I was a tiny bit late for today's movie "No," a 2013Chilean film about the defeat via the 1988 election of Augusto Pinochet.Mauricio Giammarco was the discussion leader but I could only see his silhouette and left before the discussion.
I had so much writing to do! Self-imposed of course.
While sitting there I was overtaken by the very familiar feeling: You must write a poem about this.
For some reason, my poems are getting published online - and I am able to enter the Poetry Department of my brain quite easily.
First, though, view my poem "Missing Blueberries" here. You must scroll way way down.
Here's the poem by Robert Frost. I ripped off the cover of the book and sent it to my friend Claudia B as a postcard. She's posted it on the side of her fridge.I worked on my new poem for more than an hour. I knew I would finally get it right but was surprised it took so long, like a marble statue where the figure refused to reveal itself.
I think this is what I wanted to say.
Be sure to read what comes after the poem.
GOING TO THE MOVIES WITH AUGUSTO
PINOCHET
(1915 – 2006)
Is that
my chair in the back row? I’m weaving
my way to
the best theatre seat in the library
the
movie’s begun – “No” – a Chilean account
of how
pudgy Pinochet was finally deposed
after
plundering his people like an incestuous
Paterfamilias.
Oh, he could cry, of course,
he was
half man, half beast, just a country
boy with
an ambitious bent and a cruel heart
twisted
like scrap metal. We can only wonder
that his
teeth didn’t fall out at night.
But monsters
find bride-monsters and birth
monster children.
How their Parisian clothes
glittered
at Mass, never guessing they’d
be out of
fashion when they were locked
up for
raping and pillaging their homeland.
Was
Pinocchio a toothpick kind of guy after dining? He’d
been on another
manic marathon killing spree and
– view him now – picking out human flesh
caught between
his
molars. You can readily imagine this as
a scene
in a movie, like this “No” we’re
watching
now on the library screen.
Will it ever
end?
Yawn!
Head bobs.
Yawn!
Head bobs.
My seat
was none too comfortable, they
never
are, a mold of plastic that tortured
my
derriere, as my head snaps up and
down with
quick naps, but sound effects
of
snoring were kindly provided by my
neighbor,
who once owned a used
book
store: Abbey’s. Her hair flows
down her
back.
Torture
slinks through the film
while I
face my own in the
rear-most
row of the library.
Mauricio
is kind enough to bring in
cookies
from the Italian bakery –
are those
blue sprinkles atop the
chocolate?
I stand and stare while
votes are
counted in the film. We
want “No”
votes to win.
They do
as I scoop out one even
bowl of
popcorn into a Styrofoam
cup.
Nothing quite like chewing
and
viewing simul-
taneously.
It is
Pinochet the Unforgettable,
dead at
ninety-one, who rides
home with
me, my hair blowing
in the
wind, stale popcorn
between
my molars like the jewels
embezzled
by his family. They
didn’t
much care for opera or
poetry.
<>
Rode my exercise bike several times today insteada injecting more insulin - but you know this already about me - and during the ride - oh, the weather was quite nice, I rode through the London countryside as I pedaled, and learned more about Miss Emma Woodhouse.
Am very thankful I'm enjoyed this book for our book club.And now, Dear Reader, I'll see if anyone liked Pinochet on FB, and then retire to either Netflix or reading. Why is it easier to watch a film or TV show than to read a book.
It's b/c of the way it engages our brain.
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