Sencillamente Martí (Simply Martí)

(Versos Sencillos XIX)

With your eyes so fiery bright
And the sight of a misplaced brooch I thought, perhaps, last night
You’d given cause for reproach.
I hated your treacherous ways
Even hated you unto death
And could not bear to gaze
On beauty and vice in one breath
Then I discovered the note
And without knowing how or when
I understood what you wrote;
And the tears you shed for me then.

The girl with the pink scarf,
the girl with very black eyes,
There is no black like your eyes,
nor pink like your scarf.
She who sold her promise,
she with such black eyes,
The promises of your heart are blacker than your eyes.

(Versos Sencillos XVI and XL)

On the latticed Moorish window’s sill
Designed by a Moorish hand
A pale lover sits to pray
That the moon will understand.
And upon a silken bed
Of red and grey, sits she
Eva looks pale, as she shreds
A violet in her tea.

My painter friend starts to compose
And fat, golden cherubs abound;
Kneeling on clouds, in repose
With halos of sun all around.
Now paint me with all of your skill
Two angels modest and mild
Who bring me with pious good will
Bouquets from the hand of a child.

A kiss!
“Wait!”
That day when they separated,
they loved each other.
A kiss!

“Take it!”
That day when they separated,
they cried.

The girl runs into the forest in her boyfriend’s arm,
and a kiss was heard, and other, and then nothing was heard.
One hour was there, and she came out without her boyfriend,
a cry was heard, a cry, and then nothing else was heard.

Music by Harold Gramatges. (Versos Sencillos XXXIV)

Heart, spread your shame where none can see,
being sober and not being the motivation of their pity.
Shame! Who dares to say that I feel shame?
After that, after the lightning and the fire,
I will have time to suffer.
I know about a deep sadness among the shames without names:
Slavery among men is the great shame of the world!
There are mountains and we have to climb to the heights;
after that we will see, soul,
who it was who put you to die!
Hidden in my brave breast, it is the grief that pains me:
the son of a slave people, he lives to shut up and die.
Shame! Who dares to say that I have Shame?

(Versos Sencillos No. 5)

If you see a hill of foam it is my poetry that you see;
My poetry is a mountain and is also a feather fan.
My poems are like a dagger sprouting flowers from the hill;
My poetry is like a fountain sprinkling streams of coral water.

According to legend a wise man arrived one day
at a cemetery asserting that no mystery existed beyond the grave.
A white, nebulous and serious being approached the tomb,
And in a sad whining voice uttered these words: love, love.
The sepulcher’s stone instantly shifted and the corpse swiftly came back to life.

(Versos Libres)

Two motherlands I have: Cuba and the night.
Or are they both only one?
As soon as the sun majestically disappears I see Cuba,
Done up with long veils and a carnation in hand,
As a sad and silent widow.
I know well what the bloodstained carnation,
trembling in her hands, means!
Empty is my chest, shattered and void where the heart was before.
It is already time to begin dying.
Night is befitting for saying good-bye.

Light and human words are not necessary.
The universe speaks better than man.
Like a flag calling to battle, the red flame of the candle flutters.
Feeling enclosed, I open the windows.
Mute, tearing the carnation’s petals,
Like a cloud darkening the heavens,

Cuba, widowed, passes by…
And the mud where she dies is hers!
I feel the kick of the horses,
I feel the wheels of the wagons;
The pieces of myself I touch.
I am not alive anymore: neither was I when the fatal ship
Weighed anchor and tore me away from my homeland!

(from Ismaelillo)

Day and night, I always dream with open eyes.
And on top of the foaming waves of the wide turbulent sea,
And on the rolling desert sands,
And merrily riding on the gentle neck of a mighty lion,
Monarch of my heart,
I always see a floating child who is calling me!

(Versos Sencillos No. 39)

I cultivate a white rose in January as in July
For the sincere friend who extends me his loyal hand.
And for the scoundrel who tears away the heart with which I live,
I till neither grubs nor thistles,
I cultivate the white rose.