THE ENVOY The official newsletter of the Canada Cuba Literary Alliance I.S.S.N. – 1911‐0693 July, 2022 Issue 120 www.CanadaCubaLiteraryAlliance.org Karen Naranjo
2 By John B. Lee Today is July 7th, Ringo Starr's birthday. He encourages us all to celebrate with the message of PEACE & LOVE. A few years ago I hosted an event in Toronto at the statue of Al Purdy in which I invited a spontaneous audience to listen to a few poems dedicated to the credo of Peace & Love. At exactly 12 p.m. on July 7th, I read poetry dedicated to that principle along with fellow poet Richard (Tai) Grove. I also had poets reading in Ireland, Sudbury, Windsor, London (Ontario), Holguin, Cuba. The following year I hosted a poetry event on the back deck of my house where a group of poets from London gave a moment's silence and then we each read a poem inspired by the credo of PEACE & LOVE in the world. Today, I am home alone with my wife. I read of a butterfly with the Latin name "Heliconius Erato" with the common name 'red postman" so called because it visits the same route every day drinking nectar and delivering pollen. I wrote this poem this morning dedicated to Mount Helicon "home of the muses" and Erato Muse of love poetry.
Heliconius Erato By John B. Lee “… Mount Helicon was home of the Muses and a source of poetic inspiration; Erato was the muse of love poetry. The butterfly ‘heliconius erato’ is commonly known as the ‘red postman’ so named because it follows the same route every day visiting flowers to deliver and to take away pollen.” heliconius erato please land on me deliver slow winged beauty in the gentle language of the lover’s muse perceive my mind as a greenhouse garden so lit by dreams it seems alluring with a luminous array of tropical blooms I long to be brilliant with the breath of life alone, return, return return again for I would dwell a willing denizen of the mount of muses where music swells in misty altitudes
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
3 of mystic light through gauzy veils of vaporous caress not angel white but fire blue and sweet as strands of sugared air a water covenant that lingers there in spectral hues to prove the gods adore us all, and every one as we in turn who write might touch the sacred page in reverence of love LAS MANOS DE MI MADRE Por Odalis Cedeño Romero "Un día me quedé mirando fijo las manos de mi Madre".
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
Ella estaba acostada sobre la cama descansando un rato, y no se percató de mi entrada furtiva a su alcoba. La miré de pies a cabeza, pero sus manos me llamaron mucho la atención. Las manos de mi Madre están arrugadas, sus venas se ven abultadas, y gruesas líneas de piel como cordoncillos se cruzan entre sí. De primera intención sus manos me parecieron feas, pero me puse a meditar en lo que esas manos significaban para mí, y al mirarlas de nuevo las vi hermosas, dignas, fuertes como envueltas en una luz diamantina. Esas manos fueron tiernas y débiles un día; luego fueron creciendo, cobraron fuerzas y se hicieron bonitas. Pero el peso de los años y el arduo trabajo las envejecieron y arrugaron. Ahora son manos de una mujer madura, noble, que se ha ido doblegando ante los ímpetus de la vida. Yo amo esas manos. Ellas se abrieron para cargarme cuando apenas yo era un bultito de carne y huesos. Siempre estuvieron solícitas para guiar mis pasos trémulos en mi niñez, inciertos en mi juventud y aún no siempre firmes en mi madurez. Esas manos prepararon con amor sin igual los alimentos que me dieron vida, más de una vez apretaron la vara para castigarme por alguna falta cometida. Fueron manos constructoras que tenían el encanto de transmitir amistad e inyectar estímulo. Por los dedos de esas manos se derrama la luz de un corazón amante, o fueron como hilos dorados que se entretejieron a mi alrededor para darme protección.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 4 En el hogar esas manos se mantuvieron ocupadas haciendo mil cosas, siempre abiertas para hacer el bien. Ahora son manos temblorosas y sin mucha fuerza, pero no han dejado de ser una inspiración para mí, porque ellas todavía se estiran para abrirle la puerta al hijo que vuelve a casa, para sostener la taza de café que me obsequia durante mis visitas o para saludar a cuantos se acercan a ella. En la historia de nuestras vidas, las manos de las madres han hecho mucha labor y nos han colmado de infinito amor. Antes de salir del cuarto, yo me incliné y besé las manos. "Las bellas manos de mi dulce y adorada Madre". Y tú, ¿te has detenido a contemplar las manos de tu Madre? Ámala, dale el amor que necesita ahora que la tienes, recuerda que el pasado está muerto, el presente es ahorita, pero del futuro no sabemos. ¡¡¡Dedicado a ese ser maravilloso que nos dio la vida... hoy, mañana y siempre!!! Favio Vergara
Dedicated to that wonderful being who gave us life... today, tomorrow and always!!!
5 MY MOTHER'S HANDS By Odalis Cedeño Romero
"One day I stared at my mother's hands." She was lying on the bed resting for a while, and she didn't notice me sneaking into her bedroom. I looked at her from head to toe but her hands caught my attention.
My Mother's hands are wrinkled; her veins bulge, and thick lines of skin like ribs cross each other. At first her hands seemed ugly to me but I began to meditate on what those hands meant to me and looking at them again, I saw them beautiful, dignified, strong as if wrapped in a diamond light.
Those hands were tender and weak one day; then they grew, gained strength and became pretty. But the weight of the years and the hard work aged and wrinkled them. Now they are the hands of a mature, noble woman who has been bowing to the forces of life. I love those hands. They opened to carry me when I was just a bundle of flesh and bones. They were always solicitous to guide my tremulous steps in my childhood, uncertain in my youth and still not always firm in my maturity. Those hands prepared with unparalleled love the food that gave me life; more than once they tightened the rod to punish me for some fault committed. They were building hands that had the charm of transmitting friendship and injecting encouragement. Through the fingers of those hands, the light of a loving heart spills or they were like golden threads that were woven around me to give me protection. At home those hands were kept busy doing a thousand things, always open to do good. Now they are trembling hands and without much strength, but they have not ceased to be an inspiration to me because they still reach out to open the door for their son who comes home, to hold the cup of coffee that he gives me during my visits or to greet those who approach her. In the history of our lives, the hands of mothers have done a lot of work and have filled us with infinite love. Before leaving the room, I leaned over and kissed her hands. "The beautiful hands of my sweet and adored Mother". And you, have you stopped to contemplate the hands of your Mother? Love her, give her the love she needs now that you have her; remember that the past is dead; the present is right now but we don't know about the future.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 6
Lover Beware! (a love poem for a rainy day! ) By Merle Amodeo Take my word for it: we're falling in love. I can tell by the dryness in my throat and the dampness in your eyes, so here's the caveat: I don't want to be loved madly again. Mad men can't be trusted. Love me casually the way you long for a quarter pounder. Relish me, onion me if you like, but don't forsake all others. Man cannot live on burgers alone. Love me warmly, the way you cherish a lively terrier. Take me for walks if you wish, pet me and brush me, but don't chain me up. I'll always need to run with the pack. Love me the way you adore your favourite song, listen in ecstasy but don't learn to play me. I vanish when pinned down. In return, I promise a love that treasures your voice, a voice that always sings off key, and your laughter even when you slip into hysteria, and your crooked smilethe smile that warms me to my toes.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 7 Tonight I Write the Saddest Lines (from Such Sweet Sorrow) By Merle Amodeo You gave me a warm kiss at a sidewalk cafe. I gave you kites on Sunday at the beach. You gave me a casual shrug, a quick smile. I gave you a June shooting star flinging its flame into the night. You gave me your naive ties, colours like Monet's sunsets, and you gave me chocolates and a long stemmed rose. I gave you passion and let you give it back to me I gave you yes, You gave me no. You gave me a heated argument in a Beck taxi. I gave you a slammed door and deadly silence. Now I give you this: The very last verse I write for you. De los días y las noches en la selva de Jurití es esta foto: el cazador Awá Guajá que lleva por nombre Pirá Ma'â, que significa en su dialecto del Tupí Guaraní "el que habla como un pez" con la pieza que acaba de cobrar. La foto no es gran cosa, pero la historia que cuenta me resulta profundamente conmovedora. Anda por ahí una obra muy posada de Sebastião Salgado de este mismo caballero neolítico, con más plumas y coloretes. De ese monte guardo historias miles, pendientes de plumas, collares de colmillos y algunos arcos y flechas que logré contrabandear pasando gato por liebre a los chulos de la aduana. Tesoros que ahora me miran anacrónicos desde su rincón junto a los caballetes. El poemilla de la virgen es arrebato de ayer de tarde. La Virgen: Disuenan en el valle los ogros del maíz, los santones del monte, desnudez de olivo, barba manierista, amanerada, guajira.
El monóculo es de sucio bronce mambí. En el nido de los surcos pía una trucha jorobada y dispar. Y la gasa del aire desanda las aguas como un mesías, llevando a cada estómago el gusanillo del hambre. Nace de sí, Sol boreal y maduro, y Sol hembra de insurrecto Botticelli entre el cáñamo y el hogar, dulce agonía cuando una estrella prende de crepúsculo su alma linternauta. Esta es la hora tanina en que todo enmudece, hay estrellas de sombra clavijando sobre nuestra diabetes. La Ciudad de Cuba junto a los puentes añora sus años de pueblito, su infancia limpiabotas junto al río rampante. El varón oficio de los ríos es seguir de largo, serruchando la tierra a grandes tragos, cortándola a pico como reja de arado. El destino de sus aguas no es otro que la huída. Muda en su catedral de sémola y cardamomo, silenciosa como un gran peso muerto, una muerta eucaristía que hiere al mundo con su falta de amor Otra vez los rezagados, los hijos defectuosos nos echamos a su cuello en un abrazo de niños, sintiendo la era de hielo del seno oscuro, de la negra vagina misteriosa por donde sube un vapor de industria, el girasol bandolero de la Virgen criolla en la gran mano del Cobre. La Virgen de los pobres, la que concede todo y nada, la que asiente siempre y nunca sin pedir la de manto raído y bastón de marabú.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 8
compensación,
The Virgin: The ogres of the corn, the mock saints of the mountain, denuded of their olive greens, Mannerist beards, effeminately trimmed, peasant like, discordantly arise The monocle is of dirty mambí bronze. In the nest of the furrows a humped and very unusual trout chirps. And the gauze of the air retraces the waters like a messiah, carrying the nagging of hunger to every belly Born of himself, boreal and mature Sun, and female Sun of an insurgent Botticelli between hemp and home, his sweet agony manifests when a star lights up his torched soul with twilight. This is the tannin hour when all falls silent; there are shadowy stars pegging over our diabetes. The City of Cuba, next to the bridges, yearns for its years as a small town, its shoe shine childhood next to the rampant river. The major toil of the rivers is to flow along, sawing the land into large gulps, cutting it sharply like a plowshare. The destiny of its waters is none other than flight. Mute in its semolina and cardamom cathedral, silent as a great dead weight, it is a dead Eucharist that wounds the world with its lack of love. Once again, we laggards, the defective children, throw ourselves around her neck in a childlike embrace, feeling the ice age of the dark breast, of the mysterious black vagina through which a vapor of industry rises, the bandit sunflower of the Creole Virgin in the great hand of El Cobre. The Virgin of the poor, the one who grants everything and nothing, the one who always and never agrees, never asking for compensation, the one with the shabby cloak and the marabou cane.
This photo is of the days and nights in the jungle of Jurití: the Awá Guajá hunter who goes by the name of Pirá Ma'â, which in his Tupí Guaraní dialect means "the one who speaks like a fish" with the kill that he has just collected The photo isn't much but I find the story it tells deeply moving. There is a very lush work by Sebastião Salgado about this same Neolithic gentleman, with more feathers and colorful tones. From that mountain I am the keeper of thousands of stories, feather earrings, fang necklaces and some bows and arrows that I managed to smuggle by passing a cat for a hare with the pimps at customs. These are treasures that now look at me anachronistically from their corner next to the easels. This brief poem of the virgin is an outburst from yesterday’s afternoon.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 9
De bribona sangre de Borbones, cada mañana de julio desencarna mi abuelo, hombre de la tierra. Escuálida la mañana presta a la ciudad su aire viejo, flaco de no querer quedarse entre nosotros (así el alma se resiste al elysium de ángeles caídos). Sabedlo, soy un evolucionista en apuros, nunca entendí a cabalidad el artilugio minucioso de la evolución. Mientras el profe diseccionaba ranas vivas exponiendo su trémula maquinaria de rosadas vísceras, la aflautada confesión del batracio torturado por el morbo de la ciencia no perturbaba mi sueño: yo roncaba a más y mejor tomando por almohada el cuaderno lleno de dibujos, ignorando la sólida regla de madera con que luego sería galardonada mi desatención (a menudo llegaba a casa más condecorado que un mariscal ruso). ¿Cómo la criatura que se arrastra, sale disparada decorando el cielo con un ikebana de alas y de crótalos, y del incesto de un linaje eucariota brota este cerebro desquiciado que maquilla de oros el errante atardecer? ¿Cómo puede el agua trotar y salpicar por los altos pastizales distantes tramando palacios, dragones, abanicos, conspiraciones, barcos? ¡Qué cosa tan loca, señor! Luego este guion que nos desautoriza por medio del pecado, según el cual nos juzgan los bellos dioses primitivos de los retablos mientras la humanidad declama su novenario al vacío. Y qué decir de nuestra propensión al canibalismo, a mordernos los dedos durante la aburrida cena familiar, a la hora de la bendición de la mesa por el patriarca de la casa. Mejor es salir al campo y vociferar mientras aún existe el camino vecinal, tan rico en posibilidades, y merendar un desayuno de suculenta desobediencia civil, engullir el vaso de alborozo y cerveza a toda prisa bajo el ciruelo en cuyas flores navega el iris del abuelo comunista, y cuya llovizna es la osamenta de cualquier ancestro. Pero no desesperéis, no todo está perdido. He sabido por mi amigo, el programador nefrítico, que la diligente voz artificial de las máquinas ya conoce nuestros más superficiales anhelos, emergen por fin los primeros brotes binarios de un magno birlibirloque dispuesto a consentirnos hasta la locura. Y las exequias del abuelo, la merienda de ranas bajo el lindo árbol de ciruelas, el tiempo que hemos dedicado a pavonearnos en varicosa bipedestación, no serán nunca más requisitos de nuestra flamante hoja de servicios para entrar al paraíso. Basta con un oportuno, pero sincero, arrepentimiento digital, un salvoconducto que incluya nuestra identidad retiniana, la simbólica entrega de las llaves de una moderna Tenochtitlán de cajeros que sólo operan en bitcoins. ¡Pero qué espléndida desfachatez aprobada por unanimidad!
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 10 Paradiso perduto Por Víctor Manuel Velázquez
How does the creature that crawls, shoots out decorating the sky with an ikebana of wings and rattlesnakes, and from the incest of a eukaryotic lineage springs this deranged brain that gilds the errant twilight?
And grandfather's funeral, the snack of frog under the pretty cherry tree, the time we've spent strutting around in varicose bipedestation, will never again be requirements of our brand new record of service to enter paradise. A timely, but sincere, digital repentance is enough, a safe conduct that includes our retinal identity, the symbolic delivery of the keys to a modern Tenochtitlán from ATMs that only operate in bitcoins. But what splendid impudence approved unanimously!
How can the water rush and splash across the distant tall grasses plotting palaces, dragons, fans, conspiracies, ships? What a crazy thing, sir! Then this script that disavows us through sin, according to which the beautiful primitive gods of the altarpieces judge us while humanity declaims its novena to the void.
And what would one say about our propensity to cannibalism, to bite our fingers during the boring family dinner, at the time of the blessing of the table by the patriarch of the house. It is better to go out into the field and shout while the neighborhood road still exists, so rich in possibilities, and have a snack of succulent civil disobedience, gulp down the glass of merriment and beer in a hurry under the cherry tree in whose flowers the iris of the communist grandfather floats , and whose drizzle is the skeleton of one of our ancestors. But do not despair, all is not lost. I have learned from my friend, the nephritic programmer, that the diligent artificial voice of the machines already knows our most superficial desires, the first binary shoots of a great birlibirloque willing to pamper us to the point of madness are finally emerging.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 11
Of rogue Bourbon blood, every morning in July my grandfather disincarnates, a man of the land. Squalid morning lends the city its aged air, thinned from not wanting to stay among us (thus the soul resists the elysium of fallen angels). You know, I'm a struggling evolutionist, I never fully understood the minute contrivance of evolution. While the teacher dissected live frogs, exposing their tremulous innards of pink viscera, the fluted confession of the frog tortured by the morbidity of science did not disturb my sleep: I snored more and better taking the notebook full of drawings as a pillow, ignoring the solid rule of wood with which my inattention would later be rewarded (I often came home more decorated than a Russian marshal).
Lost paradise By Víctor Manuel Velázquez
Painting by Víctor Manuel Velázquez
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 12
La luz, cristal mojado sobre el nido, The Ambassador 017 fractura al arco iris. Su sonido es muda palidez, remanso, orilla, es ubicua presencia y oportuna se acomoda en la yerba como una mujer, que enamorada, abraza y brilla.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
13 La luz Por Ernesto Galbán Peramo
La luz se me acomoda en estos grises, difusa permanece ante la nube, el recuerdo me viene lento y sube con semillas, con soles, con matices. La luz sale a pasear y tú preguntas ¿qué vientos mueven aguas tan veloces, qué lagos, qué tormentas y qué voces presienten existencias todas juntas?
Light accommodates me within these grays, diffuse it remains before the cloud, remembrance comes slowly and rises with seeds, with suns, with subtleties. Light meanders and you ask what winds move such rapid waters, what lakes, what storms and what voices forbid existences all together? Light, wet crystal over the nest, fractures the rainbow. Its sound is of mute paleness, a quiet place, a shore, ubiquitous and with timely presence it reclines on the grass like a woman who, in love, embraces and glows.
Light Por Ernesto Galbán Peramo
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 14 Favio Vergara
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
15 Mar Por Ernesto Galbán Peramo Suave manto, regazo de las naves, furibunda pasión que ves perdida a lo lejos la rama adormecida que salió de las breñas con las aves. Son tus puertos vetustos al oleaje como besos perennes, como estrellas redimiendo al dolor y así destellas a los hombres la luz de un largo viaje. En tu azul duermen ondas infinitas y a los peces despiertas cuando invitas a encontrar un tesoro en que se encierra el pasado de un tiempo ya vivido, solo guardas tu magia y tu sonido mas no dejas de abrazarte a la tierra. Carlos Alberto Bastón
Your ancient harbours are to the surf like perennial kisses, like stars redeeming pain and thus you shine at persons the light of a long voyage.
A smooth veil, a lap for vessels, furious passion that you think has passed in the distance the drowsy bough that came out of the thicket with the birds.
After Love Merle Amodeo (from Such Sweet Sorrow)
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
16 Sea Por Ernesto Galbán Peramo
Not only have your kids moved on but I hear that guy you were with for what seems like a lifetime has taken off too!
Infinite waves dream in your blue and you awaken the fish with your invitation to find a treasure locked in the past of a time already lived; you maintain your magic and your sound but you never cease to embrace the land.
Congratulations!
Once you stop dancing on the ceiling, you may feel nervous, unsure if you made the right move when you showed him the door. But divorce is old hat now. You likely kept the appliances, dishes and flatware, while he claimed the stereo and most of the CDs. Better give him the linen and towels don't want him dripping on the hardwood in his barren condo.
Of course, he'll have to have the TV, the 64 inch one the one he insisted on buying, remember? His condo may be too small for it, but it can be hung on the wall if he has a wall that big.
17
Men don't need dining room furniture or a lot of closet space, so keep the table, chairs, buffet and get rid of those unused wedding gifts you just couldn't throw out. Everything is disposable. If you take the dog, be sure what's his name has no visiting rights. That would only prolong the agony. If he's lonely, he may go for dog sitting when you're on vacation, which will be three times a year starting next month. Don't be afraid to take advantage. Who gets the bed is the conundrum. I know it's a king size four poster with a perfect sleeper mattress, but some memories never fade. so I doubt if either of you will want it. Repeat after me: Everything is disposable now.
One year ago Laurence Hutchman’s collected poems were published in Swimming Toward the Sun. He is a member of the CCLA and it is our pleasure to present his beautiful poems. Dany Hernández
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 18
19 WHILE YOUR DOCKS SLUMBER Barciela Tauler José, La Osadia del Ascenso, Poesía, Sección de Literatura, Dirección Municipal de cultura,Gibara,1962, no. Pag 39. Maybe it is your tiny size that captivates me Maybe it is the latent giant in you what makes me love you In every cheerful afternoon that you regale me. I removed the scales of my own fish just yesterday Today I seek refuge in your restlessness Burdened with so much pain That I wish to lessen in your revelry.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
LET YOUR FLAG FLY IN THE WIND WITH THE LIGHT OF THE UNIQUE STAR, LIKE A BEACON THAT ILLUMINATES THE UNIVERSE LET YOUR GLORY DAYS BE PRAISED. LET EVERY HEART SAY A PRAYER FOR YOUR EVERLASTING BLISS AND THE GRANDEUR OF YOUR SOVEREIGNTY. IF THE LURKING EAGLE SETS ITS CLAWS ON YOU FEAR NOT, AND FIERCELY PROCLAIM THAT YOU´LL ALWAYS BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AND WOULD RATHER DIE THAN LIVE AS A SLAVE.
The Sun shone fully on every man The mystery of the shoreProposes the concert of the blue crab, My shadow discovered salt My veins became mangroves For those who catch wet oysters in the reefs. I bow Before the slumber of your docks To fish the ocean wave That crosses over her marine wear Into an eternal necklace of foam. FOR CUBA Fernando Cuesta Mora, 1923 “DEAD RATHER THAN ENSLAVED”
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 20 Favio Vergara
The white foam splashed his rough feet rough from too much walking but delighted in contemplating so much blue.
Por Adislenis Castro Ruíz
La espuma blanca salpicaba sus pies descalzos y ásperos de tanto andar, pero contemplar tanto azul lo deleitaba.
Ahora estaba ahí, asustado, sin saber qué hacer, esperando que en algún lugar se abriera una puerta que lo regresara a su mundo de fantasías.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 21
The sea calmed; the sun began to shine and in the sky a rainbow formed that accompanied him with its colors on this magical journey of the green goblin. El viaje del duende.
De pronto escuchó un sonido, las nubes alocadas ocultaron el sol y comenzó a caer una débil lluvia. Un fuerte viento sopló sobre la mar
The green goblin opened his eyes and watched the sea
Having never been so near the ocean he only remembered the flowing river near his home and the aroma of the red roses that he loved so much Now, he is afraid, not knowing what to do hoping that in some place a door will open that will return him to his fantasy world.
Suddenly, he heard a sound, the clouds that appeared hid the sun and a light shower began to fall.
A strong wind blew over the sea forming an enormous train of waves that brought to him a small boat With a single leap, he was inside the boat.
Nunca antes había estado tan cerca del océano, solo recordaba el río que corría cerca de su hogar y el perfume de las rosas rojas que tanto amaba.
El duende verde abrió los ojos y miró el mar.
THE JOURNEY OF THE GREEN GOBLIN Adislenis Castro Ruíz
Mar de plata Por Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 22 formando un enorme tren de olas que transportó hasta él un pequeño bote. De un salto, ya estaba en su interior. El mar se calmó, el sol comenzó a brillar y en el cielo se formó un arco iris que acompañó con sus colores el mágico viaje del duende verde.
Lorenzo Santos
Este es mi mar de plata Que nos devuelve el reflejo de la desnuda luna, Joya celeste que irradia Los roncos bramidos De acordes incomprensibles, Aguas vivientes Un mar siempre agitado En manos del viento, Con privilegio respiro El salitre de sus olas Que constantemente rompen en las rocas Deshace mi fatiga, Alimentan la energía Que abre mi corazón Y lo llena de esperanzas.
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 23 Silver sea By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández This is my silvery sea That flashes back the reflection of the naked moon A celestial jewel that irradiates The hoarse roars Of incomprehensible harmonies Living waters A sea ever agitated By the whim of wind. I’m privileged to breathe The salty air of waves Constantly breaking against rocks Wears away my fatigue They feed the energy That opens my heart And fills it with hope. From Anna Yin I got my copies. So glad. Since I am working on a film making project, I want to invite contributors and book lovers to send in your photos; with the book, I want to make a short film as Through Mirrors and Windows, We Find Each Other. Please feel free to email me your photos: anna.yin@gmail.com thank you in advance. Guernica Editions #poetry #translate #film #poet #book
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 24
The title is a blend of lines from two of my poems. I feel they capture the essence of what I write about: life, love, poetry, family, people, nature, circumstances, events.
That source, raw and genuine, goes straight to the heart of his world and informs about his aesthetics as a poet. It is elemental, essential, and thus, for Olivé, universal.
In his poem, “The First Day,” Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias clearly announces who he is as a poet when he writes, thisiswhereIstand,beforetheprimordialsource.
Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias
Antony Di Nardo Canadian poet and teacher
Back Cover Matter
By Merle Amodeo Yesterday as my fever raged, I longed to call you, but had no voice. Today as tears filled my eyes, I recalled your laughter, but could not smile. Tomorrow when your arms enfold me, I will know the joy of the lonely maple when the robin returns to its silent branches.
Homecoming (from Such Sweet Sorrow)
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Pampered From Richard M. Grove July 20, 2022 Dear Johnnie B. as i bask in the glory of condo a/c i trust that you are staying cool on your northern shore of Lake Erie. it was 34oc today in the heat sink of Toronto. Kim is in Presqu'ile swimming in the lake moderated cool of 24oc. i was talking to Jorge in Cuba. they have no electricity in all of Gibara every night from 6pm to 6am. not even the comfort of a whispering fan to lull them to sleep. we have to remember that we are so pampered. Hugs from Pamperville Tai
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 26 Wency Rosales
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 27 Wency Rosales
JULY 2022 ENVOY 120 EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com 28 Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández, CCLA Ambassador as editor Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias, Cuban President as assistant editor Adonay Pérez Luengo, Cuban vp as reviewing editor Lisa Makarchuk, Canadian vp as reviewing editor Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado, CCLA Cuban poet laureate as reviewing editor Wency Rosales, Cuban photography curator Editor´s emails: joyph@nauta.cu joyphccla@gmail.com jorgealbertoph@infomed.sld.cu FROM THE EDITOR: IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES, WE WOULD LIKE SUBMISSIONS FROM EVERY CCLA MEMBER SO THAT YOU RECEIVE SOME DESERVED PUBLICITY WHILE WE ARE NURTURED BY YOU. BOOK LAUNCHES? POETRY EVENTS? LET US KNOW ABOUT THEM AND WE WILL PRINT UP THE INFORMATION IN THE ENVOY.
