Farruca - Severo Sarduy

WITHIN A WHITE CUBE	the body is a volume
SUPERIMPOSED EDGES
THE BODY	Opaque dimensions

Paradise. Storefront. Monte Street - Reina María Rodríguez

The ventilator
blades are tired       of lifting dust over
      these lifeless objects
objects in disuse.exhaling.restlessness.

Last Song of the Exile - Miguel Teurbe Tolón

I.

Hard my path on earth is closed;

Light is dead within my heart.

Star of Hope! thou art gone down;

Clay and spirit now must part!

The Mirror - Dulce María Loynáz

The mirror hanging on the wall,

where I sometimes see myself in passing…

is a dead pond brought

into the house.

Ugly Things - Teresita Fernández

In an old worn out basin

I planted violets for you

and down by the river

with an empty seashell

I found you a firefly.

Portrait of José Cemí - José Lezama Lima

No combat did he unleash, as panting

was the custom set between his breath

and the breeze or tempest.

Season of the Northers - Jose-Maria de Heredia

The weary summer’s all-consuming heat

Is tempered now; for from the frozen pole

The freed north-winds come fiercely rushing forth,

Wrapt in their mantles, misty, dim, and frore,

While the foul fever flies from Cuba’s shore.

Can You? - Nicolás Guillén

Can you sell me the air as it slips through your fingers

As it slaps at your face and untidies your hair?

Perhaps you could sell me fivepennyworth of wind

or more, perhaps sell me a storm?

Old Surrealist Ballad - José Lezama Lima

When the rivulet swells with lashing

snaketails and the piano with its backside turned

displays its shoes shining like the night

Anne Frank - Heberto Padilla

In front of Cologne Cathedral

—divided by two black columns—

once more the children

are taking up their songs.

Doubts - Reina María Rodríguez

Today I’d like to write about what I need—

not to waste time

or throw words down into gulleys

descending into my depths

naked and alone

When Rain Speaks of War - Virgil Suarez

it sounds like the hiss of a viper,
green-brown in underbrush
by the lichen-riddled rocks,

A different parrot - Reina María Rodríguez

Naturally, Flaubert’s parrot
could not be called Chucho,
his author wouldn’t stick him
with a name like that.

To Him - Gómez de Avellaneda

No bonds withhold,—for all that held are broken;
So heaven ordained,—and blessèd be its name
The bitter chalice I have drained in token,
And now is peace with nothing more to claim.

A sincere man am I - José Martí

A sincere man am I
Born where the palm trees grow,
And I long before I die
My soul’s verses to bestow.

To Emma - José Martí

Do not feel sad, dear child, because you lack
The gift of speech which heaven has denied you:

Naval Engineering - Víctor Rodríguez Núñez

The wheel's star
                            freshly cut
from night's garden

I Have A White Rose To Tend (Verse XXXIX) - José Martí

I have a white rose to tend
In July as in January;

Anthony and Cleopatra - Jose-Maria de Heredia

Together from the terrace they could see
Egypt bed down beneath a sultry sky;
through the black delta, fatly, massively,
to Saïs or Bubastis, Nile rolled by.