First of all, you have to understand that some of the most boring
moments of my life were spent at baseball games: one major league, one AAA
minor league. Baseball decidedly not
been berry berry good to me.
However, when I brought up WaPo yesterday afternoon and saw the
red BREAKING NEWS banner that the arse in the White House has canceled the deal
for Major League Baseball (MLB) to sign Cuban players, I flipped out. I didn’t
even have to read the story (although I did) to know that this is just a
mean-spirited, bloody-minded, petty, vindictive willie-waving exercise and bogus
stunt to show everyone in the country who’s the boss.
This little, little putz is still pissed off that he wasn’t
allowed to buy a NFL team and that his only listing in the sports history books
is going to be as the fool who tanked the WFL. And he’s taking it out on Cuban
ball players. Because. He. Can.
If you want to laugh, consider that an administration mouthpiece apparently
said with a straight face that MLB payments to the Cuban baseball federation amount
to “human trafficking”. Like 1)that’s remotely the case or 2)this crowd gives a
flying fuck for human trafficking (except where the Kleptocrat gets a cut of
the fees).
So today we’re having a couple of poems from the 20th-Century
Cuban Dulce María Loynaz. Loynaz actually trained as a lawyer, but I don’t hold
that against her. Her husband went into exile for some time after the
Revolution, but Loynaz remained, and went into seclusion.
Someone asked her why she didn’t also leave. She replied, “I was
here first.” Batista, Castro—no importa.
She followed her own path.
I’m sharing two of her poems, in Spanish and in English.
“Viajero”
Yo soy como el viajero
que llega a un Puerto y no lo espera nadie;
Soy el viajero tímido que pasa
entre abrazos ajenos y sonrisa
que no son para él…
Como el viajero solo
que se alza el cuello del abrigo
en el gran muelle frío.
“The Traveler”
I am like the traveler
Who arrives at a port where no one waits for him;
I am the shy traveler who walks
Among other people’s embraces and smiles
Which are not for him…
Like the lone traveler
Who turns up the collar of his overcoat
In the chill of the great wharf.
tr: Judith Kerman
From her Poemas sin Nombre
(Untitled Poems):
Poema CII
Pajarillos de jaula me van pareciendo a mí
misma mis sueños.
Si los suelto, perecen o regresan. Y es que el
grano y el cielo
hay que ganarlos; pero el grano es demasiado
pequeño y el
cielo es demasiado grande..., y las alas, como
los pies, también
se cansan.
“My Dreams”
My dreams are starting to look like birds in a cage.
If I let them go, they either die or return.
I know that the great sky and the tiniest grain
are things we must earn, but the grain is too small
and the sky is too big, and wings, like feet, grow tired.
tr: Paul Weinfield
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