The Envoy 098 - The Official Newsletter of the Canada Cuba Literary Alliance – CCLA

THE ENVOY The official newsletter of the

Canada Cuba Literary Alliance I.S.S.N. – 1911‐0693

May 2020 Issue 098 www.CanadaCubaLiteraryAlliance.org

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Dear Readers of The Envoy, A centennial is a large numeral in any bailiwick. People wish and plan to live up to a hundred; some want to have at least a hundred (thousand!!) dollars in the bank; some – like me – dreamed of writing and publishing one day a hundred poems… the list is endless.

Soon there will be actually MORE than a hundred reasons to rejoice: CCLA´s The Envoy newsletter will be turning 100 issues old. That is why Jorge Pérez, the Editor-in-chief, and the Editorial Staff are calling you, dear CCLA members, to start forwarding poetry, short stories and pics for this memorable occasion when a Special Newsletter will be published in July or August.

Let´s all revel in The Envoy´s 100th publication!!!! Send your contribution to Jorge at joyph@nauta.cu or joyphccla@gmail.com and please you may also cc me at cclacubanprez@gmail.com I still recall American singer and songwriter Taylor Swift when she got her first Grammy saying to her fans “Thank you. You changed my life…” She was so right: without an audience/readership, those who devote their lives to singing, acting, publishing, editing, etc. are absolutely nothing without a public, without contributors and followers. We count on you.

Without your writings, news, photos, we cannot publish and continue to honor the CCLA´s artistic and literary purposes, especially when it comes to celebrating a hundred printings!

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias CCLA Cuban President The Envoy Assistant Editor The Ambassador Editor-in-chief

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

About the Poet: Antony Di Nardo

Antony Di Nardo is the author of four books of poetry. His most recent, SKYLIGHT (Ronsdale Press), includes the long poem suite, “May June July,” winner of the Gwendolyn MacEwen Poetry Prize for 2017. His other books are Roaming Charges (Brick Books), Alien, Correspondent (Brick Books) and Soul on Standby (Exile Editions). His work appears in various anthologies, has been translated into French, German, Italian and Spanish, and can be found in journals across Canada and internationally. Born in Montreal, he divides his time between Cobourg, Ontario and Sutton, Quebec.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

Two Sunny Portraits of Gibara

by Antony D´Nardo

I. Sunrise Roosters crow heartily. Their distinctive voices come from all directions. It’s a new day but the sun has not yet announced itself. A hilltop perch offers a vast, unhampered view to witness its arrival. You make the climb. Waiting, the eye looks out over the town, skims far beyond the calm waters of the bay, resting on the silhouette of distant hills. A tiny crescent begins to appear. As it rapidly takes on greater form, the waters sway in its light. Warm hues skim the surface and bounce back into the air, a perfect symphony. The call of the rooster ebbs and homing pigeons take to the sky, their flight so perfectly orchestrated by trainers on rooftops.

You watch, mesmerized by their performance and the beauty before your eyes. You lose yourself. Soon horse-drawn carts proliferate the scene below and the soft rumble of wheels and hoofs on pavement stir you out of your reverie and you begin your slow descent back to where you started.

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

II. Saturday Market Early morning, the bay of Gibara is flush with a rosy glow, the sun barely beginning to peek over the far, distant hills. It’s Saturday when the market stirs a crush of activity as farmers and townsfolk engage in a weekly exchange of goods for pesos. Produce piled high on ground mats, lit by the new day, quickly dwindles as the sun makes its steady climb to a full charge.

Ponies tethered to empty carts are parked in the shade of an overhung cliff barely high enough to accommodate them, while serving as a rocky backdrop to this hub of service and commerce. The onlooker’s eye is caught time and again by the multitude of ancient weigh scales, each speaking of another time, yet each present with their own fresh story. Plantain in freshly cut bunches hang suspended from the handlebars of bicycles, while colourful straw satchels are quickly filling to the brim with cabbages, yams, papayas and beets. In no time, mats lay bare; the bustle transforms into a slow-moving procession that disperses in all directions while bringing outdoor activity to a near halt. Here and there, a stray chicken pecks and scuttles as you pass by and someone will be spotted proudly carrying a little bird in a cage. By this time the sun will have almost reached its full zenith and you begin to wonder, what’s for lunch.

Currency Exchange

by Antony D´Nardo Patria o Muerte and a portrait of Che Guevara are on the same side of a tres pesos coin.

You wouldn’t catch me dead putting words like that over the head of another.

While I think about this, rubbing the coin between my fingers, a beggar sits at the other end of the bench and eyes me with a distrust I can’t shake off.

So when I get up to leave my seat the coin drops out of my hand and barely makes a sound when it falls to the ground by his feet.

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Playa Pesquero Antony D´Nardo Sun, sand, blue sky (you get the picture) and a distant clarinet hums to itself.

The mellow reed settles the crowd into corners of unnatural silence.

Sun-screened bodies flat on their backs, glistening in an airborne succession of notes and beams of light, agree that the beach belongs to the sea and the sea belongs to the waves rolling in, rolling in with a clarinet no one ignores.

Guantanamera

Antony D´Nardo

I sailed with Columbus on the feast day of José Marti when I came to the shores of Cuba, a bay dead centre in the fold of a map that I used to get there by car.

The driver, his nose out of joint, let me off on the side of the road and I walked in the direction he pointed.

Nothing was far. The waves were smart about following each other in succession, sure of themselves, and I was there to find the place history had found remarkable enough to mark with an X. I took a few snaps and waved to the stars I couldn’t yet see. The Nina, the Pinta, the Santa Maria, galleons of such size are best left for the books like constellations tell stories that belong to the sky.

Whitecaps curled around my tongue as I said their names, rolled in closer to shore swollen with the voyage they’d been on since Columbus set foot on this land.

Here we were, the two of us stamping our feet on the ground, making our mark in the sand, thinking we’ve lasted all this time. And the driver, a Cuban father of three, sitting in his ’57 Dodge, waiting for me to return, listened to a Spanish tune that Columbus had never heard of until now.

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

DESTINY IS A TRAIN

by Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado Our life is like a journey We start when we are born, We go to towns and cities Or want to stay on board.

We’re riding on a train, The train will always stop; You choose your exit Station, Your choice will win or Drop.

When choosing destination, If you can do it right; Your life will be all gladness And the future will be bright.

If your choice is mistaken You’ll suffer and regret, Things will come out all Wrong, That I can dare to bet.

I have myself endured The hardship of mistake, So when I choose the next Station I’ll make sure it arrives To the right destination Where Happiness resides.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

THE TRAP

by Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado I went to see a wise man, To clear up all my doubts; I asked him: What’s desire?

What’s wanting all about?

He answered me with sureness: You’ve fallen in the trap!

Such powerful attraction Makes you helpless; That’s mishap!”

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

I Hope He Comes Early

by Merle Amodeo

I hope he comes early so I won’t have to worry that something awful happened on the way.

I hope he comes twenty minutes early, so I won’t keep checking my watch, reminding myself how insensitive he can be.

I hope he comes early, so I won’t have one too many then bolt off in anger and miss his arrival.

I hope he comes 15 minutes early before I begin to doubt that he’ll come at all.

I hope he comes early so I won’t have to call and listen to the empty ring that’s never answered.

I hope he comes ten minutes early so I can see his smile and return it with a grin that will last until he leaves.

I hope he comes early so we can have five more minutes to spend together.

I hope he comes.

Last Chance

by Merle Amodeo

That was your last chance. I’ve said it before, but it’s final this time.

You won’t get around me with red roses or sweet talk.

Last time you left I kept your t-shirt in my bed loved the residual warmth of it, breathed in the smell of you every night.

That’s over.

The shirt is in tatters.

All I have left is your CD. The one you always played when you came home smelling of beer and perfume telling me how much you loved me.

When you come by tomorrow morning as promised, don’t be surprised to see your things on the lawn.

Just cross your fingers the tornado misses us. photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto Página 6

MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Wrist Watch

by Bruce Meyer

When time finally grows older it will learn not to break other people’s things—hearts, keepsakes, bodies, and desires.

It will learn it cannot yellow photos or old love letters, tarnish silver, crush roses, or steal the green from buds.

In a calm voice, it will speak without rancour, will whisper that some things remain even when everything is gone, and that beauty follows us like a shadow in the dark; that having held you I cannot forget the memory of holding what was so worth our hearts it spoke to us not in lost days but in the jewels we carried strapped to our wrists, the winds that moved over the beach where we were the only ones for miles on the level sands.

We took off our watches

pic taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

not just to challenge the waves but to break them with our bodies young, and smooth, and white as a waiting page.

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

HAIKU

by John Hamley Lions in those alders? a child can never be so sure The road remembers where the potholes should be The old aunt can’t even keep up with the coffin Three vultures my first migratory birds spring comes late

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

Don´t forget me

by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández Your words are not in vain nor have ever been I zealously listen to them.

To ears other than mine Your words have no meaning, Your accents do not drift in the air Nor do they settle on boughs like birds, They come to me in subtle tenderness No stops, Your phrases reach me Your loving thoughts are not hidden They reach into my ears Just to tell me “Don´t forget me”

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Attempt

by Ernesto Galbán Peramo Don´t stop looking into the distance even if in hard times those far dots chip your mirrors.

Fly high before incredulous eyes if the world offers you its full width, and grow from your past failures because after many late-night hours dawn will break sooner for you.

Winter

by Wency Rosales It’s a solitary morning, white mist dims the distance, and a Polar breeze lashes against the trees moistened by the tears of the wee hours.

Birds are quiet in their nests huddling against each other or looking after their fledglings.

Roses lose their snuggling petals and afternoon falls.

Sadness envelops the clouds’ shadows, and here I remain, waiting for winter to go to have again the happiness of your steps.

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Four Haiku

by Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias Watchmaker clock stutters – through lit window blind moon winds it up Snapshot The moment: a still photo. Donna Allard Birds in soft flight. Sarah Richardson birds dot the clouds wings flapping on skyline a snapshot

1

Love sea kissing shore groaning softly they make love Kiss tree branch leans on murmuring stream rippled kiss 2

3 photos 1, 2, and 3 taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

THE SONG

by Raúl Vera Delgado To my niece Diana Walking at night on the foggy streets, waiting for something to happen, perhaps that an angel will sing, a light will come out of a tree and talk to me.

It’s unlikely, since I have so much to tell, That when I’ll let it talk, There will hardly be time left.

I would have to say that a rose is not a rose, It’s a crying woman, That a dog is not a dog, You just have to look into its eyes To understand that it has the soul of a child inside, That it is begging hopefully for a caress, To sleep cuddled against someone That will give some love.

I walk to my bed Hoping that tomorrow A purple sun will dawn, The trees will be floating in the air With candy canes on its branches, And flocks of love songs will pass by Flying hand in hand, While sadness walks away feeling abandoned searching for a real world to nest in.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

O Dear Beautiful Sparrow

by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández Our bountiful and fertile area, the migratory path for birds, no passports needed, no social distancing, busy installing their tidy nest in our Cuban antique house of curved red roof tiles rain gutters that spill spring to palm’s parched winter earth that speak of the charm and cheer of Gibara the white village of charm with its traditional ballads and stories untold, our beautiful flurry of coffee-milk colour, the majestic black chest of the proud male that sings his love song of eternity to his mate, every couple builds their nest photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto with tiny twigs and strings fluttered into place, artisan skill handed down from generations of knowing, always in the highest reaches exploring the distant horizon from whence they came to where they will return.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Mother Earth Resists

by Lisa Makarchuk For money, for greed We’re encouraged to dig So we fracked And we hacked And we burned We cracked her veneers Penetrated her shades, Her shrouds and her veils Destroyed many valleys Killed her animals and trees Her birds, and the bees Excavated and gouged Piercing her rocky armours Unfreezing her innards Tunneling thru her veins Hollowing out her lodes Mining her richness Hidden for eons Exposing delicate rhythms As we unearthed and raped While stalking her body Destroying her balance.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

She stormed in protest with warnings to change our ways exposed us to scorching heat weather extremes devastating tornadoes overwhelming gales.

She turned down her covers bared lands into deserts released plagues upon us.

Is it markets or life?

That is our choice.

The tipping point has arrived Have you chosen your side? photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

MAY RAIN

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias May rain plays with the windows metallic music arises only to zigzag briefly lured by gravity recalcitrant beads bounce, playful and cold, off someone's face.

Afternoon heat subsides for a while in this nature-blessed instant when mother cloud cannot delay its pregnancy of water and lets it fall in crystals of coolness the earth thirsty receives due to the long drought grateful.

The human eye is nothing but an observer of the vision of a generous sky kissing the soil, softening dirt crumbs moistening the turf, seeping to the core reifying illusions of unleashed streams running on brownish paths down fields and streets, in a torrent of wet roar that will green grabby surfaces of arid land and clean the now-solitary lanes taking away stifling sights, leaving a pleasurable after-event of shiny pavement nourished flora and bird chirps across an air of cleanliness.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

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MAY 2020 ISSUE 098 –EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

RAINS OF MAY

by Alina González Serrano (translated by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias) Nature is kind She lets her happy tears drip generously upon The avid land Buildings Running people My flower pots on the porch.

I watch behind the door As a magic curtain of water falls falls

falls

Floods the earth Fills the air with the peculiar scent of rain And lights up a cleansed sky With an imposing May rainbow.

E-mails: joyph@nauta.cu joyphccla@gmail.com jorgealbertoph@infomed.sld.cu

CANADA CUBA LITERARY ALLIANCE FROM THE EDITOR: IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES, WE WOULD LIKE SUBMISSIONS FROM EVERY CCLA MEMBER SO WE ARE NURTURED BY YOU! IF YOU HAVE BOOKS COMING OUT, A POETRY EVENT, JUST LET US KNOW !!!!!

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