At the bottom
of a bottle
of mezcal
–like at the end–
waiting for us
is the worm.
I chew
in dry earth
that whiteness
of living hedgerows
to know
the taste
of what will eat me.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
20th Century Cuban poetry
Metals by Anton Arrufat
What do you think of the word metal?
Do you like it?
If I say,
the metal of your voice,
do you like it?
Metal sounds,
shimmers, endures.
Gleams in the dirt
of excavations.
“It’s a metal,” says
the Egyptologist’s helper.
A metal in Etruria,
in Uxmal,
in the remote
city of Ur.
A metal,
the metal of your voice.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
Leave by Manuel Diaz Martinez
Leave the moon
and dogs in the yard;
leave the chrysanthemums
in the lone glass pitcher;
leave the suede mask
beneath my bed;
leave my weapons a handspan from me
and the wind in the roads;
leave me upon this thick notebook
where I write
the words you forget.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
The Painting Where the Dog Was by Ricardo Alberto Perez
The painting where the dog
was
isn’t anymore.
A mark’s left
on the wall.
The dog
that was
in the painting that’s gone
has come back,
tame
and resting.
translated by Katherine M Hedeen
To Hope I Return, to the Wood by Carilda Oliver Labra
To hope I return, to the wood
that built my important days,
to the wayward spring
of times past.
To the justice of seeing it all
as if it belonged to me,
for when it’s said and done there’s no way
to abandon the hunger of the beast.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
Mezcal by Damaris Calderon
At the bottom
of a bottle
of mezcal
–like at the end–
waiting for us
is the worm.
I chew
in dry earth
that whiteness
of living hedgerows
to know
the taste
of what will eat me.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
Marco Polo’s Dilemma: for Margaret Randall by Victor Rodriguez Nunez
I’ve seen something of the world
Managua dust storms
bare snow
covering the pines along the road to Smolyan
and the flags arguing atop a tower
of the University of Puerto Rico
I’ve seen something of the world
Palenque’s bewitched stones
the bay of honey
forgotten by summer at Ponta Delgada
and the Red Square
painted by Kandinsky
I’ve seen something of the world
and it only deepens my sorrow
Nothing belongs to me
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
from an untitled poem by Raid Hernandez Novas
She was born for love, she burns in love, sensing the fruit,
for love her waist has grown like the world’s edges,
and a deep peace springs from her hair and her dress.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
Carpet: for Lourdes Casal by Nancy Morejon
The idea of a poem
comes in through the window,
perhaps performed, with no notice.
Did I maybe manage to fool
so much lost longing. . .?
It’s as if a carpet,
as if someone placed
a carpet at my feet
and now steady I should take
sharp flights, with benevolence
of that reader whose dream nested
the reading of Boti. . .
I can’t. . .
Oh steady dream,
oh clear sails toward my red body. . .
And the idea of the poem
is no longer,
is no longer.
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
Under the Wheels by Luis Lorente
Why do the dead want hearts
İf they’re keeping on barefoot,
stealthily, sunken in a bottle?
Why the need to proclaim themselves, write up manifestos,
raise barricades upon the very shifting sand
if they’ll never be able to see or hear or speak?
Why feel hunger when now the sowing
has spread to the hills of dim purgatory?
How is it they’re obsessed with knowing their future
if they’re only granted what’s final?
Why cry out for company if the sentence is irrevocable?
Why ask to see one other, dialogue, make after dinner conversation
if spiders copulate behind their portraits?
Why are arrows so pressing when arrows were what
changed them to eternal poplars and statues?
Why ask for a ceasefire when they don’t disagree,
aren’t alternatives, don’t aspire to power?
Why yearn so for incidences of spring?
What more do the dead want?
What more do they want to know?
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
