For Ariel Dorfman’s “Hope,” provide a commentary of your observations, queries and comments.

In reading Ariel Dorfman's poem, "Hope," from his
collection of poems entitled "In Case of Fire in a Foreign Land," impressions come fast
and furious in this compelling, and tragically ironic piece that delivers its message so
powerfully in so few lines.

There is a son, and my first
thought is that he young: I assume he is at least a teen—but expect he is older. What
comes after this line could be anything, especially in light of the
poem's title: he has been...away (college, traveling)? Or has been
up late studying or on a date?—"been" dangles with seeming uncertainty before dropping
to the word "missing," which also dangles, all alone—but with a sense of hopelessness.
How can this poem be called "Hope?"

"May 8" answers few
questions except that it did not happen yesterday, last week or last month, but
last year!

My
son has been

missing

since May
8

of last
year.

It's a statement of
fact. For these first few lines, I am filled with images from a crime
drama: Law and Order, perhaps. Living in the United States, this
kind of image is (if you're lucky) something from fiction. If luck has no place in the
story, it means someone else's life has been changed forever—as you
sit slumped on the couch, watching the television, shaking your head in disbelief...or
horror...or both. My question is: how can there be hope? Is it
foolish hope or empty hope? I'm afraid now to know what happens next...but the poet is
relentless.

I read that the son will be kept "for a few
hours" for "routine questioning." However, we "see" the car that took him: it had no
license plate. This is in a place where the car is unidentified (has no official
markings) and unidentifiable (it cannot be traced after the fact);
I am deeply dismayed. This is something out of a movie like Taken
with Liam Neeson. It is not possible (I
think) here. At least I think it's not
possible here. But is it? How is it possible
there? Any where? They
said "for a few hours," but that was on May 8.
This is the information around which
the poem revolves. What happened to him? What happened to him? We can almost hear the
parents asking the question over and over. And it's been so long.
Where is the hope?—I want to know!

The
line of the next stanza begins with "But," and suddenly the action
and the direction of the poem has been altered. A compañero, a friend or neighbor, has
just been released from "the red house"— the son has been missing now five months—but
while there, the friend heard his voice! He heard their son's
voice!...and his screams...And
here is hope? I'm sorry, but that's not possible. Is this a
nightmare?

Well, yes, it is—and everything depends upon
perspective. For all they knew before, their son was dead. Now they
know that at least he is alive. For now. And
for this, they have hope. HOPE?!...he's still
alive...

The reader is brought back to earth
with a crash. The speaker ask our question—it could be my voice:
what kind of a world is this? Where could this
happen? How is it possible that parents could find
joy in this moment? The word
"joy" stands on a line, alone—critically
important!

What I'm
aksing is

how can it be

that a
father's

joy

a
mother's

joy

is
knowing

that they are
still

torturing

their
son?

The answer: he
is still alive. And they can only hope he will be alive still
next year, when after eight months they are still torturing him.
God in heaven...because at least they will have hope...because he will still
be...alive.