Open Letters to George W. Bush

Open Letters to George W. Bush
Letters to the president from his ardent admirer Belacqua Jones

Last updated:
12/1/2007; 6:43:01 AM

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Thursday, November 22, 2007

It has been my practice to post something other than a letter on major holidays. The following poem by the Peruvian poet Cesar Vallejo has nothing to do with Thanksgiving. It touches me because it sings of a poignant void some of us may be experiencing on this day of plenty amid an age of chaos. My thanks to Professor Zero for introducing me to Vallejo and to this poem.

Dead Idyll

What would she be doing now, my sweet Andean Rita

of rush and tawny berry;

now when Byzantium asphyxiates me, and my blood

dozes, like thin cognac, inside of me.

Where would her hands, that showing contrition

ironed in the afternoon whitenesses yet to come,

be now, in this rain that deprives me of

my desire to live.

What has become of her flannel skirt; of her

toil, of her walk;

of her taste of homemade May rum.

She must be at the door watching some cloudscape,

and at length she�ll say, trembling: �Jesus�it�s so cold!�

And on the roof tiles a wild bird will cry.

May you all have a warm day of friends and quiet meditation.

Case Wagenvoord

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