Letters

I am the poet, and I speak of letters- those that I have known personally, both as sender and as receiver the letters postmarked: "Federal Penitentiary for Women Alderson, West Virginia". And I speak of those letters too, that have passed the hands of my father and uncle, decades ago across the Atlantic, both the victims of politics- prisoners of communism. But that was during the 1950's in Hungary- a country that I have only visited during less turbulent times, and so, I know of those letters only secondhand through the stories of my family, thus, I can only imagine. And yet I speak of those leters too, that I myself, have held in these hands- the letters sent to me by my father some thirty years after his experience. The letters written in his neat, block-letter script and the ones from my mother- in her unruly scrawl the letters that comforted me when I was behind The Walls. And I speak of the letters, the ones from present kept in order inside my desk drawer alongside my poems. The letters from my husband's friend -only seventeen and in the County Jail awaiting his trial- to be held in two weeks (and yet three eyewitnesses proclaim his innocence). I speak of the letters these, that I know of- the specific. But I speak universally also, I speak of the letters written to other loved ones and to all unfortunates forced apart seperated by the often insurmountable- and the cruelty of circumstances- those with which I can emphatize because of my own history. These are not the letters essential to poets and authors; the fabric with which they weave the tapestry of their craft. Not the letters that are the blood of human language. I speak of letters, not the common stating the obvious, "I hope everything is fine". telling, "So and so did such and such". and, "This is what is happening". I speak of the letters that resurrect faith, often lost or nonexistent in war or captivity. Leters that travel to foreign fronts- dismal prisons, letters waited on as the second coming of Christ, among the pious. How many soldiers have died with a perfumed letter tucked in their pockets? Fragrance and handwriting long since faded worn with the pillage of time and weather, paper once fresh and crisp deteriorating from frequent handling, letters fingered like the beads of a rosary. And how many prisoners cherish these very letters? Each memorized like the words of a prayer. Letters their only bond to distant memories- home and family these pieces of paper the sole contact with normality. I speak of letters carefully folded enclosed in envelopes adorned by some jailhouse artist his intricate sketches a longing for those things missed- birds and flowers, lovers embracing. And I speak of letters, on paper olive drab stufed in haste inside an envelope stained with mud, bearing the soil of the battlefield. The letters of war, any war- whether Europe's during the lives of my parents and grandparents or ones more recent. And what of the women who wait? Old mothers, like my own and sweethearts, wives how they must worry yet cling to their dreams the same dreams clung to by myself, my father, uncle, and how mant others? The dreams of PEACE and FREEDOM. * This poem was written approximately 15 years ago, I realize it is quite long but wanted to show a wide range of my work- different styles, topics etc.