The Envoy #124 – The official newsletter of the CCLA – Canada Cuba Literary Alliance.

By Enrique Campos Del Arco

En este boletín The Envoy 124 le damos la bienvenida a Tamara Herrera Rosales que ya es miembro de nuestra CCLA . Alianza Literaria Canadá Cuba, “Los Soñadores del Mar” de Gibara. Tamara es Especialista de primer grado en Medicina General Integral, que además de escribir poesías, es también autora de canciones románticas e infantiles.

In this The Envoy 124 newsletter we welcome Tamara Herrera Rosales who is already a member of our CCLA, “The Sea Dreamers “of Gibara. Tamara is a First Degree Specialist in Comprehensive General Medicine, who in addition to writing poetry, is also the author of romantic and children's songs.

La cita

By José Rafael Escalona

Por Tamara Herrera Rosales

Queda solo la humedad

Y el petricor de la lluvia, Que se llevó mi dolor Y la pena que me angustia.

Queda el inefable acierto Del corazón que latía, Tan fuerte como sentía, Cuando el sol se va poniendo, Que se acercaba mi amor, Cuál ángel de blanco atuendo.

Son galopes mis latidos, Por la pronta cercanía, Por lograr el dulce encuentro De su boca con la mía.

En mi frente y no en mis labios, Fue el mondo beso, y lo entiendo, Porque es todo un caballero

Mi ángel de blanco atuendo.

Fue el sempiterno abrazo Que me caló de sorpresa, Lo que delató el deseo Y el amor que me profesa. Fue su mano en mi cintura, Su voz meliflua y su aliento, Lo que encendió mi pasión Por mi ángel de blanco atuendo.

Su diestra mano me guía Hacia la orilla del mar, Mis descalzos pies le siguen, Donde me lleve su afán.

Su suave voz me regala La dulce paz que pretendo, Pero embrujo con un beso A mi ángel de blanco atuendo.

Sucumbimos al deseo, De lujuriosa energía, El inefable arrebato Endiabla su bonhomía. Los dientes quitan la ropa, Las miradas son destellos, Se funde mi cuerpo endeble Al ángel desnudo y bello.

The Date

By Tamara Herrera Rosales

Only moisture remains And the rain’s petrichor, That took my pain

And the sorrow that anguishes me. The indescribable success remains Of the beating heart, As strong as I felt, When the sun goes down,

That my love was coming

That angel attired in white.

My heartbeats are gallops, Due to the imminent proximity Of achieving the sweet encounter Of his mouth on mine.

On my forehead and not on my lips

It was the private kiss, and I understand it, Because he is a gentleman

My angel attired in white.

It was the everlasting embrace That took me by surprise, That betrayed the desire And the love he professes for me.

It was his hand on my waist, His melodious voice and his breath, That ignited my passion

For my angel attired in white. His right hand guides me

Towards the seashore, My bare feet follow him, Where his eagerness takes me.

His soft voice gives me

The sweet peace that I intend, But I bewitch with a kiss

My angel attired in white. We submit to desire, Of lustful energy, The indescribable outburst

His bonhomie devilish.

Teeth remove clothes

Glances are flashes, My flimsy body melts

To the naked and beautiful angel.

By Cándido Alberto Rojas

By Cándido Alberto Rojas

A BANK OF FRIENDS

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

I have a bank of friends. They come and go but are always there for me, a rich, endless account of hugs and hands from up close, from a distance to tap on my shoulder or even carry me on their shoulders or stay and walk the extra mile with me in the oppressing moment, ease me through pain and pleasure, hold me warmly, dearly, unconditionally to cross the mire or the mist to rejoice in the miracle or the boon.

I have a solid hard currency of friends highly valued in the exchange market of life. They have weathered my storms, brought umbrellas to my pouring rains, wine to my picnics; they have sat and cried with me, they have jumped up and cheered in my joy.

I make new friends too yet cherish the old ones like treasures deposited safely in the vaults of my heart. I hopefully embark on the thrill of new hugs and new hands, I revel in my credit of friends taking pride in each and every one of them and I try to live up to their value being a friend in return, a good friend, one my friends can count on, one who can offer umbrellas, wine, loving hugs and caring hands.

THE NOW

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

Spin the now. Control its hinge. Seize its momentum. Define it, as it defines you to live the moment; not live only for the moment but live the moment

A life spent always looking back into the past is a misspent one, we must learn to keep the bright part and learn from the dark one to move on and chart our course into today. A life set always in planning the future is a poorly set one: we must dwell in now, rejoice and build the foundation for tomorrow, so let´s live, make mistakes, forgive, love, rebuild believe, have faith, harm no one. Let´s let the river of life carry us even if we know where we are going and where we are coming from, even if we know we can pull the reins and correct the course when necessary. The now does belong to us; yesterday does not, tomorrow is a but promise. The now defines us. The now welcomes us. Let’s enjoy it.

Painting by Víctor Manuel Velázquez

Mi amigo John Hamley, el nórdico poeta de haikus que compartió conmigo la turbonada de la selva brasileña, ha venido a nuestra isba desde su bosque de hielo en Ontario. En unos días cumplirá 86 años. Trae el cabello largo y gris de una estrella de rock, y los ojos grises bajo las cejas surreales.

John es el bien absoluto, es como un árbol, una flor, un Cristo, un Whitman. Conversa con mis hijos, les cuenta de las constelaciones que saltan numerosas desde la glacial lontananza hacia el cielo de diciembre, les muestra imágenes de los alces, los búhos, los osos que habitan su tierra. Les habla de la infancia y la adolescencia de postguerra junto al lago en una Finlandia que solo existe en fotos renegridas.

Serán seis semanas de café, poesía e inglés atropellado. Y de verlo andar descalzo y raído por el patio y la cocina, agradecido del hecho maravilloso de ser.

Vidas (I):

He visto a través del sólido disperso humo de leña que remoja los magnesios redondos del monumento a la guerra

el desaparecido sol con su aguja y su cáscara de fuego, gravedad del otoño espeso y rojo, la rara memoria de la flor y el río. Y entre los grandes túmulos que representan los coches, el parque sin héroes las cócleas silenciosas del sueño de Cosme.

He visto, mujercita, vivísimo en tu pelo de noviembre el follaje que mana santamente de los setos.

La herida de alfanje empuñado por manos magrebíes el aire que boquea la escasez del silencio acomodado entre nosotros, los danuvios que pasan por tus ojos como trenes por un paisaje nevado.

Todas las heridas que han sido mi herida y mi alegría copiosa, y mis lutos y despedidas del modo en que todas las olas son la ola, son un abrazo de viento y mar. El mar, ese paraíso inquieto y verdadero que sucede a nuestro alrededor.

Qué magnífico destino, compartirnos el mundo este hoy sin límites esos gallos de porcelana rojos y negros como la noche y el día que esgrimen nuestra runa un boxeo de pañuelos y gitanas armas blancas.

By Christopher Mike

By Christopher Mike

Cándido Alberto Rojas

Cándido Alberto Rojas

By Christopher Mike

Me, painter?

Me, Painter?

By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

No, I'm not a painter

Not a poet either, no.

I draw, yes

Maybe I will draw

Maybe write Or maybe not.

I make traces of beauty, The one that has my soul, I make lines...

They don't understand each other much, but... It's my poem

They're my feelings, The poem that I draw is me.

¿Yo, pintor?

Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

¿Yo, pintor?

No, yo no soy pintor, Tampoco poeta, no.

Yo dibujo, si, Tal vez dibuje, Tal vez escriba, O tal vez no.

Hago trazos de la belleza, Esa que tiene mi alma, Hago trazos... No se entienden mucho, pero...

Es mi poema, Son mis sentimientos, El poema que dibujo soy yo.

Your voice

By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

Your voice, I have your voice tattooed in my memory, I always listen to it Even, I listen to it in the silence

That silence that is immense, Like waves that move in the sea, That silence that roars when you are not.

Tu voz

Tu voz, Tu voz la tengo tatuada en mi memoria, La escucho siempre, Incluso, La escucho en el silencio, Ese silencio que es inmenso, Como olas que se mueven en la mar, Ese silencio que ruge cuando no estás.

Tarde

Lo imaginé, Es muy tú, ¿Porque ríes?

Será un talento creador, Cambios de nombres y personajes, Linda experiencia,

Casi un romance medieval,

Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

Viajes, ilusiones, travesuras, Tierno romance, Casi de adolescentes, Es tarde, ¿Habrá tiempo para descansar? Desnudas mis miedos, Aunque, solo intente vestirme de recuerdos.

Late

By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

I imagined it, It's very you

Why are you laughing?

It will be a creative gift, Changes of names and characters, Nice experience, Almost a medieval romance, Trips, illusions, mischief, Tender romance, Almost as teenagers It's late, Will there be time to rest?

You bare my fears, Although, alone I try to dress myself in souvenirs.

Notes on a trip to Gibara:

There's something hypnotic about watching Putin sing Blueberry Hill. Putin's voice is as black as Obama is white. That parchment voice that borders on a yelp is oily and dusty, inflamed by the sepias on the road to Gibara that now pass languidly behind the windshield. The fact is I am remembering the legendary tsar in his desire to appear someone different in front of a couple of old Hollywood celebrities, his parson’s brow raising in an omega on high notes,

clutching the microphone with little pink marten fingers, while we all go to gobble up shellfish at Villa Blanca.

Outside the winter doesn’t stop, a golden winter of long white nights with the turned over earth of toasted shadow. Here weather always has a summer edge that ends sooner rather than later by swallowing the other seasons.

They tell me that the almendrón in which we travel was once the hearse of the Castro family. I tell myself that this beautiful story must be true because it comes from the mouth of the driver who is a Jehovah's Witness, and God has warned them of what happens to liars.

At the end of the road is the light of Gibara, with its Sunday sea and its jasper doves, and the emerald copper Camilo sentinel left as an offering to the boardwalk’s breakers.

The casuarinas all have the tortor of the cyclone, and despite the saltpeter and the slow apoplexy of the medieval walls, coffee is cordially sipped on the patios and terraces where with spring the crickets and toads will wear out their song. Among many other solitudes, Gibara has only one circuit. When the transmission of light breaks, the night, the sky, the people vanish into a single posthumous darkness, a haiku the gagging sea hisses over and over again, enraptured and sad, in its blind onslaught from the North.

Apuntes sobre un viaje a Gibara:

Hay algo hipnótico en ver a Putin cantar Blueberry Hill. La voz de Putin es tan negra como blanco es Obama. Es untuosa y polvorienta esa voz de pergamino que roza el gañido, inflamada de los sepias del camino de Gibara que ahora pasan lánguidos por detrás del parabrisas. El caso es que voy recordando al zar legendario en su deseo de parecer alguien distinto frente a un par de añejas celebridades de Hollywood, levantando un omega en su entrecejo de párroco en las notas altas, aferrando el micrófono con rosados deditos de garduña, mientras nos vamos todos a engullir mariscos a la Villa Blanca.

Afuera el invierno no cesa, un invierno dorado de largas noches blancas con envés de tierra de sombra tostada. Acá el tiempo meteorológico tiene siempre un reborde de verano que acaba más temprano que tarde por tragarse a las demás estaciones.

Me dicen que el almendrón en que viajamos fue una vez el carro fúnebre de la familia Castro. Me digo que esta bonita historia ha de ser cierta pues viene de boca del chofer que es testigo de Jehová, y a ellos Dios les tiene requeteadvertido de lo que les pasa a los mentirosos.

Al final del camino está la luz de Gibara, con su mar dominical y sus palomas de jaspe, y el Camilo centinela de cobre esmeralda dejado en ofrenda al rompiente del malecón.

Las casuarinas tienen todas el tortor del ciclón, y a pesar del salitre y la lenta apoplejía de los muros medievales se merienda café cordialmente en los patios y las terrazas donde con la primavera fatigarán su cantinela los grillos y los sapos. Entre muchas otras soledades, Gibara tiene un solo circuito. Cuando se quiebra el tránsito de la luz, la noche, el cielo, la gente se esfuman en una única oscuridad póstuma, un haiku que bufa una vez y otra el mar fajador, arrebatado y triste, en su ciega embestida desde el Norte.

By Christopher Mike

Christopher Mike

By

El vicio de soñar:

Sueño mucho, desde siempre, hasta el cansancio. Sueño, y en el sueño soy negro, y busco empleo en una edificación que es casi el Capitolio, laberíntica y abigarrada como un museo napoleónico. Voy descamisado, con mocasines rotos sobre la alfombra roja, y me echan de todos los lugares. Entro por azar a una habitación inmensa, ocupada por una familia de negros de todas las edades que descansan acostados en gruesos colchones. Son ricos, y están siendo servidos exquisitamente por otros negros uniformados. Las mujeres llevan collares de perlas que refulgen sobre los cuellos que el talco vuelve verde aceituna. Logro colocarme allí como recadero y luego hombre de confianza del sátrapa del clan, que es obeso e instruye a un niño que parece ser su nieto sobre el arte de mandar a los hombres.

Víctor Manuel Velázquez

Mirando mis zapatos, veo que son los que usé en la adolescencia, dos tallas más grandes y partidos debajo del talón. Eran los de mi padre, y recuerdo entonces la amargura de haberme visto forzado a usarlos. A través del tiempo roto del sueño he ido subiendo de categoría en el empleo, y ahora camino junto a Diego visitando los pasillos y admirando la mitología que cuelga en molduras de oro macizo de las paredes. Hay un intenso Sorolla que nos ruboriza, más bello y vívido que el mar de agosto. Siguiendo el paseo bajamos a los sótanos, donde están rodando una película, y le comento a Diego sobre mi pasaje favorito de "Una novia para David". Y todo sucede suavemente, como si ya hubiera sido escrito, como hechos que uno rememora mientras practica una evisceración, o la absurda deriva que induce la sedación antes de la anestesia general.

Llego, ya en soledad, a una mina de terracota iluminada a veces por bocanadas de lava, que existe debajo de la mansión, como una dilatada y antigua cámara mortuoria. Allí soy un minero más, cargando vagones que se lleva la línea del tren hacia la oscuridad. Y hurgando con la pala entre el mineral que se amontona formando pirámides de polvo encuentro mi cuerpo, ya sin vida, las enormes manos ineficaces, el fuelle indiferente de las costillas maquillado de siena y bermellón, la boca etíope completamente abierta mostrando los cordales y los empastes minuciosos, los ojos lelos de indolencia. Y entonces comprendo, en un rapto de lucidez parecido al que sacude a Dahlmann un minuto antes de su hora, que toda la narrativa inicial es el consuelo de la mente, que nunca fui el desarrapado sirviente de los opulentos que dormitan en colchones abullonados, que el capitolio solo tiene ventanas que abren a nuevas formas de vacío, porque todos mis caminos no han sido sino titubeos dentro de la mina de terracota donde hemos perdido el nombre y la salud mental, donde la historia marcha sin ímpetu, en rojos circuitos de delirio, movida por la misma inapetencia que hace brotar flores de los ojos de sapo que tapan el aljibe.

The vice of dreaming:

I dream a lot, always, until I get tired. I dream, and in the dream I am black, and I am looking for a job in a building that is almost the Capitolio, labyrinthine and motley as a Napoleonic museum. I go shirtless, with broken loafers on the red carpet, and they throw me out of all places. By chance I enter a huge room, occupied by a family of blacks of all ages who rest lying on thick mattresses. They are rich, and they are being exquisitely served by other uniformed blacks. The women wear pearl necklaces that shine

on their necks that talc turns olive green. I manage to place myself there as a messenger and then a trusted man of the clan satrap, who is obese and instructs a boy who seems to be his grandson on the art of commanding men. Looking at my shoes, I see they are the ones I wore as a teenager, two sizes larger and split below the heel. They were my father's, and I remember then the bitterness of having been forced to use them. Through the broken time of the dream I have been rising in job category, and now I walk with Diego visiting the corridors and admiring the mythology that hangs in solid gold frames on the walls. There is an intense Sorolla that makes us blush, more beautiful and vivid than the August sea. Continuing the walk we go down to the basement, where a movie is being filmed, and I tell Diego about my favorite passage from AGirlfriendforDavid. And everything happens smoothly, as if it had already been written, like events that one recalls while performing an evisceration, or the absurd drift that sedation induces before general anesthesia. I arrive, already in solitude, at a terracotta mine illuminated at times by puffs of lava, which exists below the mansion, like a vast and ancient burial chamber. There I’m one more miner, loading wagons that the train line takes towards the darkness. And poking around with the shovel among the mineral that piles up, forming pyramids of dust, I find my body, already lifeless, the enormous ineffective hands, the indifferent bellows of the ribs painted in sienna and vermilion, the Ethiopian mouth wide open showing the molars and meticulous fillings, eyes lazy with indolence. And then I understand, in a fit of lucidity similar to the one that shakes Dahlmann a minute before his hour, that the entire initial narrative is the comfort of the mind, that I was never the ragged servant of the opulent who doze on puffy mattresses, that the capitol only has windows that open onto new forms of emptiness, because all my paths have been nothing but hesitation inside the terracotta mine where we have lost our names and mental health, where history marches without momentum, in red circuits of delirium , moved by the same lack of appetite that makes flowers sprout from the toad eyes that cover the cistern.

Burning Hunger

By Patrick Connors

Photo by Paul Edward Costa

Andrew King has a burning hunger. It keeps him from falling asleep during the long Queen street car ride westward to work, and from tuning out the lady who sits beside him to tell her story.

“My daughter is a witch. Oh, oh migawsh, can you believe that’s really a thing? She wear a, what you call, a pinta...penta-...”

“A pentagram,” Andrew says, conjuring up images of old heavy metal videos.

“Pentagram, that’s it, dear. She wears a pentagram around her neck, like gypsy. Like this, you see? She says it means nothing, but I am not stupid woman, I know better!

“Anyways, she dating this boy, nice Christian boy, named Dolinsky. “Dolinsky! Have you ever heard a Christian boy named Dolinsky?”

“No, I haven’t,” Andrew admits.

“Anyways, I think this boy thinks he can change my daughter. Or maybe he have something else to hide, if you know what I mean.”

“I honestly don’t,” Andrew shrugs.

“Oh, such a nice young man like you doesn’t need to listen to...Here’s my stop, anyways! Thank you putting up the ramblings of a lonely woman. I sure hope you not a writer. Have a nice day, now!”

“Thank you very much. You too.”

Andrew shakes his head, almost unsure if the conversation really happened, or if he perhaps imagined it during his typical morning reverie. He hopes it did happen, because he does like to listen. It keeps him from feeling like he is self-absorbed, pre-occupied with his burning hunger.

His burning hunger gets him through the morning greetings and other rituals, and the desire to turn them into a Monty Python skit. It gets him through his constitutional in the bathroom he fears may be rife with some malady. It keeps his hand from shaking too much as he gets his first coffee. It gets him through

the clotted cream – not English style, merely left out too long the previous day –and the open sugar jar, granules clumped and dotted a dull brown.

It gets him through the tired one-one-one with the even more tired assistant manager, who has been having the same day for many years. It gets him through his first contact with the internal customer who grunts and groans and moans through a bad hangover, then ends the conversation proclaiming, “What a night I had last night!” It gets him through the second contact with the external customer who wants to know why things didn’t go right the first time.

It almost gets Andrew through his glimpse of her for whom his heart aches and has always ached in some ancient way which will never end: he goes over to talk to her, and now knows what was meant by whomever coined the curious phrase, ‘My heart was in my mouth.’

“G... mornin’, Gloria.”

“Good Morning, Andrew. You look nice today. How are you?”

Suddenly, he doesn’t know, but manages to say, “Um, fine,” and, “Have a nice day,” before going back to the break room to regroup.

He takes a deep breath, realizes who he is, reminded of his burning hunger. It gets Andrew through the drudgery of his work, which doesn’t challenge him, doesn’t force him to use his abilities, doesn’t appeal to his passion, which he accepts because it more than pays the bills, and that is, after all, what grown-ups do.

His burning hunger gets him through to lunchtime. Oh, how he loves to eat!

Sweet, sour, salty, spicy, it’s all good to him. No food is too exotic for Andrew. Today, though, it’s comfort food at a diner with his old friend Jeff, a courier who meets him on his rounds.

“Married life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Andrew. I mean, Shelley is great, and I love the girls, but it’s a great big hassle, you know what I mean?”

“Why is it impossible in the 21st century to get a club sandwich with mayonnaise already on it?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Marriage is a great big hassle,” Andrew paraphrases with frustration, as well as the underlying hope he will experience such difficulty himself.

From there he smiles and nods a lot, gets mayonnaise for his sandwich, gravy for his French fries, and another glass of iced tea. Andrew loves Jeff almost like a brother, but it seems like they have this conversation every time they meet. Sometimes it gets hard not to be cynical, to not anticipate the appropriate time to say, “Things will be different when...”

But Andrew likes Jeff’s company, and it keeps his mind off his burning hunger. * It gets him through the afternoon, the involuntary food coma, the inevitable confrontation with the bafflingly embittered co-worker, the insufferable afternoon meeting, which would be so much easier to fake interest in with the aid of fresh morning coffee.

Then, almost at the end of the work day, core duties done; a collective sigh of relief. Everyone shares their after-work itinerary, which somehow melds into one.

“I’ve got to take Jimmy to soccer practice. I’ve got a date with Gus. Tammy has her dance recital. Poor Bobbie (or is it Bobby) has to go to the Doctor with rickets.”

...Jimmy has taken to dance with the Doctor...Gus has a date with Tamy...Bobbie and Bobby at the Robbie for soccer...I’ve got to go to the ricket recital...or, words to that effect, which seem to have no effect...yet do...

Truth be told, sometimes – well, most days – Andrew longs for such mundanities and the order of the routine they would provide; the proof of apparent normalcy. But not today.

Today, it’s off to The Rex for hockey talk with the two co-workers he gets along with this week. Hockey is the great ice-breaker between men - with the right sort it can be the whole conversation. Plus, it keeps him from wondering what they might be saying about him to anyone else.

“What the Leafs need,” the oldest one says with a sense of authority, “is a power forward with some upside.”

“What they need,” says the younger one, eager to prove himself right, “is a number one defenseman not on the downside.”

Andrew has waited as long as he could, but now it is time to say his piece. “What they need is, a goalie who can make a save in the shootout.” Then, to make sure the argument was won, “Three more beers and three shots please!”

“Yessir.”

“You are the man, Andrew!”

“You are the king,” an unfortunate play on words which nearly halted the banter. “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a king among men,” was Andrew’s retort, met by garrulous yet mirthless laughter.

It is so much easier, though much less meaningful, when the names of “the boys” change every week. No expectations, no promises of future fealty or companionship required, no one has to remember anyone’s birthday.

Everyone can be themselves, as long as they are not truly themselves. A composite of the perception of who the other two might really be, the image of the guy at the office you all want to be, your funny younger brother, and the hero of your

former high school’s football team. You can have the best hours of your week like this, and you can reliably have them every week. You can even almost let your guard down.

Until it is time to go back to the burning hunger. *

Andrew leaves The Rex when the band comes on, his burning hunger numbed if not sated by the alcohol and the company. He would have liked to listen to some jazz, just to hear something different, but he knew if he stayed at the bar for another hour or two, he would never make it to work the next morning.

He realizes he forgot to go to the washroom before leaving as soon as he steps into an icy puddle. However, he wants to make sure he gets the eastbound streetcar for the long ride home, and knows he would never catch the next one if he went back inside.

The streetcar is packed, although past rush hour, and Andrew stands in a crowd of excited couples, their evening just begun. At University, many get off, bumping Andrew’s elbow or kicking his leg without apology. They are replaced by young families going home from who knows where, although apparently the same place. These are louder and more excited and even less concerned about Andrew’s personal space than the previous crowd.

Andrew feels, even thinks, these people have planned to make him miserable, or at least remind him of his loneliness, a sadness which turns his burning hunger into even more inaction, more self-pity.

By

Yonge

Street the car is half empty, so Andrew sits down, leans his head against the window. Through Riverdale, through Leslieville, he looks at everyone and everything which passes by, but sees nothing. He dozes off near Coxwell, for a few moments of the peace he rarely experiences during the night. He sees and is part of a light so bright, so warm, he feels nurtured and loved, forgets his selfish self-hating bitterness, embraces the unknown blessings which are to come.

“Next stop, Neville Park Boulevard,” announces the falsely soothing automated voice. “Last stop, sunshine,” admonishes the street car driver. “Wakey-wakey.”

“S-sorry,” Andrew gets himself together.

“Are you okay, buddy?”

“Well, I’m home.”

- 30 -

The Creation of Eve

By John B. Lee

Michelangelo painted a zoftig Eve on the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Adam asleep as though dreaming in awkward recline like someone fallen to ground his head cradled in the bole of a broken-branch tree he appears as though he were snap-necked unconscious or dead and old-man Jehovah is raising his right arm in creation while Eve with her palms in prayer is rising a stringless marionette come to life as it is with the soft geometry of something captured in oil something a swim in the sweet viscosity of the first consciousness of morning her body full-formed in the Fresco every molecule of them all cross-veined with cracks in the paint like drought in dry clay her left leg dark as the stone as though she were partially stone instead of old plaster as though she were scaled like a fish or a snake a mermaid or silkie a surreal companion come to life fully formed

like a reified thought a widower’s dream with the pillow still dimpled and the cold bed still warm

The three photos by José Alberto Pérez

Peace

By Katharine Beeman

An island baby’s first bath in his sea and here are no bombs no bombs no bombs to fall.

Paz

Por Katharine Beeman

El primer encuentro de Carlitos con su mar y aquí no hay bombas no hay bombas no hay bombas que puedan caer.

First appeared in: La revista digital III Festival internacional de poesía

“Patria Grande Latinoamericana y el Caribe”, noviembre, 2020

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias

LÁGRIMAS Y JUGO DE PERA

Para Alianna, mi hijastra querida (Gracias a tu mamá y tu padre por confiar en mí)

¡Nos conocemos desde hace 15 años!

Eras una niña vivaz, pícara y muy risueña, cualidad que te acompaña ahora a tus 25. Ha pasado tanto tiempo y nos llevamos bien a pesar de haber sido inicialmente un extraño, a pesar de la diferencia de edad. No sé de qué te acuerdas: “Miguel, la leche está muy caliente, enfríala un poquito” o “Miguel, la leche está muy fría, caliéntala un poquito” o “Miguel, mira a ver cómo quedó mi trenza”. No sé si recuerdas cuando en la comida una noche te dije, “¡Mira, un elefante!” y volteaste tu cabecita inocente mientras yo “secuestraba” tu posta de pollo. Cuando miraste tu plato, abriste tus ojazos y te reíste a carcajadas, con ese tintineo feliz que nunca has perdido. Me pregunto si en tus memorias está aquella vez en que te traje un biberón diste saltos de alegría y corriste a casa para enseñarlo a Mamá…

Hoy te pido disculpas por mis posibles errores como padrastro. Soy solo humano.

Pero al final de los años, desempeñé ese rol que me asignó tu madre dándome una confianza que jamás violenté, y que honré cada día y noche que me quedé a tu lado. Y tú también me asignaste roles: cuidarte, respetarte, jugar contigo, ayudarte, estar allí para ti en las ocasiones en que nos quedamos solos para que Mamá

cumpliera con su deber. Gracias por devolver respeto y cariño. Gracias porque luego de mi operación, hecha toda una mujer, viniste a verme al hospital y más que una lágrima salió de tus ojos (y me hiciste llorar a mí…). Gracias por tus almuerzos (¡cocinas más rico que Mamá!), gracias por tu dulzura siempre, GRACIAS por Aitana, y gracias por ese exquisito jugo de pera que generosa me regalaste en momentos de necesidad.

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias TEARS AND PEAR JUICE

For Alianna, my dear stepdaughter (Thank you to your mom and your father for trusting me)

We´ve known each other for 15 years! You were a vivacious, playful and cheerful child, a quality still accompanying you now that you´re 25. So much time has flown by and we´ve gotten along well despite my being a stranger back then, despite the age difference.

I don´t know what you remember: “Miguel, the milk is too hot, cool it a little” or “Miguel, the milk is too cold, heat it a little” or “Miguel, see if my braid is ok.”

I don´t know if you recall when during dinner one night I told you, “Look, an elephant!” and you turned your little innocent head while I “kidnapped” your chicken portion. When you looked back at your plate, you opened your big eyes and burst into laughter, with that happy jingling that has stayed with you. I wonder if you hold in your memories the time I brought you a baby bottle you jumped in joy and ran home to show it to Mom…

Today I apologize for my possible mistakes as a stepfather. I am just human. But at the end of the years, I played the role your mother gave me with a confidence I never defiled, and which I honored each day and night I stayed with you. And you assigned me roles too: watching over you, respecting you, playing with you, helping you, being there every time we were alone, so Mom could do her duty. Thank you for returning respect and affection. Thank you because after my surgery, a full-fledged woman, you came to visit me at the hospital and more than a tear rolled down from your eyes (and you made me cry…). Thank you for your lunches (your cooking excels your Mom´s!), thank you for your sweetness always, THANK YOU for Aitana, and thank you for that yummy pear juice that you generously gave me in times of need.

By Mike Gaudeaur

By Víctor Manuel Velázquez

El caso es que Naguib Sawiris me compró un cuadro. Yo sin saber de quién se trataba (aunque algo raro se movía entre la gente del Saratoga, todos nerviositos, y la pila de segurosos pululando, y el inefable tipo de inversiones del turismo embellecido y patriarcal con una guayabera que era como un rayo de esperanza), le dispensé el trato gélido que reservo a los yumas, le di la espalda, injuriándolo con mi desdén, y le conté el dinero delante, para evitar equívocos. Compró mi cuadro del Apagón y un pedazo de Cuba con mar, eso me dice alguien después. Me dio su contacto, que aquí lo tengo oyendo la conversación, y vi su avión perderse, rumbo a El Cairo, donde por culpa de su hermano no es el hombre más obscenamente rico de Egipto.

Por la desimportante pieza pagó mi sueldo de médico de más de un año, que es igual a decir nada. No sabe él que debajo del Apagón que adquirió a precio de cochino enfermo, hay sacrificado un retrato azul de José Julián Martí Pérez que llora por nosotros.

The fact is that Naguib Sawiris bought a painting from me. Me without knowing who he was (although something strange moved among the people of the Saratoga, all nervous, and loads of security swarming, and the indescribable type of embellished and patriarchal tourism investments with a guayabera that was like a ray of hope ), I gave him the icy treatment I reserve for yumas, I turned my back, insulting him with my disdain, and I counted the money in front of him, to avoid misunderstandings.

He bought my Blackout painting and a piece of Cuba with sea, that's what someone tells me later. He gave me his contact, I have him here listening to the conversation, and I saw his plane lose itself, heading to Cairo, where thanks to his brother he is not the most obscenely rich man in Egypt.

For the unimportant piece he paid my salary as a doctor for more than a year, which is the same as saying nothing. He doesn’t know that under the Blackout he

bought at the price of a sick pig, there’s a sacrificed blue portrait of José Julián Martí Pérez who weeps for us.

By Víctor Manuel Velázquez

The Chair

I stare At the chair Where I stroked the hair Of the lady Who once sat there.

By Graham Ducker

My wonderful wife Who gave meaning to my life Passed away.

Despite efforts of assistance, There was no resistance, As she slowly faded Into an eternal sleep.

The Nightly Routine

By Graham Ducker

Each night that I knew my Stella is beside me, I reached across and stroked through her hair.

Stroke

I made certain the blankets covered her shoulders.

Stroke

“It’s supposed to be warmer today.”

Stroke

“We’ll go into the living room later.”

Stroke

“There is more to see out there than in here.”

Stroke

“The squirrels should be running around.”

Stroke

“Two ladies brought some baking for us.”

Stroke

“We’ll have some for breakfast.”

Stroke

“I love you.”

Stroke

Stroke

Stroke

My heart is breaking.

Deer Placidly Sitting In Your Backyard

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

Dear Tai, I have seen and taken great delight in the pic you sent me of a little deer that found shelter in your backyard. It looks so calm, so cool as if almost posing for your camera, as if sensing it was being captured in an image for posterity. A thing of beauty.

I envy the instant, magnificent, heart-warming. I envy the deer so at home on the grass, so at ease among humans. How close could you get? How thrilled were you?

Thank you for sharing. We just loved it. Here, where no deer amble about nor sit to rest threat-free and be admired, Wingman Miguel

By Richard Marvin Tiberius Grove(Tai)

By Mike Gaudeaur

By Mike Gaudeaur

Aproxímate

Por Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado

Entender...?

Puede ser si no respetan

La fuerza y braveza de sus olas

Su poder, su irreverencia, Su constancia

Que hace y deshace

Ese bello monstruo que persevera Amenizando a la Tierra.

Come Closer

By Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado

To understand...?

It can be if they do not respect

The strength and the roughness of waves

His power, his irreverence, His constancy

The one who makes and undoes

That beautiful monster that remain Livening up the earth.

By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hdez.

Poem Inspired by a Photograph of a Nanny Goat Staring Out to Sea

By John B. Lee

There she stands gazing out to sea this broken-belt she goat this cabra standing alone on the stony shore of this Caribbean coast staring longingly over the wide blue waters dreaming of service to her long-forgotten past this give of milk and meat brought to the island by circumstance of her ruminant mother her bearded father stylishly trimmed in his Van Dyke pose his Billy goat stance his political mind does she remember

the long flight from the holy land is it still in her blood to know the rocky remainder of the Sanai and the exodus of ancestors her cousins in Mexico the Huay Chivo of the Yucatán those half-human sorcerers oh she is there in the rubble in the rock and greenery of her new home waiting for the ships she is dreaming longing for the far country of a kind milker’s gentle hands

By Jorge Alberto Pérez

The Goat, Poets on the Beach

By Antony Di Nardo

Last evening, just before dark, the sun was a blur towards the west, the beach a cast of thousands, balls bouncing and familiar music and the felt of human flesh on sand and a gathering of poets naked and nude

The sun was a blur towards the west and a goat gathered on the side of the shore among the bouncing balls and human flesh that met with poets sunning themselves in the gloaming trapped in the last of light for a day

Maybe more

And dusk was so much more than dusk and the sounds of voices on the beach mouthing the words of the goat, if a goat could speak, left on the side of the shore, lost to the sea and soon to be lost in a poem where a gathering of poets has come to the beach to read to the goat

To a Seafaring Goat

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

I wonder what you are looking at or thinking of. The beauty of the sea? The boats swaying like bobbing dots, an experience you have not had? Perhaps in the deepest design of your dna a fisher-goat throbs and skips and strives to surface,

like coral wonders latent waiting for the open season, eager to be found before a setting sun bids farewell. Are those your thoughts, your urges? Or are you but a bearded poet in goat disguise?

Associate Professor of Holguín University

The President of Holguín University, Isabel Torres, left us after a long battle against cancer. I learned of her demise too late and could not attend the various immediate gatherings everywhere to honor her. However, that night my hands could not resist the need to type a few words that seem to have been dormant in my poet’s brain. Hence, “Requiem,” which speaks of my feelings I strongly related to her situation for personal reasons and recollections I have of my occasional encounters with my President. It also intends to reveal sides of her that may have been less known to others, especially the younger generations of faculty and students. I cannot say Goodbye to Isabel because she has entered the realm where we all will meet when our time comes, so I will say So long. Emotions run deep, and they run in our mother tongues; therefore, the poem is in Spanish. I beg readers of The Envoy to forgive me. Thank you.

By Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias

RÉQUIEM

A Isabel Torres, Rectora de la Universidad de Holguín

(In memoriam)

Esperaste que llegaran las vacaciones para decir adiós. No querías dejar de trabajar, seguías viniendo a tu Universidad y sé que preguntabas por mí a quienes recogías en el camino.

Sabíamos cómo estabas, pero nadie quería hablar de ello... Hoy te despediste ya definitivamente. Ahora con tu ausencia pulula la soledad en estos pasillos, hay un silencio diferente, solemne. Los recuerdos que tengo de nuestros breves encuentros vuelven a mí: fuiste siempre profesional, afable. A pesar de haber estado en la cúpula no perdiste la brújula ni el detalle de una sonrisa cordial para matizar las prisas. Casi parece que fue ayer cuando nos saludaste por última vez en el vestíbulo y las escaleras se empecinaron en llevarte a tu oficina... Cierra este semestre. Cierra la página donde se escribió tu legado, y en algún rincón de este campus de todos, en aquel segundo en que tu postrer aliento se detuvo, habrá un réquiem sempiterno que te identifique como si fuera un repicar de campanas desde las Torres que te nombraron, desde el adiós callado, y desde las memorias que se guardarán para seguirte evocando.

By Jorge Alberto Pérez

By Richard Marvin Tiberius Grove(Tai)

On the rocky shore of a serene and isolated Cuban beach of Gibara, stands a loan pregnant goat. Her eyes are fixed on the vast silver expanse of the calm sparkling ocean. The noon day sun paints the ocean with shades of platinum, a breathtaking backdrop for her contemplative moment.

Gentle waves caress the shore, a soothing sonata, that echoes her wondering thoughts.

Watching her from a distance I can’t help but wonder if she has an innate wisdom, a deep connection to now or is she simply gazing into the mindless abyss of wants and needs, needs and wants, of the moment. As she stands there alone, unhurried by expectations and desires, her swollen belly bulges with life.

After a photograph by Jorge

She has roamed these sparse wind-swept shores for years, finding solace and nourishment in the meagerness of the Cuban landscape but now, with the impending arrival of her unborn, does she realized the significance of this moment.

Is she a product of Descartes’s axiom? I think therefor I am or is she oblivious to the contemplations of life and all that is offered?

Will her kids roam freely on this rocky shore, bask in the golden sunlight, and taste the salty breeze as she has done and her parents before her? Or would the world change

as change often does, closing off places of the past? In her simply continuation of life the evening sky, ever so slowly, turned into a star lit canvas of hope. The silent undulating ocean whispered its promises of change, the knowing that not every journey has a beginning or an end just the pure and perfect moment of now.

The Annunciation

By Jorge A. Pérez Hernández

The wind stopped And heaven is the witness This goat is scared

Because of the color of the sea, His pupils allow him A panoramic view, With their cones of vision Greenish-yellow And purple blue, He knows how to see ten times more Than the human eye, His fixed gaze at infinity scares us, He can perceive That a tidal wave is coming A great wave comes to land, His good ear to the sea is listening, And what are we going to do on earth?

Oh God!!!

Is this a hallucination?

Will You throw all the species Tat inhabit the earth To the bottom of the sea?

The four photos of this page by José

Alberto Pérez

Atrévete a Soñar De Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

Adormecerse en la noche menos larga, Nos da tiempo a reposar la pupila y a convertir el espíritu protervo en el más fiel y blanco rostro envuelto en velo. Cuando la noche es más larga, Fantasmas surtidos de niebla prueban el audaz momento de tu cuerpo y van a afiliarse a tu inmóvil masa. Trémulos danzan a tan alto lugar tocan acordes de arpas encendidas colocan aullidos en los campos santos arrojan centellas a través de nubes cenicientas… Oh, clara luna, tu que las tinieblas espantas, desvía y rompe la noche más larga que mis dulces sueños vuelvan veloces a mi alma dormida a mis sueños menos largos

Dare to dream

By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

Fall asleep in the less long night, It gives us time to rest the pupil and convert the wicked spirit in the most faithful and white veil-wrapped face When the night is longest Assorted Mist Ghosts taste the bold moment of your body and will join your immobile mass. Trembling they dance to such a high place play chords of flaming harps hang howls in the holy fields They throw sparks through ashen clouds... Oh, clear moon, you who scare the darkness, divert and break the longest night May my sweet dreams come back fast to my sleeping soul to my less long dreams

Emmanuel Antonio Sanfiel Jiménez

Born in September 6, 2003 in Gibara (a village in Holguín province). He writes poetry since he was a child and has participated in several contests in his native village, another of his passions is playing the guitar and singing. He's a Preparatory Year Student in the English Language Major(with French as Second Language) at the University of Holguín. He took part in WEFLA 2023 developing topics such as multilingualism and phonetics.

Requiem for life

By Luis Catalá

By Emmanuel Sanfiel Jiménez

It was cold a rough breeze

Was raising a wave of loneliness and gluttony

Behind walls a dry classical violin was heard

Playing music to the rhythm of the leak

The flies were taking turns on my shoulders

And windows I saw only the one,

Transmitting the deep echo

From the heels of the waitress

I took my hung up coat,

I saw a sad and lonely lady crying over the passing of her husband

I gave my coat to her

Retracing the yard

There were gray fir trees

Together making a ball of shadows

In them, crows were making their nest

And in its shadow, beautiful flowers

Butterflies, only one

Dancing centuries ago in front of a tombstone

Crazy

Mocking

Coarse

The butterfly danced the requiem of the dead

On the planking of the tomb.

Réquiem por la vida

Por Emmanuel Sanfiel Jiménez

Hacía frío una brisa tosca

Que levantaba una onda de soledad y gula

Tras paredes se escuchaba un violín clásico y seco Que musicaba al compás de la gotera

Se turnaban en mis hombros las moscas

Y ventanas veía solo una

Que transmitía el profundo eco

Del taconear de la mesera

Tomé mi abrigo colgado, Veía una señora triste y sola llorando la muerte de su esposo

Mi abrigo se lo día ella

Desandaba el patio

Había grises abetos

Juntos haciendo de sombras una bola

En ellos cuervos hacían su nido

Y en su sombra, flores bellas

Mariposas, una sola

Danzando hace siglos frente a una lápida

Alocada

Burlona Burda

La mariposa bailaba el réquiem del muerto Sobre el tablado de la tumba.

By Jorge Alberto Pérez

By Mike Gaudeaur

By Mike Gaudeaur

Lucifer´s Rebellion

By Ruth Yennie Noguer Figueredo

3/8/2023

Life goes on, you receive and you decide There is fear, panic, but it’s useless

O cruel fate how sorry I am

Evil, selfishness, how much damage

And the earth moans ..and says enough...

Small details lost

Miseries, anguish, oh little ones, Mama can't stop it, It's not her, it's the fate of a wicked world...

And what do you do? how are you ?

Have you ever prayed?

I answer; you don't have to open your mouth

And the fool says in his heart

There is no God...

Wicked, vile, hypocrite…

Deliver us, you can't anymore Surrender what is not yours

Everything is a lie, the weak, the humble and even the rich Will pay the debt to the one who will come from heaven

You are nobody, And our lawyer par excellence is looking at you....

La rebelión de Lucifer

Por Ruth Yennie Noguer Figueredo

La vida sigue, recibes y tú decides Hay temor, miedo, pero es inútil

O destino cruel, cuanto lo siento!

Maldad, egoísmo, cuánto daño!

Y la tierra gime...y dice basta...

Pequeños detalles perdidos

Miserias, angustias, Oh pequeñitos

Mama no puede, No es ella, es el destino de un mundo perverso...

¿Y qué haces tú? ¿Cómo estás?

¿Has orado alguna vez?

Yo respondo, no hace falta que abras la boca Y dice el necio en su corazón No hay Dios...

Malvado, perverso, hipócrita Suéltanos, ya no puedes más Entrega lo que no es tuyo Todo es mentira, el débil, el humilde y hasta el rico Pagarán la deuda al que vendrá del cielo

Tú no eres nadie, Y te está mirando nuestro abogado por excelencia....

By Wency Rosales

By Wency Rosales

Photos

Credit: Paul Edward Costa

Masthead

Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández, CCLA Ambassador, Editor

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias, CCLA Cuban President, Assistant Editor

Katharine Beeman, Reviewing Editor

Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado, CCLA Cuban Poet Laureate, Reviewing Editor

Wency Rosales, Cuban Photography Curator

Editor´s emails: joyph@nauta.cu

joyphccla@gmail.com

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.