THE LEAST OF WHAT WE DO

by Pilar Saavedra-Vela

 

Vusala Yusifova and her daughter, Inji, asylum seekers from Azerbaijan, cutting a client’s hair in Monteverde, Costa Rica. Photograph by César Rodríguez.

 

Trump Deported Them. A Costa Rican Mountain Town Took Them In. —The New York Times, April 16, 2026
 

 

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. —Matthew 25:31-46
 
 

The cicadas have been silenced
by the chill of the oncoming night
 
On the highway, under a tree,
cardboard  is home  to a warm body
 
The cloud village of Monteverde
welcomes  deported families
 
from Russia and Azerbaijan who sought
asylum in America
 
One Russian witnessed  election cheating
another  man protested in Azerbaijan
 
Imagine being denied American
solidarity, shown instead a boot
 
all the way to  Costa Rican limbo
to find help among  the Quakers
 
Korean war objectors
who settled  a mountain top
 
The poet’s song has been silenced
 by the chill of the oncoming night
 
The tired, poor yearning masses
cradled by the foreigners as their own.


Pilar Saavedra-Vela is a student of poetry, painting, and acting, former editor and translator.  Born in Colombia, she grew up in the US  and now lives in Costa Rica. Pilar's poetry has been published in Passagers and The New Verse News.

ADRIFT

by Pilar Saavedra-Vela

The Greek coastguard has caused the deaths of dozens of migrants in the Mediterranean over a three-year period, witnesses say, including nine who were deliberately thrown into the water. The nine are among more than 40 people alleged to have died as a result of being forced out of Greek territorial waters, or taken back out to sea after reaching Greek islands, BBC analysis has found. The Greek coastguard told our investigation it strongly rejects all accusations of illegal activities. We showed footage of 12 people being loaded into a Greek coastguard boat, and then abandoned on a dinghy, to a former senior Greek coastguard officer. When he got up from his chair, and with his mic still on, he said it was "obviously illegal" and "an international crime.” —BBC, June 17, 2024

In myths of Greece

the ancients were supremely

cruel. Prometheus, chained

to a pillar, an eagle

will pick at  his liver forever.

 

King Acricius, on hearing

prophesy of his death,

set his own daughter

Danae and her child adrift

in the sea—the child  Perseus

survives and one day

will slay his grandfather king.

 

In modern Greek seas

ancient cruelties surge and seethe:

boats full of emigrants

from the war-torn Middle East

risk the Mediterranean

to seek refuge, a new European life.

 

From the shores, Coast Guards

have been filmed

forcing immigrant mothers

and children, and men,

onto rubber dinghies,

tugging them out to sea,

setting them adrift.

 

A new Perseus might be

from Iran or Syria, or

Afghanistan.

He might survive:

he might one day

kill the sailors who,

sent to save him,

instead set him

and his mother adrift.

Pilar Saavedra-Vela has lived in Costa Rica for 37 years. Born in Colombia, she grew up in the DC area, where she returns almost every year. A translator, editor and hotel owner, she has been writing poetry since 2006 (she composed poetry earlier, just didn't write it down). She has had poems published in The New Verse News and Passager.

ELECTION DAY

by Pilar Saavedra-Vela

“Costa Rica’s Boring Elections Are a Model for the World.” —Foreign Policy, February 4, 2022

The two leading candidates to emerge from a large field reflect voters’ concerns about economic malaise and corruption, but there’s little sign of the upheaval seen in other regional elections. Costa Rica’s president will be decided in a runoff  [on April 3] after none of the record twenty-five candidates managed to secure enough votes to win during the February 6 election. —Council on Foreign Relations, February 10, 2022

Distant car horns

blare in three-beat compass,

announcing that voting  

is fully in swing,

like a Sunday party

in Democracy Plaza,

in San José, in all Costa Rica.

 

Bananas still leave here in ships

to the North and Europe.

Still a banana republic,

that pejorative qualifier

which, from northern heights

of civilization, disdained

Central America.

 

But here nobody is rushing

the Congress building

or maiming its guards.

No military parades,

no goosesteps, no gallows,

no guns firing in the air.

It’s a party out there

 

for 25 candidates

who know it’s not certainty

but a prayer

that the people will

let them lead.

Even in pandemic,

it’s a festival out there

 

on a Sunday,

no alcohol allowed,

but lots of flags, a spree

of blue, yellow, red, green

balloons,  

horn-blowing,

sun. 

Pilar Saavedra-Vela has lived in Costa Rica for almost 34 years. Born in Colombia, she grew up in the DC area, to where she returns almost every year. She is a translator and hotel owner who writes poetry since 2006. One of her poems was published in Passager in 2020.