The Envoy #105 – The official newsletter of the CCLA – Canada Cuba Literary All

THE ENVOY The official newsletter of the

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

December, 2020 Issue 105 www.CanadaCubaLiteraryAlliance.org

THE CUP OF LOVE

DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

THE CUP OF LOVE A STORY BORN IN COLONIAL GIBARA STILL LIVING IN PEOPLE’S MINDS

by José Toledo Martínez

Gibara is full of stories, legends and all types of beautiful tales that travel from generation to generation in the incredible chariot of popular imagination. They thrive on and make the White Village one of the most magic places in Cuba.

Surely you have heard about the Gypsy´s Malediction, which makes the rains fall in Gibara whenever there is a festivity or a popular celebration . But this is not the most scaring legend. The really terrifying one seems to be the Woman in White, who appears and disappears on the main road to the city. Locals affirm the famous American dancer Isadora Duncan once danced nude in Gibara´s Theater.. Who knows?

You will hear dozens of amazing stories like the one of Adolfo and Ignacia, a happy couple who believed in real love in times when life was quiet and peaceful in Gibara’s 19th century. She used to spend most of her time in the placid atmosphere of her home with her family and friends. She went to church or funerals, she attended the praying sessions after someone’s demise or participated in social activities of the village.

These two young people loved each other in a very special way. They had promised to keep their love even beyond death, as Romeo and Juliet did. They waited for the moment of their marriage. In advance, they made all kinds of preparations for the wedding: a beautiful ceremony in the church. Ignacia dressed in pure white, the organ played a Nuptial March , the priest led the act, rings were exchanged, a curious crowd watching through the windows.

But things do not always happen the way we envision them. Adolfo, who was a sailor and spent part of his time at sea, had to make a trip before his wedding.

He said goodbye to his Ignacia. And he never thought it would be the last time he was going to see her. No sooner did he leave the village than the young woman took suddenly ill.

High fever invaded her body and neither doctors´ medicines and recommendations , nor family care or remedies could find an effective way to stop this unexpected illness that kept Ignacia in bed night and day. Time passed and her state worsened. She was extremely weak. She could hardly stand up. People saw how the flame of her life slowly extinguished in the midst of family’s tears, believers’ prayers and everybody’s wishes to see her recover. One night, with a starcrossed sky, in the calm of the village, Ignacia’s heart stopped and her eyes The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

closed forever, leaving behind the mourning and the pain death brings. Her family’s life was filled with despair and bitterness.

Long before, a fortune teller had told Ignacia she would be the incarnation of love until the end of times. She was told she would be transformed to reach eternity. No one understood the prophecy then. But it seemed she had been chosen by destiny to embody the strength and power of love that stays alive beyond time.

During the novena the Catholic church organized for the peace of the souls , there were several strange happenings in Ignacia´s home. No one had a rational explanation for all the events at that time. Even after all these long years, elders still remember what their grandparents once told them.

At the moment of the girl´s death, Adolfo was far out in the sea and he couldn’t imagine what was going on at that moment. Friends tried to let him know. .All efforts to contact him were in vain. . In spite of all attempts, there was no way to send a message. In those days, sailors went out to the ocean and nobody could indicate their whereabouts. But when two hearts beat as one, they are always in touch. One can feel the other´s grief or astonishment.

Adolfo could feel something was wrong with his Ignacia. On one occasion, he woke up in the middle of the night with a frightful cry of a woman´s voice. His room was lit by a strange bluish light that came from all directions. He was really scared, he prayed and prayed but he couldn’t get back to sleep that night.

Weeks passed. Adolfo finally came back. When he was told of Ignacia’s death, he was shocked. Although he had imagined something wrong had happened, he never thought his fiancée had parted from the world of the living. He spent seven days and seven nights locked up in his room without eating or sleeping. He cried and prayed for mercy. His close friends said he was trying to put in order things inside his head. His family believed he was meditating in order to find a goal in his life. Others said he searched for an explanation to death and tried to get consolation. But no one could define Adolfo’s torment. When he got out of his confinement, he was just a spectrum. He had grown older, his hair was totally gray and there were deep wrinkles on his face. His smile had been erased from his lips.

He was not the same young man any more.

He had a strong determination in mind. He knew he would never marry again because his heart belonged to Ignacia and part of his soul had gone away with her. But at the same time, he felt there was a portion of her spirit living inside him, so he should carry on his task on earth. He would build a funerary monument to remind future generations love is such a wonderful thing that nobody should ever surrender for it always wins in the fight against death.

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Adolfo chose the most peaceful corner of the graveyard to build a tomb. He asked an expert to design the project of his princess’s final palace. He ordered white marble from Italy to rebuild the monument, which would be crowned with a cup covered by a veil. The cup represented the sacred vessel couples used to exchange drinks, a proof of eternal exchange in marriage, and there was the bride´s veil. Two symbols Ignacia didn’t have the chance to embrace. The entire architecture of the place showed sadness. Adolfo had requested an artist to recover his fiancée’s blond tress and put it in a frame to blueprint the place of his lover’s final dwelling. The funeral construction had two weeping willows. People said that when the wind blew through the trees in the graveyard, it seemed they wept. But this is not the only legendary tale the monument has inspired. Many people used to say every time there was a marriage in the church and the bride removed her veil to drink from her husband’s cup, while they were kissing, one could perceive a slight trembling of the cup in the cemetery as if it could be connected with the energy of loving hearts. Through centuries, the love cup in Gibara´s cemetery has represented the ideal of sacred union in the light of true love.

When visitors have the opportunity to see the complex in the full moon light, the lucky ones can hear the sigh of the marble when it is caressed by the breeze. But it only happens once a year, on each anniversary of Ignacia’s death.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

LA COPA DE AMOR La escultura la Copa de amor en Gibara, es un panteón erigido en el cementerio de Gibara, construida en Italia, en el año de 1872, de mármol blanco macizo, este monumento inmortaliza el frustrado romance protagonizado por Ygnacia Nates y Adolfo Ferrín. Es un monumento célebre en Gibara, ciudad ubicada al norte de la actual provincia de Holguín.

Leyenda popular De Ygnacia Nates y Mastrapa se dice que bordaba tapices y tocaba el piano en las tertulias de su casa frecuentada por marineros, donde Adolfo Ferrín, perdidamente enamorado de su belleza, iba a cortejarla en las noches, y celoso de los navegantes extasiados con la beldad de la muchacha, le pedía que se atara un pañuelo en la mano para fingir estar herida, como pretexto para no tocar el instrumento en varios días.

Según cuenta la leyenda, dicen que Ygnacia murió de un infarto al creer a Adolfo perdido en el mar después de un naufragio, mientras, otros aseguran que un derrame cerebral acabó con la vida de la novia, unas horas después de que Adolfo tocara a su ventana para entregarle el anillo de compromiso.

Leyenda contada por la familia Caridad Vives Pi, conocedora de la historia por convivir durante muchos años con las ancianas hermanas de Ygnacia, y dormir precisamente en el cuarto donde murió la joven, asegura que la gente ha distorsionado la historia y casi todo lo que se ha dicho es falso. A sus casi 95 años de asombrosa lucidez, Cachita Vives asegura que Adolfo jamás fue marinero, sino que era notario y contador de la familia Longoria, y agregó que, una mañana de mayo de 1872, Ygnacia comenzó a sentirse indispuesta, mientras atendía a su padre asmático, Don Ángel Nates Bolívar.

Ese día por la noche Adolfo la visitó como de costumbre, habló con la joven y la notó constipada, en la madrugada Ygnacia empeoró y pidió que buscaran a su enamorado, éste le entregó el anillo de compromiso y se despediría de ella para siempre, pues falleció en las primeras horas del jueves 23 de mayo de 1872 a consecuencia de lo que antes se conocía como calentura, concluyó Cachita.

Ygnacia Nates falleció a los 17 años de edad, y Adolfo Ferrín, dicen que murió ocho meses después, en España, desconsolado por la pérdida, no sin antes man The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

dar a construir el conocido mausoleo que perpetuó para siempre el romance de los novios, y tejió para todos una de las tantas leyendas de Gibara.

Fue en el área del Carnaval Holguinero de 1983, que atendía el municipio de Gibara en la capital de la provincia, donde por primera vez escuché ese conmovedor relato de boca de un gibareño de apellido Andrés, quien disfrutaba de esos festejos junto con varios coterráneos.

En la siguiente visita que hice a la Villa Blanca me personé en el domicilio de Antonio Lemus Nicolaou, por entonces historiador de la ciudad balneario, y de inmediato comenzamos a rastrear la historia de la que ambos conocíamos bien poco.

En la otrora vivienda de la malograda muchacha quedamos gratamente sorprendidos. Allí, entre las valiosas antigüedades que esbozaban la historia, se encontraba colgado un cuadro con el proyecto original del panteón donde aparecía sembrado un Sauce Llorón, cuyo follaje fue confeccionado con los propios cabellos de la difunta.

Luego, cuando cámara en ristre cruzamos bajo el viejo pórtico del cementerio local, con rumbo al referido mausoleo, nos dijo un joven sepulturero que se encontraba en la entrada: “Ya sé a lo que vienen: A retratar la copa de Ygnacia”.

Atraídos ante la extraña belleza del proyecto, el enigmático simbolismo de su copa cubierta con un manto y por la historia que encierra, no vacilamos en atrapar con el lente de nuestra cámara, la imagen del sepulcro, donde se puede leer en el mármol: ÚLTIMO RECUERDO/DE MI YGNACIA/MAYO 23 DE 1872/ADOLFO No quisimos abandonar el lugar sin antes preguntarle al enterrador lo que sabía acerca de Ygnacia Nates Mastrapa y Adolfo Ferrín, y su relato coincidió con lo escuchado aquella noche de jolgorio carnavalesco: “Ygnacia y Adolfo eran novios. Próximo a casarse, el barco donde trabajaba el joven naufragó. Ygnacia, creyéndole muerto se vistió de luto. Un día tocaron a la puerta de su casa; ella fue a ver quién era y en el umbral apareció su amado, fue tanta la emoción que la chica cayó fulminada por un infarto”.

En esta historia, que pasó de una generación a otra de gibareño, era completamente falso lo del naufragio. Descorrer el velo para mirar más de un siglo atrás parecía imposible, mas no lo fue. La tenacidad combinada con un golpe de suerte fue la llave de lo maravillosamente real.

Por sugerencia de familiares lejanos de Ygnacia que residían en la vieja casona, nos trasladamos hasta el número 36 de la calle Martí, en la misma ciudad de Gibara. Allí nos recibió Caridad Vives Pi, quien según su cuñado Ernesto, era la que más conoce del asunto porque convivió muchos años con la ancianas hermanitas de Ygnacia.

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Caridad, locuaz y entusiasta llevaba entonces varios días, lupa en mano, transcribiendo del original, la carta que enviara Adolfo a Baldomera, tía de Ygnacia, y en la que pormenoriza todo lo relacionado con el sepulcro que había encargado a Italia.

“La gente ha distorsionado la historia. Casi todo lo que se ha dicho es falso, pues Adolfo era una especie de notario y también trabajaba como contador de los Longoria. El jamás fue marinero e Ygnacia murió a consecuencia de lo que antes se conocía como congestión. No fue más que un derrame cerebral”, enfatizó Cachita.

(En septiembre de 1984, un mes después que publicamos esta historia, se expuso en el Primer Salón Provincial de Curiosidades, celebrado en Holguín, un protocolo notarial firmado por Adolfo Ferrín, lo cual probaba el oficio del joven).

Con lujos de detalle la interlocutora, visiblemente emocionada, nos habló de la extraordinaria belleza de Ygnacia y el gran amor que se profesaban. Y agrega Caridad más adelante: “Esa misma mañana, cuando Ygnacia atendía a su padre, Ángel Nates Bolívar, quien padecía de asma, se sintió indispuesta. Por la noche vino Adolfo a visitarla y habló con la joven. Por la madrugada empeoró y mandó a que buscaran a su Adolfo para entregarle el anillo de compromiso y despedirse para siempre, pues falleció horas más tarde. Era el jueves 23 de mayo de 1872…

“La vistieron con un traje de encaje blanco y botas de igual color. Su entierro fue una sentida manifestación de duelo popular en la que, junto a sus adoloridos deudos, resaltaba el atormentado joven”.

Nuestra anfitriona hace una pausa para buscar sus espejuelos, luego comienza a leer algunos párrafos extraídos de la susodicha carta: “…Como aquí no hubieran hecho a mi gusto el mausoleo o monumento que he mandado a levantar en su sepulcro, lo he pedido ya a Italia. Es precioso como ahí y en muchas partes de la Isla no hay ninguno. Es de cerca de cuatro metros de altura, todo de mármol blanco y macizo… La figura o plano de este mismo sepulcro es la que ya he mandado a hacer con sus cabellos; quedara un cuadro hermosísimo, que siento no estará concluido para el 24 que voy para esa, por ser mucho el trabajo que tiene…”

Un gran vacío nos dejó Ygnacia en su casona de Ronda de la Marina. Ya jamás se escucharía allí el piano ejecutado por ella con singular maestría, ni sus padres, Ángel y doña Cristina, invitarían a los marinos amigos de la casa, a las tertulias nocturnas que amenizaba Ygnacia; tampoco su novio Adolfo, celoso al ver que los marineros se extasiaban con la belleza de la muchacha, le sugeriría que se atara un pañuelo en la mano para que fingiera estar herida y no tocara el teclado en muchos días. Todo había terminado dolorosa y repentinamente.

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Llegar a la verdad no llevó mucho tiempo, lo que hizo factible que, el domingo 25 de septiembre de 1983, viera la luz, en el periódico provincial AHORA, el resultado de nuestras indagaciones, de las cuales se hicieron eco otros medios impresos y radioeléctricos de la provincia y el país.

Así muchos turistas nacionales y extranjeros no han querido abandonar a Gibara sin antes visitar la tumba de Ygnacia, símbolo de la historia que devino en una gustada golosina par algunos redactores de guías turísticas y folletines radiales y de televisión.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

SECTION:

A Word About

“A Sheaf of Poems; One Shaft-Poem for the New Year: Wolff, Shakespeare, Barrett, Poe, Whitman, Byron, Frye, Dalton, Neruda, Martí, Carilda, Deahl, Lee, Gordon”

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias CCLA Cuban Prez Editor, Reviewer, Author

December brings hopes for a better new year. I wanted to make this section special to celebrate life and love. What more timely way to do it than offering universal, Canadian and Cuban poetry to nurture the spirit? As Canadian singer, Anne Murray, says, “We sure could use a little good news today.” The year 2021 will be one with tidings of high expectations, courage to go on, beauty and faith.

Let´s heal our souls reading the poets I have invited to this end-of-year jubilee.

Sometimes we need to read a poet´s sheaf of poetry to see through his/her core, unravel the magic, and be caught in the underlying passion, the overflowing dedication to the art of the word. Sometimes it takes just one poem, that one shaft capturing all our senses, certainty dawning on us that perfection can be grasped and worded. When I reviewed Canadian poet Elana Wolff, for example, I said, “You can know and get to admire poets reading one single poem, or you can follow up on their evolution and maturity when you are privileged to have a collection of their craft spanning decades.” In her case, it was the polished uniqueness of single poems and her entire oeuvre. One such definitive piece, in my eyes, is “Birdheart”: Tenacious as the moss and rocks and water, here I am. In nature such ubiquity is common.

On days like this, heart heavy as a vow, I’d gladly be the yellow finch, pecking at the feeder on the deck.

A birdheart so compact and small, it leaves no room for sorrow.

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

I have enjoyed the two sensations with classics: Shakespeare´s treasury of sonnets, from which the act of choosing one is almost sacrilege yet I might settle, for illustration sake, with Sonnet CXVI: Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

We have Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her unforgettable piece “How Do I Love Thee?”: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Also, Edgar Allan Poe – his “The Raven” setting the beat accompanied by scores of favorite poems (and short stories) I read, reread and even memorized. Let´s recall “To Helen”: Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Our list cannot leave out Walt Whitman´s “O Captain, my Captain,” a deeply emotive eulogy that makes me tremble every time I read it.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father!

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Nor Lord Byron´s “She Walks in Beauty” She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

One all-time jewel is, curiously, a poem by a non-poet, Mary Elizabeth Frye. She was a housewife who wrote “Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep” in a burst of compassion for a Jewish girl who had fled the Holocaust only to receive news that her mother had died in Germany. The poem was named Britain's most popular poem in 1996: Do not stand at my grave and weep: I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry: I am not there; I did not die.

On the Spanish-written side, I can still quote by heart from Roque Dalton´s “Desnuda,” and Pablo Neruda´s “Farewell” (5), poems that charted my constant journeys into poetry since my adolescence:

“Desnuda” Amo tu desnudez porque desnuda me bebes con los poros, como hace el agua cuando entre sus paredes me sumerjo.

Tu desnudez derriba con su calor los límites, me abre todas las puertas para que te adivine, me toma de la mano como a un niño perdido que en ti dejara quieta su edad y sus preguntas.

Tu piel dulce y salobre que respiro y que sorbo pasa a ser mi universo, el credo que se nutre; The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

la aromática lámpara que alzo estando ciego cuando junto a la sombras los deseos me ladran.

Cuando te me desnudas con los ojos cerrados cabes en una copa vecina de mi lengua, cabes entre mis manos como el pan necesario, cabes bajo mi cuerpo más cabal que su sombra.

El día en que te mueras te enterraré desnuda para que limpio sea tu reparto en la tierra, para poder besarte la piel en los caminos, trenzarte en cada río los cabellos dispersos.

El día en que te mueras te enterraré desnuda, como cuando naciste de nuevo entre mis piernas.

“Farewell” – 5 –

Ya no se encantarán mis ojos en tus ojos, ya no se endulzará junto a ti mi dolor.

Pero hacia donde vaya llevaré tu mirada y hacia donde camines llevarás mi dolor.

Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. Qué más? Juntos hicimos un recodo en la ruta donde el amor pasó.

Fui tuyo, fuiste mía. Tú serás del que te amé, del que corte en tu huerto lo que he sembrado yo.

Yo me voy. Estoy triste: pero siempre estoy triste.

Vengo desde tus brazos. No sé hacia dónde voy. ...Desde tu corazón me dice adiós un niño.

Y yo le digo adiós.

Two Cubans molded my poetic pursuits, José Martí and Carilda Oliver.

From our Apostle, a provocative poem, “Mucho, señora daría”: Mucho, señora daría Por tender sobre tu espalda Tu cabellera bravía, The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Tu cabellera de gualda: Despacio la tendería, Callado la besaría.

Por sobre la oreja fina Baja lujoso el cabello, Lo mismo que una cortina Que se levanta hacia el cuello.

La oreja es obra divina De porcelana de China.

Mucho, señora, te diera Por desenredar el nudo De tu roja cabellera Sobre tu cuello desnudo: Muy despacio la esparciera, Hilo por hilo la abriera.

From our sweetheart, Carilda, one of her best-known pieces, “Me desordeno, amor, me desordeno”: Me desordeno, amor, me desordeno cuando voy en tu boca, demorada; y casi sin querer, casi por nada, te toco con la punta de mi seno.

Te toco con la punta de mi seno y con mi soledad desamparada; y acaso sin estar enamorada me desordeno, amor, me desordeno.

Y mi suerte de fruta respetada arde en tu mano lúbrica y turbada como una mal promesa de veneno; y aunque quiero besarte arrodillada, cuando voy en tu boca, demorada, me desordeno, amor, me desordeno.

The happy perception, informed and well-grounded, of reading contemporary poets whose life-time work and single pieces are both indicative of high mastery, The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

is essentially concretized in many Canadian authors. Three examples are James Deahl, John B. Lee and Katherine L. Gordon. It is particularly circuitous for me to pick a favorite from Deahl´s repertoire. Nevertheless, again for the sake of necessary exemplification, I offer a gem that shines for me even when I close my eyes, “Sarnia By Starlight”: A slow, blue pulse from cold water.

Call and response of smoke and wind as evening falls.

Must every object that summons desire be beautiful?

An ashplants That girl’s open blouse?

Each feather of the crow tells a story: the lingering fragrance in tangled sheets of black roses.

From the U.S. side Sarnia’s adorned by a skein of lights strung between sky and night’s river.

Starlight enters with ancient airs like a bride, the music dancing on her shy lips.

Equally complex is the difficult selection of one John B. Lee salient poem. All are!

I include one that takes my breath away, “I Wake to Breathe Your Beauty In”:

The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

I wake to breathe your beauty in your soft pink sex mummed like a secret-keeper’s mouth the stone imprisoned by its fall could no more hang upon the wind that I hold back this love your shape procures a note so faintly played upon the felts it leaves no mark like a dustless butler’s glove and I with sad melodies unsung with wordless names and voiceless calling dream the mild narcotic of your gently moving breast.

To close our section today, let´s look at another Canadian poet. I had the pleasure of writing about Katherine L. Gordon in my book In a Fragile Moment: A Landscape of Canadian Poetry (Hidden Brook Press, 2020). I commented poems in her book Landscapes, a collaborative work with James Deahl.

I said, “Katherine’s perception of light defines her poetry as a whole. Light explains her landscapes setting them on fire or lighting them up in mild shimmers.

Light is ever‐present… The notion of light in Gordon transcends the boundary of her poems; it is the “nature of light” that the poet describes as “Finger lights of lady moon unwrap our blinders, free bound spirits to etch their own sparkle in patterns of eternity.” Here is a poet constantly merging into and emerging from the light, like the radiant mystery of a chrysalis whose vibrant colors and wings can no longer be contained and burst and flutter to brighten our path.”

Her sentience guides her eye and hand when she writes. There is so much eloquence in the wordlessness she proposes in her poem “Wordless With Roses,” so much passion for rose and for poetry, that I fell in love with this heart-caressing piece when she sent it to me a few months ago: There is a rose in many a poem though no words can capture the startlement of such a beauty lavished on some olden wall as though

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fairy-chosen to hold all who can see to a ransom of dreams. We cannot say how the heart stops, tears appear, passions pulse, but for a moment all meaning is possible.

True love, true harmony, true surrender, all wordless.

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It will all be good news: a higher light will accompany us in the New Year Long live poetry! Merry Xmas! Happy New Year!

Reverie

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias … and here on earth… Antony Di Nardo Kodak sky. Cloudless blue seeming a cambered ocean signaling a reverie of space vastness displaying pristine quartz inlays of random bird-ripples.

Peta-pixels of sea set perfectly across a broad-compass horizon bequeathing an afterglow of pleasures for us mortals here on earth.

The sky calls. It lures: benign siren chants I hear as my eyelids grow heavy pupils panning camera-like to capture and store the view before daydreaming ends.

As the Universe Blinks

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias As the universe blinks we are born or die, creatures of a mortal cast bound to breathe the gift of thought and sentience.

Beyond the stars, intelligence?

Like ours? Hmm...

As the cosmos expands I wonder if our brains do while I read a history book The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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that is rather a book of wars, a chronicle of battles fought, won, lost of lives snatched in their prime of innocent ones cut off and conveniently/soullessly termed "collateral damage" – or if instead we are merely involutional entities unable to craft a poetry book...

As the universe blinks I look at family pictures, write my poems and harbor hope.

From Bolt and Water

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias Bolts crack the sky glass unlocking a downpour conqueror of an earth eager to be soaked under the imminent storm.

Free fall takes on meaning as isolated drops collapse into rotund beads precipitating in fully vertical stampede over the lands. Deluge commands, kisses of rain and soil again and again lovemaking that begets impregnation of the fields; imprint of the inanimate granting generous livelihood to the animate. Life reenacted, rising wet, fresh from bolt and water.

photo taken and edited by Jorge Alberto The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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DECEMBER 2020 ENVOY-105 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

SHORT STORY SECTION In this and our next two The Envoys, we will have the three parts of our Assistant Editor´s story, White Lilies. A mixture of fantasy, thrill, suspense and romanticism, it succeeds in making readers be riveted by its plot. We will feel curious, awed, caught in the passion and tenderness of the poems the story features, and will almost entreat both characters to shut the door behind them and live together forever…

White Lilies

by Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias PART 1 Mystery writer and poet, Durrel Patson, surveyed with unrestrained contentment and curiosity the old house he was willing to buy. It was located off the main road, half a mile through a gravel byway partly concealed by thick shrubbery. A typical outskirt place with high bay windows on the second storey, noticeable drapery, and an unmistakable rustle reaching his ears.

It loomed in the distance almost beckoning. From his position, he could only guess the many rooms it had, the present condition of the interior paneling, ceiling and floorboards; or the water pipes and electricity. The front was girded by a garden of white lilies virtually withering.

“Shall we?” urged the youngish broker at the threshold, obviously interested in selling the property, abandoned for more than seventy years since the owner, a famous widow whose life was a many-sided secret, had been found dead, the police had sealed the place and handed in estate rights to the City Hall. Durrel climbed up the mossy steps and, loyal to his whodunit writer´s nature, provoked the broker, “Is it true a woman was found dead here?” He let the question sink in the broker´s brain and observed him.

His near obsession with the house had peaked while browsing the Web for a writer´s haven where he could move into to forget his empty life and recharge his writer batteries. He had chanced upon photographs of the mansion and ads mentioning the woman´s fate, featuring her b/w picture. Eager as he was to find

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new material for writing stories and poems, for inciting the muses to visit him, he was immediately trapped in the flashing enigma.

And he was definitely at fever pitch right upon setting a foot on the perron. He saw the broker swallow hard and pale. “What?! I didn´t know that, Sir,” he mumbled taking a step back, key ring frozen in midair opening maneuver.

“Really?” smiled Durrel, “How come you´re selling me something you don´t know all about? It´s all over the Internet.”

“Sorry, Sir. Am just the middleman. The Company´s senior salesman took suddenly ill last night. When he was appointed to meet with you today, he said he would be here. Then he texted me early this morning and passed me this errand… Sorry…”

Durrel smiled again. “Are you afraid?” he asked looking the poor boy in the face.

The broker sighed, “Yes, Sir. Am new at showing houses to prospective buyers,” he paused and gasped for air. “And?” cued Durrel. “Well, Sir, am awfully scared of corpses and ghosts and all that… Besides, no one has wanted this place… it´s been some seventy years… that corpse, you know... Some say the house is haunted… We predicted it would collapse one day… The City has not yet come to terms as to what course of action to follow, they´ve not really shown much interest…

Friends have let the word out it could be turned into a parking lot or gas station or something if no one purchases it...”

The writer stared at him. Wasn´t this what he was looking for? An inspiration place to write? Whatever lay beyond those big wooden doors might ignite his writing… “There are no ghosts here, boy. Tell you what: hand me those keys. I´ll go in myself and take a long peek at the house. If I still like what I find and the house “welcomes” me, you´ll be closing a deal and scoring for your bosses. How do you like that?” He winked at the broker, who took a deep breath and exhaled in evident relief.

“Yes, Sir! Let´s do that! – I mean, would you be willing to do that for me, Sir?” His words sounded more like a supplication. “Consider it done!” said Durrel. “It will be a you-me thing. Sit there on that bench, relax. It´s nine ten now, give me a half hour. That´ll do it.” “Yes, Sir,” half-sang the boy.

Durrel took the keys from his trembling hands and inserted one in the keyhole.

For an indefinite pulse of time, he thought he felt a chilling wind blow out of nowhere as he slowly turned the pins and the door scraped open.

He looked back at the broker, who had found refuge not on the closest bench but five benches farther. He grinned and walked in, shutting the door behind him.

Would he regret doing this?

Despite the fact that it was morning and the sun was generously shining, the in

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side was in shadows. Curtains hardly swayed, gently covering the daylight, dimming its tones of life and motion, preventing them from defiling the lobby´s somberness. Once more, Durrel picked that ice airstream encompassing all, filtering through his shirt…

He shuddered, briefly, but shook the thought off his mind. As he advanced past the lobby and into the living room, the floorboards gave in a bit creaking under his weight. Following the sound, long-dormant dust was unsettled and mysteriously lifted as if an invisible hand had swept and cleaned the whole place. Durrel hesitated and frowned. Coldness is perceptibly giving in to warmth! Twice more cautious, he resolutely cast fear away and proceeded across the room.

A magnificent stairway awaited, handrails gilt, red-carpeted steps, balusters a graceful yellow finish – and dust ascending in awkward composure, somehow suggestive… Durrel fought indecision, wondered if he had made a mistake in venturing alone into the house, considered running all the way back to the door and leaving yet some uncanny force, magnetic and alluring, pulled him towards the stairs.

He took a step at a time, his eyes fixed on the upper level, just in case… He reached the second floor, glad nothing bizarre had happened. There were two bedrooms to each side of the hallway. Three doors were locked, one was slightly ajar, inviting. That was when Durrel asked himself where that poor woman had been found. In the living room? Upstairs? There?

The half-open door seemed to swing, nudged by conspicuous wind coming out of it. Durrel could not help it and approached the room. “Come in.” A low voice stopped Durrel dead, his eyes about to spring out of their sockets, his common sense dictating he had to flee. But, it was too late: some unknown reason of physics or magic – or worse, slid him in. The door closed. (to be continued)

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ESTE CORAZÓN de Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández ….dedicado a Rafael Domínguez Sosa Este corazón que nació y creció en mi cuerpo rodeado siempre de color morado de tanta impureza y engaño, que transpira y exhala sin perder un segundo que recibe las emociones de gozo y tristeza, no desconfío de su fuerza.

Cuando existe un amor puro todo es posible, vemos la luz de una arteria perdida que golpea el ventrículo, la sangre cae a borbotones y se disemina por mi cuerpo.

Cuando odio, sale lo oscuro de mí, se abren heridas que nublan mi vida, se llena el cáliz de mi alma como cuando se llena el rayo de sangre que vemos en la luna.

No puedo florecer sin que palpite este corazón – si no palpita es que está abierta la puerta de la muerte que solo deja pasar un mortal cada vez.

THIS HEART

by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández …. to Rafael Domínguez Sosa This heart born and growing inside me always surrounded by The Envoy 105 Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

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bluish-red colors of so much impurity and deceit, breathing in and out without missing a second vessel of emotions of joy and sadness, I trust its fortitude.

When love is wholesome everything is possible, we see the light of a lost artery spurting against a ventricle, blood gushes down flooding my whole body.

When I hate, darkness flows from me, wounds unheal clouding my life, my soul´s chalice brims over as does the bloodbeam we see on the moon.

I cannot blossom without my heartbeat – if it pulses not it means death´s door is open to allow only one mortal in every time.

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MAST HEAD – Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández our CCLA Ambassador as Principal Editor – Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias our Cuban President as Assistant Editor – Adonay Pérez Luengo our Cuban VP as Reviewing Editor – Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado as Reviewing Editor

joyph@nauta.cu joyphccla@gmail.com jorgealbertoph@infomed.sld.cu

CANADA CUBA LITERARY ALLIANCE

FROM THE EDITOR: IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES, 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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