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.