I.           

The Role of the poet in the World

 

            “Honoured Poet”

 

Who would address a poet such a way?

Certainly no one I know.

 

“Honoured Poet

We invite you to Chile to participate in the nation wide celebration of

Pablo Neruda’s 100^th birthday and in a conference on

“The role of the poet in the world”.

 

What do I know of “honoured” poets and their role?

 

I in a country which honours boys

who, liveon thin ice, shod with glittering steel,

skate like the god of the wingèd heel

and fire frozen rubber discs at each other.

 

I live in a country of which the poet

Abraham Moses Klein (1) wrote

 

“. . .from our real society

the poet has disappeared; he simply does not count,

except in the pullulation of vital statistics —

somebody's vote, perhaps, an anonymous taunt

of the Gallup poll, a dot in a government table —

but not felt, and certainly far from eminent —

in a shouting mob, somebody’s sigh.” (1)

And they wanted “honoured” poet me.

It felt so alien, so unCanadian Eh?

So I did the Canadian thing. Eh?

I flew south.

 

---

 

II

 

The role of the poet is to know.

 

Costumed as a gringo,

wearing the mask of knowledge,

I leave on All Hallows’ Eve.

 

I know that Chile is the spine of South America

sheathed between The Andes and The Corderillas.

 

I know that they don’t speak Latin.

I think they have Llamas.

 

I’ve seen “Missing”.

I know that Salvadore Allende,

the democratically elected socialist president of Chile,

died in the coup d’état headed by Augusto Pinochet,

backed by the United States on Sept. 11, 1973.

 

I know I don’t speak Spanish,

so I take along a bilingual edition

of Pablo Neruda’s poems.

 

I know that one Yankee dollar will buy me 600 pesos.

And I now know

there is no comfortable position

on an 18-hour second class flight to Santiago.

 

---

III

The role of the poet is to look.

 

My first glimpse of Chile is from 37000 feet up;

a sere-coppery,

           dull-shimmering,

                  dimpled,

                               dented,

                                          hammered,

                                                           beaten

                                                                     pre-historic

                                                                                land mass.

 

 

Landing in Santiago I am surprised

by the absence of police and the military.

I am surprised by the absence of machine

guns slung over shoulders.

 

The airport is modern, efficient and quiet.

I am surprised by the quiet.

 

Where is all that Latin passion?

 

---

 

IV

 

The role of the poet is to see.

 

“WELCOME TO CHILE”

                                    General Motors

 

The dictatorship of the generals lives still.

Viva

General Motors

General Electric

General Foods.

 

Campagnero Victor Castillo, our host and driver,

who greets us with hearty hugs and kisses

is the Political Secretary of The Guldo Torres Cell

of the Communist Party of Villa Alemana.

 

---

 

V

 

The role of the poet is to be a tourist.

 

Santiago,

founded by Conquistador Pedro de Valdivia  in1541.

 

Santiago;

old and new.

 

Santiago

beautiful and ugly

and everything in between.

 

And everywhere

palm trees,

broad avenues,

diesel discharge.

 

The city is busy

with living,

with opulence,

with choking poverty.

 

---

VI

The role of the poet is to lie well

We make an illegal left,
(once all left turns are illegal here),
and are immediately waved off by the police.

As they walk toward us in that mañana Latin way,
Elias, my poet friend,in battle fatigue
wearing his illegal Sandinista hat and pin,
jumps out of the car and marches toward them and,
with a voice comfortable with authority, declares

“We are on our way to see the Minister of Defense
and he is not a man to be kept waiting!”

I stay in the car and practice,
“por favor, General Consul Canada telefono por favor”

Elias will not be stopped,
he demands their names.

Shit!
We’re in for jail time for sure.

I wonder how many Yankee dollars it takes
to bribe a cop here.

Then,
all of a sudden,
they snap to attention,
salute and wave us on.

Viva Elias!

---

VII

           

The role of the poet is to guide

 

We park and walk toward the presidential palace.

 

“Isn’t it beautiful?

Here is a statue of our great hope,

Workers of my fatherland, have faith in Chile and her destiny.

Others will overcome this grey, sad moment

when treason strains to conquer.

Go forward knowing that much more sooner than later,

the great avenues will open anew to let pass free people 

to build a better society. (2)

more revered in stone than in life;

now just a tourist attraction and a perch for pigeons.

 

Here is where dictatorship goose-stepped into power.

 

Here is where the people came to resist and were shot

 

from the Ministry of Justice rooftops,

        from the Ministry of Interior windows,

                from the Ministry of Defense doorways.

 

Here the blood of the people flowed in the gutters

and into the sewers.

Here bodies were tossed onto trucks

and dumped into rivers.

 

Here is where I grew up—and was most alive!

 

Yes, things have changed,

but the bullet holes in my heart and soul

still remain.” Elias says.

 

---

VIII  

The role of the poet is ride

The highway to Villa Alemana fine:

no ruts, no potholes;

even offers free towing.

But of course, it’s private

and every couple of hundred kilometers,

we must  pay.

 

Along the highway:

lush vineyards and shanties,

road side motels and discos,

The United Fruit and Del Monte plants,

soccer fields and military camps.

 

But not many people.

 

Must be siesta time. Eh Victor? I joke

 

“Non!

With the new economic paradigms,

siestas are no longer permitted.

 

The working day, if you have a job,

is between 10-12 hours, 6 days a week.

 

No, no more siestas!” Victor says 

 

We exit the toll road

and take the public,

the more traveled,

the less well kept one.

 

The countryside grows greener, fuller.

The scent of Eucalyptus is in the air,

cleans the nostrils of exhaust and dust.

 

And atop hills, Victor cuts the engine

and we coast down in neutral.

 

“With the cost of gas, we economize

when and where we can.

 

And it’s good for the environment too”. Victor says.

 

 

We enter a labyrinth

of

small streets

busy with

mama y papa

dépanneurs,

shoemakers, beauty parlours,

vulcanizers and

a million other little stores

for the million odds and

ends of

daily life.

 

“They are the little economic engines that can

and serve as social centres where real news

is shared and spread 

 

They are endangered species being driven to extinction

by multinational big box stores.” Victor says

 

We arrive and drive into an organic garage

and park under a canopy of grapevines.

 

Señor Castillo, a man of the earth,

greets and guides me through his garden of delights:

the sweet smelling fruit trees,

the aromatic herbs

and the brilliant coloured flowers rising up

under the inspiring sun.

 

I think the revolution begins here.

 

---

 

IX

 

The role of the poet is to say what is politically incorrect.

 

Victor’s family and friends greet us;

hugs and kisses all around.

 

Spanishless, I smile, hug back and stare

at the walls covered with decorative plates of

Chile, Che Guevara and Pablo Neruda.

 

The dining room table is laden

with welcome-food and drinks.

 

“Try the choros”, Victor says

 

It’s a swirl of egg-mayonnaise mixture-texture,

on the tip of which is a small, glistening, purplish thing.

 

It’s delicious.

 

“Choros” Victor says “is also Chilean for pussy”.

 

“Senor and Senoras,

I am glad that the first thing

that I had the pleasure of tasting in Chile is pussy.”

 

We salute each other with Pisco Sours.

 

---

 

X

 

The role of the poet is to toast and feast.

 

“To honesty and democracy,” Victor says

“To honesty and democracy,” we raise our glasses

 

After hours of passionate toasts to the workers

and odes to the struggle

and feasting on the harvest from the garden

 

Señor Castillo and Victor are off to be scrutineers.

 

And I,

I’m off for a siesta

 

 

---

 

XI

 

The role of the poet is to be up late

 

Round about midnight,

from one moment to the next,

from out of nowhere,

about 25 people appear.

 

They were Party members when it was illegal,

when they met clandestinely and were often on the run.

They know about appearing and disappearing.

 

In the middle of the night,

when ominous knocks frighten half the world,

a friend calls.

 

His words

touch the way the blind see,

caress, squeeze and leave fingerprints

on horrors we dare not name.

 

Tortured and called a fool

by men with electric courage,

who, with families to feed,

did their best not to be next.

 

He learned to confess to silence practiced in screams.

He learned to forget numbers, names and friends.

He learned to dress well for the resistance.

 

In the middle of the night,

when mass graves are filled with the disappeared,

a friend calls.

 

He longs to forgive

but can not,

not yet.

 

More, like magic, arrive

and the day, the vote, the results

are debated and toasted.

 

“We went from 5 to 10 percent.

And this is just the tip of the iceberg.”  Victor says.

 

---

   

XII

 

The role of the poet is to see.

 

We climb to the rooftop for a smoke

and for the first time I see the Three Marias.

 

Gualichu was an Evil Spirit, who,

for his own selfish reasons,

took great pleasure in raining down famine, disease

and death upon the people.

 

He caused much suffering and loud lamentations

but their pitiful cries

got no further than their rafters

until they raised their voices as one

then their cry roused The Good Spirit,

from his deep sleep to intercede on their behalf.

 

He rose, eager as morning after night,

and chased Gualichu across the heavens,

but, alas, could not catch him.

 

Gualichu scoffed and laughed and rained down

more famine, disease and death.

 

All seemed hopeless and lost.

 

But just then,

the Good Spirit,

inspired by people’s, collective cries

took three stars, the Three Marias,

tied each to a single strand from his long beard

and flung them at the evil Gualichu —

and brought him down.

 

My new friends see hope

in this old Querandi Indian legend.

 

 

---

 

XIII

 

The Role of the poet is to hear

 

Below,

laughter and song lighten the night.

Laughter and song fight the forces

that haunt them day and night.

Laughter and song are food and home

they share most willingly.

 

I fall asleep to a lullaby of laughter

and a rousing version of the Internationale.

 

...No saviour from on high delivers
No trust we have in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear.
Ere the thieves will out their booty
And to all give a happier lot.
Each at his forge must do his duty
and strike the iron while it’s hot.

Then come comrades rally
and the last fight let us face
The Internationale
unites the human race. (3)

---

XIV

The role of the poet is to sense.

Under sunrays of hope
that beats down on the exposed flesh,
that blesses the fruits we pick for breakfast:
mangoes, oranges, cactus pears, apricots
and others I have no name for,
just know that their tastes spill secrets on the tongue:
give up their flavours the way lovers, so ripe
give themselves to each other; so willingly,
the plum of lips, the peach of skin
the sweet lick of fingertips;
to be each other’s taste.

 

---

XV

The role of the poet is to imagine.

Today the University of Valparaiso
resembles a resort; palm-frond umbrellas
and beer-logoed canvas chairs
lounge about the quadrangle
overlooking the green Pacific.

The modern lecture hall, with good acoustics,
is cool and              empty.

The administration banned all posters.
Therefore, because of this Fascist action,
the students have called for a boycott of all activities.

And to show solidarity with the students,” our host declaims
“you must read to the empty hall!”

A heated dialectic ensues.

Spanishless,
I sit silently,
sunning in the cloudless 30 degree November heat,
staring at the soccer stadium where young men are playing
on the same green grass on which, under the dictatorship,
hundreds were herded, tortured and killed.

They, the motionless shimmerings,
sit in the stands,
and cheer the play on.

And the sea, just beyond,
is beating,
              dying,
                      continuing on.

XVI

The role of the poet is to go to hell.

Today
We are between Lota and Coronel;
at the geographical center of Chile.

Roberto Rodrigues, an unemployed miner, is our guide.

“The mine was shut down in 1997 because we tried to unionize,
and now we have 70% unemployment in the region,” he says

In
a
rusty
slimy
cage,
we
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
40 meters
               into the
                           Del Diablo
                                            Coal Mine.

“The natives were the first ones used.
Helmetless and in sandals,
they picked and scraped and shoveled
away their days in Del Diablo’s belly,
their only guardians, the Eucalyptus beam’s
creaks and groans before collapsing,

giving them a few seconds head start.”

150 meters  
      Here, children, young as eight,
               spent their life opening and shutting gates 
                        for pit ponies pulling crates of coal.

400 meters
       We are now under the ocean in
             the longest underwater coal mine in the world.

Roberto tells us to turn our lamps off.

“Here, like this, in the black belly of the earth,
 away from the light, the grass, the sky,
 nourished only by coal dust and the sunless damp,
 from before sunrise to after sunset,
 to give the world heat, motion, muscle
 and, ourselves,
 deformed bodies, perpetual coughs and cancer,
 we spent our lives.

 

Here without clean water to drink or wash with,
we ate and shat.

Disease was rampant!
Suffering was long!
Life was short!

 

And because we wanted a share
of the health and wealth that we laboured for,
for others, they took away our livelihood”.

In
a
rusty
slimy
cage,
we
a
s
c
e
n
d
in
silence,
        each
            with
                his own
                       souvenir
                              lump
                                  of coal.

 

---

XVII

The role of the poet is to be serendipitous.

Today I wanted to visit Neruda’s home.
But because it was the Day of the Dead,
it was closed.

So I leafed through his book.

 

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XVIII

The poet’s obligation is (4)

to whoever is not listening to the sea
this Thursday evening,
to whoever is cooped up in house or office,
factory or woman or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison.
And a vibration starts up, vague but insistent.
And a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrating softly in its corona,
and the sea beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I, ceaselessly, must listen to and keep
the sea’s lamentation in my mind.
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those prisons may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
and ask “How can I reach the sea?”
and I shall broadcast,

through the starry echoes of the wave,
through the breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
through the rustling of salt withdrawing,
through the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

Through me,
freedom and the sea
shall answer their shuttered heart!

 

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XIX

The poet’s obligation is to return

I’m back.
It is winter here,
in all its glory;
in my beautiful country
that is not a country
but so much more.

And I want to do for it
what the snow does for the evergreens,
what the magician does for the disappeared,
and what the poem must do for dreams.

 

October 27, 2004—Aug 29, 2005