Pinochet and Foie Gras
The dinner was in my honour,
he said, for the visiting Englishman.
French exchange in eighty-eight.
Jean-Pierre’s friends included
another smallholder like him,
a land-owning communist lawyer,
a teacher, a builder,
and a young woman
who’d fled from Chile.
Whatever we talked about
has eroded with time;
if Proudhon and land-owning were aired,
wine would have kept things light –
our persiflage, a safer world,
worlds away from Pinochet.
The embodiment of grief sat still,
a tight-lipped aura we tried to include,
to ease the discomfiture
that she’d brought with her
what she’d left behind.
Next morning, a shrill dawn chorus
of shrieking, clanging pain woke me
like an arresting knock on the door,
manhandling me out of bed.
Over breakfast, Jean-Pierre smiled,
désolé, force-feeding, he said,
it’s cruel but necessary –
as if an apology could ever suffice.
Nice poem. Conjured up a very real scene and neatly associated pinochet and foie gras. Good work. 🙂
I’m pleased you liked it, John. Thanks for your comment and the Nib.!
I think they follow me around!
I agree with John, the whole poem is as tightly wrapped as the lady, echoing her situation. Great writing Gerald.
Thanks, Mike, for your nocturnal comment! Got to keep this site going, haven’t we? At all hours.
It’s my meds, just don’t sleep much anymore Gerald
Very much enjoyed, poignant ending. Sue.
Thanks, Sue. It was an “interesting” experience which I’ll never forget. Gerald.
Trevor, there’s no need to go overboard but thanks! This is from my more recent purple period.
On another note, is there anyway we can get some of our previous regulars to contribute. I can’t have this site going under -it’s the most congenial of them all.
Gosh, that’s gloomy. Sounds as though you think there’s a lunatic at the helm! G