The Envoy #125 – The official newsletter of the CCLA – Canada Cuba Literary Alliance. by Wet Ink Books

THE ENVOY The official newsletter of the

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

Special Issue 125

Photography First Place Award

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Una Noche Mágica Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

Toda la noche mirándonos y acariciándonos, Los dos, Una noche mágica, Hablaríamos desde el color del cielo hasta el color del mar, Nombraríamos las estrellas y las piedras del mar, Preguntaríamos por cada milímetro de nuestra piel, No dejaríamos ni un segundo de hacernos felices, Estarías erizada de sentimientos de amor, De profundas sensaciones de admiración, Temblaría el silencio y gritaría el mar, La espuma tendría pena de interrumpir la escena, La luna pasaría con nostalgia varias veces por el mismo lugar, No sabría ni respirar, No dejaría que tú aliento se aquietara, fuerte y tierno, y creciendo, Con olor a hembra, con sabor a ti, Y una noche, no alcanzaría, Serían dos, tres, qué sé yo.

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A Magical Night By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

All night looking at and caressing each other, Both, A magical night We would talk from the color of the sky to the color of the sea, We would name the stars and the stones of the sea, We would ask for every inch of our skin, We would not stop for a second making ourselves happy, You would be bristling with feelings of love, Of deep feelings of admiration, The silence would tremble and the sea would scream, The foam would be sorry to interrupt the scene, The moon with nostalgia would pass several times by the same place, I wouldn't even know how to breathe I wouldn't allow your breath to still, strong and tender and growing, With a female smell, with the flavor of you, And one night would not be enough It would be two, three, I don't know.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Alguien Espera Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

El camino por recorrer, Con la prisa del aire, El sueño que esperas, Los días pasan, Timbra el teléfono incesantemente, Hay más que un café, Un fondo de pantalla, Termina la canción aquella, Queda por sanar la huella, Una y otra vez, Recuerdos de espumas, Descalzos por la arena, El tiempo, el mar, la brisa, Alguien espera...

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Someone waits By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

The road ahead, With the rush of the air, The dream you wait for The days pass, The phone rings incessantly There’s more than one coffee, A wallpaper, That song ends It remains to heal the trace, And again, Foam memories, Barefoot on the sand, The weather, the sea, the breeze, Someone waits...

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¿Por qué no eres tú? Por José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

¿Por qué niegas lo que la vida quiere florecer? ¿Por qué ocultas lo que el sol quiere que brille? ¿Por qué no quieres la espuma del mar? ¿Por qué te proteges de la brisa y el viento? ¿Por qué no permites que a tu jardín lleguen mariposas? ¿Por qué no dejas que la luna salga a pasear con las estrellas? ¿Por qué no eres tú, por qué no eres tú?

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Why isn´t it you? By José Rafael Escalona Aguilera

Why do you deny what life wants to flourish? Why do you hide what the sun wants to shine? Why don't you want the foam of the sea? Why do you protect yourself from the breeze and the wind? Why don't you allow butterflies to come to your garden? Why don't you let the moon come out to walk with the stars? Why isn't it you, why isn't it you?

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Osmany Bonet Nodarse. 39 years old. Audiovisual Artist. Graduated from the SCFH School of Creative Photography in Havana, he was a professor, Head of Chair and Technical Assistant Director of the school where he works. He works and directs several photographic projects at the national level, gives workshops and conferences on photography, cures and participates in various photographic exhibitions inside and outside Cuba, he is a member of the jury of the international architecture photography contest "Lente Artístico" that meets annually in Cuba.

Four photos by Osmany Bonet

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¿Qué Me Diré Yo?

Por Tamara Herrera Rosales

Si un rayo de luz despierta Mis ojos en la mañana, Será tu nombre el que diga Cuando asome a mi ventana. En las estrellas y el ocaso, En cada pareja que se ama, Sentiré tu dulce abrazo, Diré tu nombre en mi cama. Cuando sienta el aleteo De los pájaros que vuelan, Cual augur veré tu nombre En sus alas que se alejan, Más, cuando vuelvas, mi vate, Y tu voz de orador me asombre, Cuál arúspice de mi alma, Verás en ella tu nombre. Cuando las blancas olas toquen Mi cuerpo inerte al andar, Ellas sabrán de tu ausencia, Del amor que ya no está. Más, si hace que en la arena, Todo mi cuerpo palpite, Haré el amor con el mar Y será tu nombre el que grite.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Cuando despierten mis ojos, Un nuevo rayo de sol, Pensaré que fue un gran sueño, Un buen recuerdo de amor, Y aunque mi conciencia quiera Decirle a tu nombre adiós, Oculto quedará en mi izquierda, Esperando el perdón de Dios.

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What Will I Say to Myself? By Tamara Herrera Rosales

If a ray of light awakens My eyes in the morning It will be your name that speaks When I peek out my window. In the stars and the sunset, In every loving couple, I will feel your sweet embrace I will say your name in my bed. When feeling the flutter Of the flying birds, I will see your name an augur On their departing wings, More, when you return, my bard, And your orator's voice amazes me, What enchantment of my soul, You will see your name on it. When the white waves touch My body inert when walking, They will know of your absence Of the love that is no longer there. More, if you do that in the sand, My whole body throbs I will make love with the sea And it will be your name that screams. When my eyes wake up A new ray of sun I'll think it was a big dream, A good memory of love, And although my conscience wants To say goodbye to your name It will remain hidden on my left, Waiting for God's forgiveness.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Four photos by Antony Di Nardo

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Antony Di Nardo Poet and Member of the CCLA Photos, Ann Di Nardo When the great Italian poet, Dante, wrote his Paradiso, he relied on the landscapes of his native Italy to provide him with a palette of images for what heaven might look like. The Italian countryside is dressed to the hilt with hills and valleys, ripe meadows replete with olive groves and vines and the elegant pines that point to heaven. There’s even a vineyard in the south of Italy where, just before the sun will set, angels sit for dinner. The University of Calabria, in collaboration with Accenti Magazine of Montreal, hosted an Italo-Canadian Arts Conference this past June/July at its campus in Rende. Ann and I both attended – she with her camera-phone and I with a project on Venus, Beauty and the Uncanny. One evening, after a day of readings and presentations, we motor-pooled up to a vineyard in the hills above Rende. There we sat outdoors on bales of hay and dined on panini and cheeses, drank some wine and watched the sun set behind us. Annie’s photos frame the familiar glow and glee that comes with good conversation and happy surroundings.

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Back on Earth By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias (to my mother, in memoriam)

I smile in silence remembering the time you hid a book from me, Asimov’s The Naked Sun, because I had to study. I was half way into the book when your motherly zeal interrupted my adventures beside detective Elijah Baley and his murder investigation in Solaria. “You must get high marks,” you told me, “and for that you need to be back on Earth.” I was desperate but could not counter-argue you! Secretly, I tried to find the book while you were at work. Never did. Tests came, my grades flashed A’s that made you and Dad proud, so I asked for the book. “It’s right behind the other books in the bookshelf.” I opened my eyes wide, beamed and ran to meet with Baley and finally solve the case before returning to Earth.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Three photos By José Alberto Pérez

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By Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias Part I When Dempsey came to, he saw his left hand robotically pounding at what seemed to be a solidly bolted door. It would not yield. His instincts kept telling him he was inside a dream—a nightmare?—yet he could not control the variants at all. And he could not wake up. He forced his hand to pause, lifted his torso to a sitting position then stood up and lurched towards the opposite side of wherever it was he was trapped in. The floor was covered by a fog-like substance. So were the walls, which felt warm under his touch. He fumbled on for a few seconds until his hands reached some other end of the room he was in. As before, another recalcitrant door waited, unwilling to give in to his futile attempts at toppling it. Not that he was sure where any of those doors would lead him, if he finally succeeded in ramming them open; but that was at least more than sitting idly in the middle of an uncertain trance. Or whatever it was. He suddenly realized there were no sounds in the room. His own pounding produced no noise, and his gasping was mute. Slowly, he let his back recline against a wall and slide downwards to the floor. He squinted his eyes trying to see something—someone—in the mist. Nothing. No one. Dempsey closed his hurting eyes, feeling drowsy and tired, as some sort of fear began to settle in: his mind flashed instances of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” and he wondered for a moment if he was in a similar predicament. He was beginning to feel the cold sharpness of a blade filleting his body and the walls closing in to crush him. The overly graphic thought made him wince, utter an awkwardly, disturbingly inaudible shriek and spring back to an upright position.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

His eyes gradually adapting to the darkness, he noticed he had nearly missed a midsized hole in the center of the room—Jesus! The pit…—partially covered by the same mist. He cautiously approached it and daringly peeked into it. What was there to lose after all? He did not know where he was. He did not know how he got there. As much as he squeezed his numbed brain trying to find a bit of a memory, all he “saw” was a blank space. He did not know either how he would get out of there… Abruptly, he thought he heard a faint noise wafting from the hole! A cry? Someone else who had met his own misfortune and had tumbled into the hole? He thought of responding to the unexpected sound. Would that someone hear him? Dempsey opened his mouth wide and shouted into the hole, hopeful. Damn it! He could not hear his own voice! Muteness in his lips even when his mind and his speech organs had articulated sounds of some sort. However, still on his knees, he waited for a reply. Seconds snailed by, eternity paraded in his brain yet nothing happened. Not one sound seemed to be willing to emerge from the hole. Dempsey began to feel cramps and sat down. As he closed his weary eyes in anguish, a noise did float out of the hole! Dempsey jumped to his feet and dashed to it. Unable to see much, and understanding less, he gazed intently, frantically calling out one more time, one more silent time. Shoots! he yelled, collapsing next to the hole’s brim. Eyes closed, his heart shrunk in ignorance and misgivings, Dempsey, for the first time since he woke, decided he had to think and compose himself! Then again a louder yet garbled sound emerged from the hole’s chasm. He was shocked: whatever/whoever had articulated that sounded like him! That much he could get… The ugly anticipations troubling his mind now were escalating. He slowly, very slowly, leaned over the edge. There was nothing to perceive—except the same sound that hit him fully on the face this time and sent him rolling back a few inches! Dempsey was at a loss. His construal of reality had little, if anything, to do with the harrowing experience-nightmare he was having. The sound-voice was wavering but returning in cyclic frequencies. His brain was churning out ideas at his possible highest to decode any message, any word oozing from the hole’s fauces. Yes, because Dempsey’s delusions were visualizing the hole as a colossal animal, with a huge throat that might gulp him down if he accidentally came near it or slipped.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Unexpectedly, he did catch a word in midair, his name!!?? What on earth!!?? He perked his head and listened in. Dempsey, I am your alter-Dempsey… Those were the most terrifying words Dempsey would have never expected to hear. His eyes dangled out of their sockets, his mouth wilted like Dali’s hanging watches, his arms fell inertly to their sides. He swayed for a second then plummeted to the ground. The ghost of unconsciousness revisited him… Would another ghost rise from the hole? Would Dempsey survive his experience-nightmare? What/Who was the entity in the hole? A figment of Dempsey’s warped, exhausted imagination? A creature trapped in a bi-dimensional portal availing of a unique chance to break free?

A Melani

De Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

Agita el viento su luenga cabellera, Febriles luceros refulgentes color de jade, Fastuoso esmalte se refleja en mis pupilas, Su sonrisa rasga los corazones imberbes, Su mirada limpia el firmamento al despertar la aurora, Dulce melancolía se difunde sobre el azul del cielo, ¿Quién creo tanta sublimidad? ¿Quién derrochó tanto primor? ¿Las notas vibrantes de mi poema?

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To Melani

By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

The wind shakes her long hair, Feverish bright jade-colored stars, Lavish enamel is reflected in my pupils, Her smile tears beardless hearts, Her gaze clears the firmament when the dawn awakens, Sweet melancholy spreads over the blue of the sky, Who created so much sublimity? Who was full of so much beauty? The vibrant notes of my poem?

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Four Photos by Adonay Bárbara Pérez Luengo

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Four photos by Adonay Bárbara Pérez Luengo

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Creador Inmortal

Por Ruth Noguer Figueredo No puedes dar lo que no tienes Corazón humano, corazón endurecido no puedes hacer nada por ti mismo siempre débil, carente, infeliz tú y yo confusos, mil cosas por hacer y elijo al verdadero amor viene de lo alto, es sobrenatural sin condiciones, sin imposiciones El ve, transforma, limpia cicatrices del alma ... Amor y sangre que me da la paz tú y yo somos los mismos marcados por la línea del tiempo en un mundo diferente y no hay más penas porque sé que Me amas gracias porque Te tengo Tu estás aquí como el aire que respiro y conmigo un corazón espiritual

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Inmortal Creator By Ruth Noguer Figueredo You can't give what you don't have Human heart, hardened heart can't do anything by yourself always weak, lacking, unhappy you and me confused, a thousand things to do and I choose true love it comes from heaven, it's supernatural without conditions, without impositions He sees, transforms, cleans scars of the soul... Love and blood that give me peace you and I are the same marked by the time line in a different world and there are no more sorrows because I know You love me Thank you because I have You You are here like the air I breathe and a spiritual heart with me.

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Sunshine By Jorge Rivas Ramos Rises the golden dawn radiant, full of hope, excites the clear lake, which, trapped between mountains, awakes from the dark dream, exalting with its splendor, the illustrious town.

Luz Solar Por Jorge Rivas Ramos Levanta radiante el amanecer dorado, lleno de esperanza, ilusiona al lago claro, que, atrapado entre montañas, despierta del sueño oscuro, enalteciendo con su esplendor, al ilustre poblado.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

A glosa for RD Roy

By Katharine Beeman Another Cheap Motel The vacancy is meant to hurt to nag and ache to remind us and make us who we might be. “There’s a hole in this,” RD Roy and J. Londry, Life and Death in Cheap Hotels In a large surface store, road trip’s end you dropped dead looking upward at cartop racks Jimmy overflowing with new books turquoise, old chert no room for my Dad to ride with us this hole in my heart I wear on my shirt the vacancy is meant to hurt Lot unlit in mid-America’s vast amusement park at the game room’s circular table, 3 old men and a fat woman watch TV, Fear Something starts October 11 while in a haunted dining room, we eat half-frozen half-scorched chicken the half-roasted cook swore was baked key to cabin 3 breaks in the lock, heater in cabin 1 won’t heat still years later images shimmer, wake to nag and ache Back thru golden blindingness to Kamping Of America trains, lot of blue jays and a crow knotty pine, a table, bench and sink

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homes that are not home, but could be people I’m not but see in the room’s mirror might be, as walls swing open, show other rooms, lacking only (shades of Raymond Chandler) venetian blinds of rust for the hunted to peer through exactly similar, filled with different emotion, they hold all we need to live, without fuss to remind us and make us The stories you had one night of time to tell of many-moteled Kansas no one crosses without needing sleep eddies on ways up and back to white waters where after the shipwreck, we arrive hitchhiking kitty-cornering 2 canoes into the rooms in a lull before the main storm breaks again on the lee going or coming home we were happy, you are gone, will I find again where I write with fountain pens of peacock ink, in another cheap motel, the key, who we might be. *A glosa, early Renaissance form developed by poets of the Spanish court, Honours work of another author, starting with a stanza of theirs, repeating the lines from the stanza as the 10th line of the glosa’s 10-line stanzas, with lines 6, 9, 10 rhymed. RD Roy was a valued CCLA member, who passed away before I learned if he ever received this poem.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Una glosa para RD Roy De Katharine Beeman

Otro motel barato La vacante está destinada a doler molestar y doler para recordarnos y hacernos quiénes podríamos ser. “Hay un agujero en esto”, RD Roy y J. Londry, Life and Death in Cheap Hotels En una tienda de gran superficie, fin del viaje te caíste muerto mirando hacia arriba a los bastidores de cartop Jimmy rebosante de libros nuevos turquesa, pedernal viejo no hay espacio para que mi papá viaje con nosotros este agujero en mi corazón llevo en mi camisa la vacante está destinada a doler Lote sin iluminación en el vasto parque de diversiones de mid-América en la mesa circular de la sala de juegos, 3 ancianos y una mujer gorda ven la televisión, Fear Something comienza el 11 de octubre mientras en un comedor embrujado, comemos pollo medio congelado, medio chamuscado que el cocinero medio asado juro que estaba horneado la llave de cabina 3 se rompe en la cerradura, el calentador en la cabina 1 no calienta Todavía años después las imágenes brillan, despiertan molestar y doler De vuelta a través de la ceguera dorada a Kamping Of América trenes, muchos arrendajos azules y un cuervo pino nudoso, mesa, banco y lavabo viviendas que no son hogar, pero que podrían serlo

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personas que no soy pero que veo en el espejo de la habitación podría ser, a medida que las paredes se abren, muestran otras habitaciones, careciendo solo (sombras de Raymond Chandler) persianas venecianas de óxido para que los cazados miren a través exactamente similares, llenos de diferentes emociones, contienen todo lo que necesitamos para vivir, sin aspaviento para recordarnos y hacernos las historias que tuviste una noche de tiempo para contar de Kansas de muchos moteles que nadie cruza sin necesidad de dormir remolinos en los caminos hacia arriba y de regreso a las aguas blancas donde después del naufragio llegamos haciendo autostop kitty-cornering 2 canoas en las habitaciones en una pausa antes de que la tormenta principal estalle de nuevo a sotavento yendo o volviendo a casa éramos felices, te has ido, volveré a encontrar donde escribo con estilográficas de tinta de pavo real, en otro motel barato, la llave quiénes podríamos ser. * Una glosa, forma renacentista temprana desarrollada por poetas de la corte española, honra el trabajo de otro autor, comenzando con una estrofa de ellos, repitiendo los versos de la estrofa como el décimo verso de las estrofas de 10 versos de la glosa, con los versos 6, 9, 10 rimados. RD Roy era un miembro valioso de CCLA, que falleció antes de que yo supiera si alguna vez recibió este poema.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Four pics by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/ groups/270081688228336

Dear photographers and friends from Canada, Cuba and everywhere, we welcome your pics on our Facebook pages. You can send single pics or a folder with a thematic idea. Submissions will be chosen monthly for publication in our CCLA official Newsletter, The Envoy. Don't miss this opportunity to promote your work!

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Two Photos by Wency Rosales

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By Kevin Manuel Noya Cruz Photography Second Place Award

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SIGHT By Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias

As I behold the silvery path branded by a setting sun I cannot tell where light is luminous water and where water is splashing light. Nature's elements meet, they fire up in kaleidoscopes of beauty while my lowly camera captures the stunning moment and my humble pen attempts at limning the wonder of a nearing twilight, the greatness of a sight that will repeat itself well past beyond my lifespan until the end of time.

By Alina González Serrano

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By Víctor Manuel Velázquez I have seen a thousand times, the fence strangling the tree. But the mandate of the tree is one: to overflow and grow towards freedom. Three nonsenses about the Callistemon

I The woman leaves a window open waiting for good weather, but failing that, the smell of the horse and its rider enters. The woman remembers those kisses given in the field, among the ambiguous disheveled groves of Christmas flowers. Remembers the love of a man and the arrival of a child. Say, Callistemon, what is good weather but remembering?

II On Friday, which more than Friday is First of Fruitful, the Callistemon ripens with swaying flowers. Arms like long floating ropes box the weary substance of the earth, razed acorns and mismatched teeth like darts. The gravel path (the one that the trees deny, illuminate with blood and gem-stones, and shade with moss) sings in the shadow of itself with the fin of a fish, with a lichen soul.

II Callistemon open in the morning, you have been confused with the willow, prodigy of tedium and remoteness. It is known that a cautious, newsy rumor came down to your fingers with the dazzling beauty of death. And in another part, which is the same as saying in another time, next to you who anticipates the third hour amidst a swarm of hate, Nineveh, an archipelago of names and a Lorca fall apart. Note: Callistemon is a genus of trees and shrubs in the Myrtaceae family, commonly called pipe cleaner or bottlebrush because of the shape of its inflorescence. Also known as Callistemon. In Venezuela it is known by the name of Cepillo (brush). In San Juan, Argentina as Cepillito (Small brush).

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By Víctor Manuel Velázquez

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Yo Soy

Por Ruth Noguer Figueredo Yo soy Latidos de la tierra Tormentas y heridas Promesas mal amadas Paz resistencias al fracaso Penumbras en las noches Luz en las tinieblas Yo soy la primavera Flor en el camino Soy la aurora Y el viento sopla Llevándose las tristezas Porque yo soy Te acompaño abriendo camino al tiempo que paso Yo soy gratitud y tu...mi fortaleza Yo soy esperanza mariposa que vuela y un futuro mejor

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I am By Ruth Noguer Figueredo I am Earth beats Storms and wounds Ill-loved promises Peace resistances to failure Twilight at night Light in the darkness I am spring Flower on the way I am the dawn And the wind blows Taking away sorrows Because I am I accompany you opening the way As time passes I am gratitude and you ... my strength I am butterfly hope that flies and a better future

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When the hours By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias When the hours cool freshening the night, words flutter freely near my windowpanes. There´s a different kind of silence that sounds like chirps and tweets as I hear the wind howl at the moon and knock at my window. When the hours cool after a day of Saharan heat, metaphors soar and land, softly, on the sill. All I have to do is sit up, pick them and jot them down before they decide to take flight again and find another aspirant poet.

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Muse By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias The moon soars full and high and my poet heart sighs dripping words that align in such manner they shape into verses. The moon smiles at me like a humouring muse whose errand tonight seems to be the generous giving away of letters that I see turn into poetry. The moon soars full and high tonight while I dream of metaphors and anticipate nothing less than a nocturnal poem.

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Older than Dying Allows By John B. Lee When my spirit lingers in the minds of those who have loved me and I’m older than dying allows let me whisper these wishes forever and forever that love may remember what love cannot hold like the smoke that remembers the fire

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Con más años de los que la muerte permite Por John B. Lee Cuando mi alma perdure en las mentes de aquellos que me han amado y tenga yo más años de los que la muerte permite déjenme susurrar el deseo siempre y para siempre de que el amor pueda recordar lo que el amor no puede contener como el humo que recuerda al fuego (translated by Miguel Olivé)

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Hollyhock Season By Richard (Tai) Marvin Grove For my dear mother After the Don Gutteridge poem “Magical”

I think of Mother every day but every year when hollyhock season arrives, sometime after Mother’s prize winning white irises have faded, lilacs have come and gone fading to ginger snap brown, hollyhocks snail into being, smiling mother’s smile, spires opening, inch by inch into my fond memories, heart still missing her tender care.

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Sanctioned Territory By Richard (Tai) Marvin Grove After the Don Gutteridge poem “Towards the Light” Dusk fell late during the teenage idle days of summer. Our mini marauding gang of Hamilton, hide and seekers gathered nightly after dinner under the incandescent moon that hung over Eire Avenue. Our marked territory for hiding was the Douglas house, clapboard green, peeling paint, and old man Smitty’s to the right. Backyards were sanctioned territory but if you were not wise enough to stay out of old lady Leeman’s backyard you were sure to be bit by her not so friendly German Sheppard Quennie.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Skating Rink By Richard (Tai) Marvin Grove

After the Don Gutteridge poem “Dark” (Home Ground) When I was just a young lad our house backed onto a farmer’s field. The swale just south of our backyard often filled with a sunny day melting even in the middle of the coldest winter making a great skating rink. My father took bales of hay for us to sit on and change into our frozen toed skates. A bonfire warmed our faces, hands and hearts. Tears would flow when we had to come in for dinner and then again when the toe thaw – we called the angry bear – started to leave our feet.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Kevin Manuel Noya Cruz. Holguin. Cuba Professional photographer. Member of the organizing committee of Photo Fest that takes place every year within the framework of the Romerías de Mayo in Holguín. Provincial director of the CAUNI Audiovisual Project, photographer in Performing Arts and the Center for Cultural Communication, currently working for the Radio Angulo website as a photojournalist. He has made several personal and collective exhibitions in national and international events, mainly in Chile. Professor of photography at the University of Holguín in the Department of University Extension, as well as at the Center for Cultural Improvement of Holguín and at Cedes. Director of the magazine “Fotógrafos de Holguín”. President of the Holguin Photographers Club.

By Kevin Manuel

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Two Photos By Kevin Manuel

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Ana María Hernández is a PhD in Biological Sciences and works as a researcher and professor at the Faculty of Biology of the University of Havana, in projects related to the study and conservation of Cuban insects, especially dragonflies and damselfishes. She initially ventured into nature photography to implement methods that facilitate biological inventories and minimize unnecessary capture of animals. Today, she also uses photography as a tool to show the beauty and importance of these highly threatened insects due to the destruction of their habitats and which, unfortunately, still do not constitute priorities for conservation.

Four Photos by Ana María Hernández

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Pasión Por Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández Ya me voy Como cazador sin uñas No me llames No regresaré…. Me iré por los tejados de esa choza Cruzaré sin límites por tejas musgosas Como pólvora me extenderé Entraré cuidadosamente Por el agujero de la esfera celeste Y veré la llama lenta que festeja La umbrosa alma femenina.

Passion By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández I'm leaving now Like a hunter without nails Do not call me I will not come back…. I will go through the roofs of that shack I will cross without limits through moss tiles Like wildfire I will spread I will enter carefully Through the hole of the celestial sphere And I will see the slow flame that celebrates The shadowy female soul.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

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 Adonay Perez Luengo our Cuban VP as Reviewing Editor Lisa Makarchuk our Canadian VP as (former) Reviewing Editor

Editor’s Email: joyphccla@gmail.com

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. Send us information about your book launches and poetry events! We look forward to seeing your information in The Envoy.

ENVOY-125 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández – joyphccla@gmail.com

Wency Rosales