appear to advocate "the
implantation in the republic of a regime opposed to democracy or
which attack the sovereignty of the country” All of my service for
the people shall have to come to an end. To resist arrest I have
been hidden by friends in this country basement.
Every
day Marcel brings me the newspaper with coffee and flat bread with
honey. We discuss the situation so many are facing in the name of
repression. The temperature in the basement stays very cool during
this hottest time of the year. I read and reread Chekov and Tostoi
and Gogol, then spend some time writing poetry, mostly dissident
poetry that would surely not be allowed. I do have a radio beside me,
and I tune into the evening report. Then later in the evening Marcel
brings me a basin of warm water and a cloth and I bathe to the sound
of crickets.
Here
is a poem I have written at my small desk beside my little cot,
please pass this poem on to an underground lit magazine, but do not
use my name, not yet anyway, not until I have fled and found safety
in Argentina.
I
miss your hands the most, and your beautiful eyes, hopefully by this
year's end I will see you again.
All
my love,
Pablo
The
Men
I'm
Ramón González Barbagelata from anywhere,
from
Cucuy, from Paraná, from Rio Turbio, from Oruro,
from
Maracaibo, from Parral, from Ovalle, from Loconmilla,
I'm
the poor devil from the poor Third World,
I'm
the third-class passenger installed, good God!
in
the lavish whiteness of snow-covered mountains,
concealed
among orchids of subtle idiosyncrasy.
I've
arrived at this famous year 2000, and what do I get?
With
what do I scratch myself? What do I have to do with
the
three glorious zeros that flaunt themselves
over
my very own zero, my own non-existence?
Pity
that brave heart awaiting its call
or
the man enfolded by warmer love,
nothing's
left today except my flimsy skeleton,
my
eyes unhinged, confronting the era's beginning.
The
era's beginning: are these ruined shacks,
these
poor schools, these people still in rags and tatters,
this
cloddish insecurity of my poor families,
is
all this the day? the century's beginning, the golden door?
Well,
enough said, I, at least, discreet,
as
in office, patched and pensive,
I
proclaim the redundancy of the inaugural:
I've
arrived here with all my baggage,
bad
luck and worse jobs,
misery
always waiting with open arms,
the
mobilization of people piled up on top of each other,
and
the manifold geography of hunger
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