










































Yanira Marimón
Six Poems 

Translated from Spanish by Pamela Carmell

Yanira Marimón, (b. Matanzas, Cuba, 1971) is a member 
of the younger generation of writers in Cuba who have 
lived their entire lives under a restrictive government.  

Now with the influx of tourists and the increased availability of 
the internet, they are able to cast their gaze beyond their island. 
Their writing addresses a yearning for a more vital homeland, 
more opportunities to explore other cultures, and their loneliness 
for exiled countrymen absent for so many decades.  

Marimón continues her family’s literary tradition.  Her father, 
Luis Marimón, a celebrated poet, fled to the US, where he died 
in 1994.  Recently, Ms. Marimón collected her father’s poems 
into two anthologies that have rekindled interest in his work.

As editor of the literary journal Revista Matanzas, Marimón 
is an active part of the vital art center Matanzas has become.  
She has also published children’s novels and is a well-regarded 
literary critic.

Marimón’s books have received many awards, including the 
Premio de Poesía José Jacinto Milanés, presented by UNEAC, 
Cuba’s writers’ union, for her collection Contemplación vs. Acto. 
The poems in this translation are from that collection.

Marimón received the 2016 Rosalia de Castro Prize for 
Poetry in Galicia, Spain, for her collection Pequeña eternidad.

       P. C.



146    Yanira Marimón

De noche, la ciudad
     a mi padre

Ya no hay lumínicos en las calles
solo estrellas en el cielo
y una luna grande y redonda algunos días al mes.
Mis hijos aprenden las sílabas en libros extraños.
Todo es más real
más dado a perecer.

Ya no hay carteles brillantes
donde descubrir la fuerza de las palabras
su misterio.
Solo nos queda la noche
y una luna enorme y redonda
algunos días al mes.

No sé si podrás entenderlo
no sé si puedas.

Desde la eternidad, Céline observa Paris

Louis-Ferdinand Céline observa Paris desde la eternidad. Sabe 
que su ciudad no es una fiesta.  Lo sabe y llora con sincera 
agonía.

De forma cíclica ve pasar su vida:  su niñez y adolescencia en 
el pasaje Choiseul, la pobreza extrema, sostenida. A su madre 
inválida reparando encajes viejos, la escalera de caracol que 
debían subir una y otra vez, eternamente. Los fideos y las 
gachas en su plato, la Guerra.

Céline busca, pero no logra ver los Campos Elíseos, sólo 
suburbios donde debía haber luces, oscuridad, medios locos, 
hombres con heridas, historias clínicas abiertas de él mismo, 
pacientes pobres, sacerdotes agonizantes trepando las 
ventanas

Louis-Ferdinand Céline observa Paris desde la eternidad.  Y 
cambia la vista.



 Pamela Carmell    147

At Night, the City
            for my father

There are no neon signs now on the streets
only stars in the sky
a big, round moon a few days a month.
My children learn their letters in foreign books.
Everything is more clear cut
more likely to perish.

There are no more glossy posters
where we discovered the power of words
their mystery.
All we have left is the night
and a huge, round moon
a few days a month.

I don’t know if you could understand that.
I don’t know if you can.

From Eternity, Céline Observes Paris

Louis-Ferdinand Céline observes Paris from eternity.  He knows 
his city is nothing to celebrate. He knows it and cries in sincere 
agony.

He sees the cycle of his life pass by:  his childhood and youth 
in the Passage Choiseul, the extreme, unrelenting poverty. His 
crippled mother mending old lace, the winding staircase they 
had to climb time and time again, eternally. The thin soup and 
porridge in his bowl, the War.

Céline looks all around, but he can’t make out the Champs 
Elysées, just the outskirts where there should be lights, 
darkness, half-crazed people, men with wounds, his own 
hospital records lying open, poor patients, priests in agony 
clambering out the windows. 
 
Louis-Ferdinand Céline observes Paris from eternity.  And he 
turns his gaze elsewhere.



148    Yanira Marimón

Incapacidad del lente

Tras el clic de una cámara
la señora sonríe.
Tiene la piel blanquísima y busca—dice—
fotografiar lo exótico de cada rostro cansado.

La miseria también es digna de eternizarse,
traduzco de su cuidadoso inglés
mientras enfoca despacio su lente,
primero en un edificio destruido
donde niños descalzos juegan a las escondidas,
luego en el rostro sin edad de un vagabundo.

Yo la miro
asiento con mi cabeza
desconcertada también sonrío.

Al borde de un rio extranjero

Al borde de un río extranjero
un hombre extranjero mira a los patos
a los poquísimos patos que a esta hora del día
copulan con fuerza
en su instinto terco por la supervivencia.

Es curioso—piensa—
la similitud de las suertes
entre un hombre, un ave y un río.

Y en ese preciso instante
en que el Manzanares corre tranquilo
y los patos revolotean 
quisiera ser, no el hombre,
sino el río extranjero de aguas quietas
o al menos una de esas aves
 que ahora ha levantado el vuelo.



 Pamela Carmell    149

The Failing of the Lens

After the click of a camera
the lady smiles.
Her skin is so very white and she is trying—she says—
to photograph the exotic in every tired face.

Misery is also worthy of being immortalized.
I translate from her careful English
as she slowly focuses her lens,
first on the ruins of a building
where barefoot children play hide-and-seek,
then on the ageless face of a beggar.

I look at her
nod my head
disconcerted I too smile.

 On the Bank of a Foreign River

On the bank of a foreign river
a foreign man watches the ducks
the handful of ducks that at this time of day
copulate with a fury
in their stubborn instinct for survival.

It’s strange, he thinks,
how similar are the fortunes
of a man, a bird and a river. 

And at that very moment
when the Manzanares River flows peacefully
and the ducks flutter around
I would like to be, not the man
but the foreign river with its quiet waters
or at least one of those birds
that have now lifted off in flight.



150    Yanira Marimón

Manantial
    a Carmen Sofía

Alguien dijo:
Es conveniente tener
agua limpia frente a tu casa
aleja lo triste
las distancias 
el escarnio.

Crecí
con esa certeza
y aunque tuve
sin remedio 
penas
distancia
escarnio
—tengo un charco—, me decía
mi resguardo
mi agua de limpiar los miedos.

Más tarde descubrí
con espanto
cómo las cloacas
las aguas albañales
llegaban hasta mi manantial
contaminándolo
haciéndolo sucio
sin remedio.

Patria

Cómo sería pensarte desde lejos
detenida en mi memoria
ausente de tu luz
tu demasiado luz.

Imaginar tus verdes
desde el blanco absurdo de la nieve
no ser ya más la imagen que moldeaste:
barro seco         yedra         abrojo en el camino.

Cómo sería, Patria.



 Pamela Carmell    151

Spring
    for Carmen Sofía

Someone once said:
It’s a good idea to have
clean water in front of your house
it washes away sadness
distances
derision.

I grew up
with that certainty
and even though I had
troubles
distances
derision
and no remedy for them
“I have a pond,” I told myself 
my protection
my water to wash away my fears.

Much later I discovered
to my horror
how the sewers
their filthy waters
reached all the way to my spring
contaminating it
fouling it 
and no remedy for that.

Homeland

What would it be like to think about you from far away
arrested in my memory
absent from your light
your too bright light.

To imagine your greens
from the absurd white of snow
to no longer be the image you molded:
dried clay         ivy         thorny weed  in the road.

What would that be like, Homeland.


