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-
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
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.