Pablo's Letter to a Former Lover (a creative essay)

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