The Envoy 092 - The newsletter of the CCLA - Canada Cuba Literary Alliance

THE ENVOY The official newsletter of the

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

OCTOBER, 2019 ISSUE O92 www.CanadaCubaLiteraryAlliance.org

OFFICIAL CCLA INVITATION TO CUBA JANUARY 2020 Hello, dear CCLA friends!

Our next CCLA trip will be two weeks in January/February 2020. Date to be announced soon. We will meet in Holguín at the Mirador Resort looking north over the jungle canopy! We meet every year with a large or small grourp. The last Holguin group meeting was January 2017, during the presentation of the third book of the Bridges Series. It is about time we gathered again, as many of us as possible, to continue the CCLA tradition. This is our big year of cheerfully closing the 2019 celebrations for the fifteen years of the CCLA. Please contact our Cuba President Miguel Olivé by email at cclacubanprez@gmail.com and migueloi@uho.edu.cu and let us know if you are interested in this year’s trip. Winter is harsh up in Canada, so what better way to fight it than packing up and coming down to enjoy our warm beaches and resorts, and above all the warmth of us friends meeting and sharing and reading poetry doing workshops, doing day trips and bonding more time?

Tai says I am an “eager beaver,” but then I have my female alter ego in Adonay, Manuel Velázquez´s wife. She is already planning what we will do. Adonay is an excellent everything-planner and hostess, so don´t miss this opportunity!

Pic by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández OUR ENVOYS 93 AND 94 WILL GIVE YOU DETAILS OF WHAT WE ARE PLANNING FOR 2020 – THINGS TO DO, PLACES TO GO, SURPRISES! MEMBERS MAY OFFER SUGGESTION TOO. Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias CCLA President in Cuba & The Ambassador Editor-in-chief Adonay Pérez Luengo CCLA VP in Cuba and “Executive Secretary” Miguel: cclacubanprez@gmail.com & migueloi@uho.edu.cu Adonay: adonaypl@nauta.cu (for short note, no attachments) & adonaypl076@gmail.com

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

The Man with the green guitar

By Keith Inman what song burns in faithful men with frets and chords that deliver them from youth a guitar in a corner strings taut, waiting to be played a resound of echoes ringing from the twist key of a choired past scourge of the lone café he plays for tourists who don’t know his words strings taut waiting to be plucked he strums the hollow heart of the green body singing vespers of drown in

My Heart Grows Wings

By Richard M. Grove

Ebony branches part to brilliant sundrenched view down, down over the tree tip spires to vast wilderness panorama unsullied, pristine.

Wing tips deep, loon lances silver mirrored sky

Pic by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

Dear Fellow CCLA members: I have learned the term CCLAers from my dear friends Jorge (Envoy Editor) and Miguel (Ambassador Editor and Prez). I think I will adopt it, so let me start again and say Dear Fellow CCLAers.

As usual I have to thank Jorge for bringing us such a fine colourful Envoy – thank you my brother. – our brother. You bring us CCLAers together in such a wonderful way. Send Jorge your pics and writing.

OK – we are finally getting closer to setting dates for our 2020 CCLA member trip. After chatting with Manuel and Adonay about their schedules it looks like the last week of January and the first week of February is when we will all meet in Cuba. Some will add days or weeks to the front or back end of those dates for their personal holidays but basically the CCLAers will meet and be together for those two weeks for day trips, workshops, readings, book launches and other events. Miguel, Adonay, Jorge and Wency are the official organizers of our events. Thank You!!!

We will all make our own way to Cuba on our own steam and meet in Gibara for the first week where Jorge will find a casa for each of us. Don’t forget that our CCLAer Shane Joseph is a travel agent. He can help you book your trip. Email him at: shane.joseph@marlintravel.ca the second week of the CCLA trip will be in a small resort just outside of Holguin in the jungle hills at Hotel Mirador de Mayabe. We have stayed there in other years and had a wonderful time. We will be doing day trips in both weeks. Don’t forget that writers and non-writers are welcome. We don’t fill even most of our time doing literary things. Wency is looking into the cost of rooms for the second week in Mayabe and the cost of buses to take us around. Adonay and Miguel are organizing the day trips and events.

Some of you might know that Kim and I have been in China on a tourist holiday. Sadly we were not able to visit Manuel, Adonay and Pablo there. China is such a big country. Despite the 10,000 miles of Bullet Train tracks that crisscross the country at 350 km/hr we were not able to meet up.

We had a wonderful trip organized by We China. We met a lot of wonderful people and saw a lot of china and came home with a lot of poems.

Below is one of my pieces that I just finished writing. There will be more to come, in fact there is another piece on my writer’s blog at: https://richardgrovewriter.wordpress.com/ And some pics on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/richard.grove.9678 All the best – see you in Cuba

Prez Tai

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

Tiananmen Square – The Gate of Heavenly Peace

By Richard M. Grove Tiananmen Square, located in the center of Beijing, the capital of China, was the oddest of odd tourist experiences of our entire trip. I kept wondering why I was there. Why were the other 200,000, mostly Chinese tourists, there? I am sure they were not there to celebrate the Tiananmen Square massacre of 1989 where an estimated several hundred to thousands of student and worker demonstrators were shot dead by Chinese troops on that infamous, hot Sunday afternoon of June 4th.To this Day, discussion, public or private, of the “military crackdown”, as the Chinese Government euphemistically calls it, is strictly prohibited in China. Our Tour guide warned us not to even discuss it among ourselves in fear of being overheard.

An untold number of ghosts hover above Tiananmen Square protesting in silence.

Tank Man still stands brave among brave.

When we arrived at Tiananmen Square through a tunnel, under a busy street, we pushed into the square past Mao Zedong’s mausoleum (also known as Chairman Mao) surrounded by thousands upon thousands of devotees slowly shuffling, inching, their way for a reverent ten-second view of Chairman Mao’s preserved body.

Chairman Mao revered now in death, in mythology more than he possibly could have been while alive.

Millions line up every year to gaze at his mortal remains, worshipped for ten second intervals, rushed by guards to move along, move along.

Snapshots of memory, no cameras allowed.

Just as a quick reminder, he was the Chinese communist revolutionary who became the founding father of the People's Republic of China, which he ruled as the Chairman of the Communist Party of China from when it was established in 1949 until his death in 1976.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

For me visiting Tiananmen Square was like going to a huge, full, crowded football stadium on a day when there was no football game scheduled, no cheerleaders practicing, no music piped in, no smell of hotdogs. We were there simply because of the hype that this was “a place of places” not to be missed but in fact, for me, it was just a big open square with a bunch of people, standing, squatting, mulling, smiling, taking pictures. Mind you the huge, sculptural, painted flower pot, thirty to forty feet tall, in the middle of the square was impressively large and made quite a striking presentation. Anything smaller would have disappeared in the vastness of the open space.

“A place of places” maybe not but the huge flower pot standing forty feet tall said something about clemency, peace and forgiveness.

This might actually have been what was strived for by the redemptive designers.

Despite the throng of people Tiananmen Square felt empty to me, void of warmth, culture and even history. It was like you were there to see the Emperor’s new clothes – hmm no new clothes – not even the Emperor was there. I feel like I was sold a bill of goods and dragged to see the vastness of nothing. I am willing to say that maybe, just maybe I didn’t understand something significant.

Granted you could see “The Great Hall of the People”, a kind of Chinese parliament building, located at the western edge of Tiananmen Square. On the other side the majestic, stately “National Museum of China” proudly faces the Great Hall of the People. The strange thing is that there was not a soul to be seen in front of either impressive building. Everyone seemed to rather be in Tiananmen Square, contained, focused.

Soldiers, riot gear at their feet.

Poised, ready for any eventuality.

Well back to the football field analogy. Even though I am not a big football fan, I could kind of imagine a bunch of football fans showing up to an empty stadium just to sit and imagine the history of the football league. In the distance there might have been a huge picture of a revered football player that you have never seen and will never get to see and for me never care to see. Well sticking with the, somewhat flawed analogy, you admire this figure simply because others and history have admired their accomplishments and maybe are worthy of admiration.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

So here we were roaming around the world’s seventh largest public square taking pictures of people taking pictures so we could go home and say we were in the very place where “The Tank Man” stood down a Chinese tank on that day of shame.

The Man the blue guitar

By John B. Lee for Jorge, Gibara, Cuba the man with the blue guitar sings Martí as we ride the jaunting cart horse-drawn along the sea-lit lanes of Gibara, solo voce “yo soy un hombre sincero” and with wife and friends in chorus the song in harmony lifting over the buzz of shining strings the melodious mourning of the recent loss of America’s quintessential troubadour of peace and source of song that sky we see is also star-subsuming blue and this Jorge with whom we share a brilliant ear one hour in the cool grotto a common cave like the mind of the earth two rock climbers spider the wall with handgrip and toehold and float rope and hang cradle while three guitars Pic by Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias one mandolin

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

and twelve voices flicker the candle of a distant room as it is with the echolalia of a much-remembered day the priestly sigh at the end of service the poet breathless at the end of an overlong line the lover in pleasure, the child in grief and the eidolon of memory saying hello and again hello

Gargoyles and Green Guitars

By Keith Inman A stream meandered through the last Roman arch of a bridge spanning the fallow field as the trail churned up. Nylon’d hikers in chorus step stopped to gaze at turbines raking the sun-filled valley. Jackets ruffling like banners, they continued over the rim, heads down, striding toward their haloed selves on the dry road.

In the fields, water troughs intersected ditches to lush canals and an old ship-lock where a man with a green guitar spidered faint chords, his tongue twisting in concert below a plaster wall daggered with directions of a forgot Hospice. Anne swore it was the same fellow from four days ago, and dropped a euro in his felt case.

“Poor soul,” she muttered, as they followed an avenue of trees to a squat Romanesque church eaved with gargoyles eating the faithless; the cool interior adorned with simple figurines on thin pillars rose to the curve of unconsecrated ceiling. A kiosk selling postcards stood beside a carved relief of a Templar on horseback; their faces worn away as rays of light stretched stragglers into town, and strains of the day played on the static wind.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

Kissing the Darkness When the Pages Close

By John B. Lee

my poem is there kissing the darkness when the pages are closed and silent as a dreamer’s mind the quiet sleep of fragrant ink locked within the verso and the recto like seed life in the frozen earth that longs for warm release in stranger’s light to feel the fertile germination of a sentient breath transforming tight-packed syllables of interlocking words between the speaking and the hearing lies the soul that moves the hand

Pic by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

The First Day

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias The first day. Genesis 1:5 As the first day. Bernice Lever like the new sun rising like the sea renewing itself in wavy romance with the shore leaving runic signs on the sand I breathe in the pulse of life awakened at this hour in the sleepy waterside calibrate my existence as I travel with the tide weigh my crests and shallows skin-deep essences retained substantial unrepeated I interpret ocean messages of long ago cosmic capsules where in life rocketed to earth expanded sea to land from natural noise to sentient sound.

This is where I stand, before the primordial source.

God divided light from darkness, my eyes receive awakening this pulse of life refreshed to embrace me like the first day of all creation.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

To you To my wife, Alina

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias I´ve withheld words tethered full sentences kept silent so many times.

You deserve more deserve all: wink, joke, patting kiss, caress, hug words set free sentences unleashed silence broken whole texts of gratefulness to you, the gentlest of loves the best love.

pic by Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

SMILE OF LIGHT

By Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado To Helga

A smile that is born In the middle of her heart, Brightens all her face Like a sunrise; Illuminating two Resplendent green lagoons, Breaking into a rainbow On her forehead…

HELL FOREVER

By Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado Some years ago I was near hell, The devil came to me with his temptation; So strong was his call, And so was his claime; They made me feel weak in my frustration.

My shield was thick enough to stop the spear, But nevertheless, I was in danger; It managed to filter its poison into me, And put my body and soul Far from salvation.

I struggled hard to keep in true, And nobody knew my condemnation; On and on I went until I thought, I was immune to all dejection.

But no matter how far You walk or run, In desperate intent To escape from aberration; Once the poison is in It’s easy for him, To trap you again; And start once more The battle for Your emancipation.

This time, I was so tired of running away, Trying to find alleviation; So I turned around and faced my fate, And so I’ll live forever…

In lamentation.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

HEAVEN AND HELL

By Miriam Estrella Vera Delgado In such a case, it’s worth to meditate; Is it better to love, or is it better to hate?

You took me to heaven And there I was so well, I never imagined You’d take me to hell.

The warmth and the flowers, The songs from the birds, It all came like magic…

You cast me a spell.

But never will happiness, Endure, I can tell, And after the angel, Came the devil from hell.

You turned cold and cruel, You hurt me so deep, That all I can do Is remember and weep.

You left me there crying, And didn’t turn to see I needed a hand To stand up on my feet.

Gathering some strength, I got up and walked, Ignoring the burn I felt in my heart.

I forged a bright smile To cover my face, It’s only a mask To hide my disgrace.

Now you come to me And I’m silly and weak, Instead of rejection I can feel my need.

I can’t stop my hands, They reach out for you; I know you’re not love, You’ll surely turn me blue.

How naive can be A woman who takes, Heaven and Hell Together as fate.

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

HAIKU

By John Hamley

Hundred years after [from] smallpox totems guard [the shore] HAIKU

By John Hamley Waiting for the tide wishing that gulls were ducks HAIKU

By John Hamley Leafless trees fat moon rising from the ground HAIKU

By John Hamley The truth is piranhas eat fish not children HAIKU

By John Hamley The old aunt can’t even keep up with the coffin HAIKU

By John Hamley Three vultures my first migratory birds spring comes late

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

It's Love!

By Merle Amodeo

It must be love because I don't resent watching Fox News as long as I'm watching with him, and when he's late calling, and I'm sure he's either been hit by a bus or he's out with a blonde from his office, I close my eyes and cheer for the bus.

I'm sure it's love because when he complains I'm either deaf or ignoring him, I don't remind him how wrong he was the last time he gave me advice; instead, I smile sweetly and agree to have my hearing tested.

I know it's love because when he claims to be tired and insists that I do the driving, and then starts to offer suggestions about when I should signal and where I should turn, I never pull over and offer him the steering wheel, I just softly recite the periodic table.

It must be love because when he comes home from work weary and grouchy, and can't talk about anything but what a rotten day he had, I never remind him that he's not the only one who had a less than idyllic afternoon, I softly chant, "The sun'll come out tomorrow!"

I know it's love because when I'm feeling down and defeated and he calls to say he can't wait to see me in the black dress I showed him in the catalogue, and asks me to meet him in it for dinner, I don't mention that our credit card is nearly maxed out, I make a reservation and dress to kill.

I 'm sure it's love because in spite of the headaches and heartaches, tooth decay, fatigue, and myopia of our years together, there's no one I'd rather iron a shirt for, or debate the existence of God with, or assure that in spite of hair loss and weight gain

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

Opening the Barrow

By Bruce Meyer in memoriam, John Montague

I find myself asking questions about the voyage from life to death and how light in a barrow corridor awakens the beginning of summer.

I seek that light through winters as it fights like a wave-struck hero amid turmoils of the labyrinth heart, and fumbles for words in all their frailty.

On the pavement of a sacred road where waking only leaves more riddles in the puzzles of the broken past, we shall meet again at sunrise when a ray of light strikes its mark, and every word shatters into stars.

Bruce Meyer

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

NIGHT AT SEA

By Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

When the mysterious night falls everything is still the sea dozes off before us all things fade and vanish everything asleep…

Then the gentle breeze of dawn caresses the quiet waters daybreak arrives slowly, tenderly bringing life to the calm sea and shutting the drapes curtains of the dying night.

NOCHE EN EL MAR

Por Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

Cuando nos llega la noche misteriosa, Todo es silencio, el mar se adormece ante nuestra vista, Todo se borra y desaparece, Todo duerme, Mientras comienza la suave brisa del amanecer, Que va moviendo el agua mientras reposa, La aurora comienza dulce y gozosa, pero viene a mover las tranquilas agua nocturnas y a cerrar las cortinas de la noche.

Pic by Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

FROM THE ENVOY EDITOR: WE ARE PLEASED TO PRESENT POETRY BY A CANADIAN POET FRIEND, ED WOODS...WORDS BELOW FROM OUR CUBAN PRESIDENT…..

A Word about Ed Woods

by CCLA Cuban President and The Envoy Assistant Editor Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias I want to talk about Canadian poet friend Ed Woods. He has been a hell of a globe trotter. He knows the world, has tasted land, sea and air, has held their essence in his hands and carried them in his heart, fully.

He has plunged headlong into the act of living. Such experiences fortunately combined with his insight and has given him one-of-a-kind material and motivation to start writing poetry when life decided it was about time we heard from him.

A pilot by profession, Woods has been able to perform all sorts of jobs and crafts. Now we take delight in his creative writing, expanded into topics that have forged him over 570 poems published in mags, websites, anthologies, etc.

Enjoy these two haiku and his poem “Write.” A direct, uncomplicated, open and handsome style underscores his work that limns nature, creation and everyday things influenced by his “trotting”.

1 misty tea vapors unison of shoreline haze a loon cries softly

2 eagles fly higher into crystal blue freedom a real view of earth

Write my pen is distracted it taps on the desk grips between teeth and of late it is getting on my nerves write something anything what’s wrong?

Pic taken by Ed´s friend

does it not realize our poetic world is word starved as it twiddles amongst agitated fingers and dares not give the excuse it is my fault stuck here in writers block

Pic taken by Ed´s friend

OCTOBER 2019 ENVOY-092 – EDITOR- Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández –joyphccla@gmail.com

LEAVING

By Paul Corman I come down the creaking old stairs with my clothes in a backpack, conscious of every sound I make. She is sitting on the living room couch watching the grim events of the day on the news channel, her arms crossed over her chest and her perfect legs tucked under her ass. I stand by the front door and say good-by and she gives me the finger without turning her head.

I close the door and step out onto the porch, a blast of frosty air focusing my mind. I take a deep breath and stride down the street towards the bus stop, affirming confidence in my decision, warding off fear and welcoming the energy of another new beginning.

Snow sticks to my boots like cold porridge and as I walk I'm followed by the sucking sound of possible regret and invisible dark tentacles that reach back into the house to her searing anger. And suddenly I feel the euphoria of freedom, roll a snowball and throw it at the trunk of a big old tree on someone's front lawn.

END

Pic by Paul´s friend

Pic by Paul Corman

Early Winter Rain Gentle rain - soothing the soul (Tai Grove’s comment in an e-mail)

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias Cold, welcome rain suddenly comes down caressing the sun-lashed roofs and my soul.

It had been a while since I scribbled a poem. Now a dear friend’s e-mail comment and early winter signs prompt me while I hear housewives curse at a rain that threatens to ruin their day’s hard work and I watch them rush to unpeg the clothes in the porches, hang them somewhere “safe from this drizzling.”

Rain lands on my face, cleansing deep within me with wet kisses and a crystal-arms embrace splashing me with a blessed handful of dripping words.

emails: joyphccla@gmail.com joyph@nauta.cu

CANADA CUBA LITERARY ALLIANCE FROM THE EDITOR: IN OUR UPCOMING ISSUES, WE WOULD LIKE SUBMISSIONS FROM EVERY CCLA MEM BER SO WE ARE NURTURED BY YOU! IF YOU HAVE BOOKS COMING OUT, A POETRY EVENT, PHOTOGRAPHY OR JUST NEWS ABOUT YOU LET US KNOW!!!!!