A guest blog by John Casquarelli
Storytelling is as natural to humans as eating. We create our myths and epics as a way of expressing our perceived knowledge, sharing what we believe we know about an event or a person. My understanding of my grandfather, Luis, comes from a collection of stories narrated by my mother. Even now, as I read and translate Luis’s poetry and rewrite it as a bilingual dialogue, my responses to his stanzas are certainly influenced by the stories my mother told me of an old man forced to sit in a small room with a typewriter, sharing his visions of Havana, its people, its streets, its paladares, its rhythms, and Cuba Libre.
My mother, Rose, was six years old when she left Havana with her two older siblings and relocated to the Bronx. Their father remained in Havana, sending letters and poems to his children. Luis would mail one or two pages at a time to his kids in New York. Because of his political commentary, Luis spent time in prison, where he typed many of the poems that became the premise for the book I am currently writing. Luis was a poet, musician, businessman, and a descendent of Perucho Figueredo, composer of the Cuban National Anthem.
My mother tells how a family maid escorted her to see her father at work. Luis owned a brown sugar factory. Much to the dismay of the maid, five-year-old Rosita used her fingers to lick the brown sugar, getting her white dress dirty in the process. Luis, unlike the maid, found his daughter’s antics amusing. My mother tells this story with a kind of childlike pride, where the memory resonates sweeter than the sugar granules on the tips of her fingers.
Through Luis’s words, I piece together a lineage woven in cultural history, and I recognize my desire to be a part of a larger family. As I’m reading my grandfather’s poems, I let the words reveal to me his Havana, the Cuba that is as distant from me as Odysseus was from his beloved Ithaca. I long to reconnect to a home from an earlier age, but my longing is blocked by obstacles. The Calypso and Circe of my stories are state policies and an embargo. My grandfather’s poems provide insight into a man I’ve never met and a Cuba that I have yet to set foot on.
from Havana Dialogue
De ingratitud está hecho el corazón humano
De afrentas y desengaños a manos llenas
A todo ello le llamamos amor de hermano
No lugar de egoismo y envidia plenas
Birds eat seeds and we forget to fly
To the last oak in the last wood.
Petals from Venus around our fingers
Reaching the space in-between.
Intrigas y perfidias a diario encontramos
Como premio a la bondad en nuestra vida
No existe sinceridad ni alma hallamos
Que amiga consuele la nuestra afligida
I settle beneath your voice
Not necessarily lost but always
Seeking folly nonexistence and I ask
Do you still have room for me
Y así vamos por el largo sendero
Tropezando acá y cayendo acallá
Suspirando por el momento venidero
Que nuestros ojos cierre hasta el mas allá
From somewhere our self-destruction
Red lips smile and quiver
Let me in when I fear your invitation
We’ll walk on luminous trails
John Casquarelli is the author of two full-length poetry collections, On Equilibrium of Song (Overpass Books, 2011) and Lavender (Authorspress, 2014). He received his MFA in Creative Writing at Long Island University—Brooklyn, and is a member of the literary and art community, the Unbearables (http://unbearables.com/).