Reading Orwell in Colombia
George Franklin
George Franklin es autor de dos poemarios: Traveling for No Good Reason (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions 2018) y un poemario bilingüe, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas, traducido por Ximena Gómez al español (Katakana Editores 2018), además de un folleto que publicó Broadsided Press (2019). Obtuvo una Maestría en Poesía de la Universidad de Columbia y un Doctorado en Literatura Inglesa y Norteamericana de la Universidad de Brandeis y sus poemas han aparecido recientemente en Into the Void, The Threepenny Review, Salamander, Pedestal Magazine, Cagibi, Twyckenham Notes y The American Journal of Poetry (próximo a publicarse). George Franklin es abogado, practica el derecho en Miami e imparte talleres de poesía en las cárceles del Estado de La Florida.
While you tended your father in the nursing home, I sat
In the shade, nodded occasionally to residents and nurses,
And watched the white geese splashing in a pond.
We were south of Cali, a suburb with green fields nearby,
Estates behind white walls, cattle grazing, riders exercising horses.
On the side of the highway, there were families who’d crossed
The mountains from Venezuela and were headed south, children
With small backpacks, blue and pink, as though they’d gone
For a day hike, one that might last the rest of their lives—
Some were asleep. Others, grown men, begged for pesos or
Sold bottled water or energy drinks. I could feel it itching
At the back of my brain, but the thought never made it into words.
This couldn’t last forever. My whole life, I’ve been lucky.
I’ve never had to leave my country and start over, without
My grandfather’s books, the family paintings, Chinese vases.
You ask me if your apartment is “chaotic.” I laugh and say no,
And every time I’m there, I think how you assembled it all from
Almost nothing, how much each book, each photo, matters.
You say, joking, when you got here you missed the strikes. “They
Happened all the time.” Now, there are barricades across
The highway between Cali and Pance—not something wooden
Out of Les Misérables, but the serious kind built by people
Who’ve had practice, beams of corrugated metal, braced, connected,
Something designed by engineers. I read Homage to Catalonia, but
I didn’t pay attention. I missed it: everything has consequences,
An insurrection in Washington or a general strike in Colombia—
Someone on YouTube says that the policía wait until dark, then fire
At every shadow, and a friend writes from Pereira that
Paramilitaries threaten the lives of doctors who treat protestors.
His life has been threatened also. There’s nothing
We can do but send text messages, emails. We say,
“Stay safe. Be careful.” But it doesn’t mean much.
The world is not as well-built as those barricades in Cali.
Governments are made of glass and string, rubber bands and
Lots of paper. In Cali, the police station reminded me of
A huge block of concrete, a relic of civil war, guards with
Automatic weapons—but it’s a façade. Your sister in Pance
Writes she only has food to last the week. In Barcelona,
The leftist parties did Franco’s work for him, shooting
Each other, declaring everyone else collaborators and criminals.
Orwell escaped to France and back to England. The republic fell.
From here in Miami, I read that a new wave of protests
Is starting soon in Cali, that the humanitarian corridor has
Been closed. We don’t know who is safe and who isn’t.
Two years ago, I was reading Orwell in Colombia.
May 11, 2021
