influenced by all kinds of writers, from their own to Walt Whitman (American)
and Charles Baudelaire (French). Enter the 1959 revolution and things changed
dramatically for all writers on the island. The government monitored literary
expression with an iron fist, but did this also have a positive effect, in terms of
literary output or otherwise?
MW: At the risk of offending people, I think I need to say something to begin with
about that iron fist. I’m no fidelista, but it’s not that simple—nothing Cuban ever
is. It’s pretty clear that the post-Revolutionary regime takes literature very
seriously, which is a decidedly mixed blessing for writers, and it certainly monitors
everything Cubans publish on or off the island. But the degree of latitude the
regime allows, and the repercussions for overstepping the bounds, have varied
in often unpredictable ways, from the relative freedom of the very early years,
to utter brutality in the 70s, to the much more relaxed environment of the
present, when Cuban writers are free to publish with impunity (for the moment at
least) pretty much what they wish off-island and even within Cuba the
restrictions are milder than they have been.
To give a concrete example of the change, the novelist Reynaldo Arenas
suffered enormously for having one of his books smuggled out of the country and
published abroad. Antonio José Ponte publishes what he wishes outside Cuba
and enters and leaves at will (he lives in Spain but retains his Cuban citizenship
and passport). He was expelled from UNEAC, but otherwise he’s been left to his
own devices, and he’s been vocal in his opposition to the regime.
Another sign of change has been the “rehabilitation” since 1995 of writers who
had been written out of history. Before that writers who had left the island were
unpublished on the island. This meant that not only writers who had left as
children, but some of the true greats,
like Gastón Baquero, were unknown to
most Cubans who grew up after the
Revolution. Which is not to say that
every writer has become available.
and Charles Baudelaire (French). Enter the 1959 revolution and things changed
dramatically for all writers on the island. The government monitored literary
expression with an iron fist, but did this also have a positive effect, in terms of
literary output or otherwise?
MW: At the risk of offending people, I think I need to say something to begin with
about that iron fist. I’m no fidelista, but it’s not that simple—nothing Cuban ever
is. It’s pretty clear that the post-Revolutionary regime takes literature very
seriously, which is a decidedly mixed blessing for writers, and it certainly monitors
everything Cubans publish on or off the island. But the degree of latitude the
regime allows, and the repercussions for overstepping the bounds, have varied
in often unpredictable ways, from the relative freedom of the very early years,
to utter brutality in the 70s, to the much more relaxed environment of the
present, when Cuban writers are free to publish with impunity (for the moment at
least) pretty much what they wish off-island and even within Cuba the
restrictions are milder than they have been.
To give a concrete example of the change, the novelist Reynaldo Arenas
suffered enormously for having one of his books smuggled out of the country and
published abroad. Antonio José Ponte publishes what he wishes outside Cuba
and enters and leaves at will (he lives in Spain but retains his Cuban citizenship
and passport). He was expelled from UNEAC, but otherwise he’s been left to his
own devices, and he’s been vocal in his opposition to the regime.
Another sign of change has been the “rehabilitation” since 1995 of writers who
had been written out of history. Before that writers who had left the island were
unpublished on the island. This meant that not only writers who had left as
children, but some of the true greats,
like Gastón Baquero, were unknown to
most Cubans who grew up after the
Revolution. Which is not to say that
every writer has become available.
www.ambiente.us MARCH | MARZO 2010
Interview with Mark Weiss, editor of The Whole Island|
Sixty Years of Cuban Poetry (Univ. of California, 2009)
by Charlie Vázquez
I had the fortune of meeting Mark Weiss through a mutual friend in San Diego in
2004, when I was living and working in Baja Norte, Mexico. I remember him
discussing translation projects involving Cuban poets and was impressed by his
dedication to this most mysterious brand of poetry, as it is no mystery to anyone
paying attention that a lot of Cuban art and literature does not leave the island.
Fast forward. When I learned that he was hosting a reading for The Whole Island
(which includes over fifty Cuban poets past and present), I did everything I
could to go.
The Whole Island: Sixty Years of Cuban Poetry is the first volume of its kind (in
terms of the amount of poetry and reference information it contains, 602
pages), and it’s been published as a bilingual reader, with Spanish and English
pages facing each other for easy cross-referencing. Mark Weiss took a few
minutes out of his busy schedule as a poet, translator, and publisher to answer
some questions regarding Cuba’s centuries-old literary history, its tense political
relations with the US, and how this has shaped a highly-disciplined and colorful
poetic legacy.
CV: You mention Cuba’s rich, 400-year-old
literary tradition in the book’s comprehensive
introduction and that Cuban poets were/are
Interview with Mark Weiss, editor of The Whole Island|
Sixty Years of Cuban Poetry (Univ. of California, 2009)
by Charlie Vázquez
I had the fortune of meeting Mark Weiss through a mutual friend in San Diego in
2004, when I was living and working in Baja Norte, Mexico. I remember him
discussing translation projects involving Cuban poets and was impressed by his
dedication to this most mysterious brand of poetry, as it is no mystery to anyone
paying attention that a lot of Cuban art and literature does not leave the island.
Fast forward. When I learned that he was hosting a reading for The Whole Island
(which includes over fifty Cuban poets past and present), I did everything I
could to go.
The Whole Island: Sixty Years of Cuban Poetry is the first volume of its kind (in
terms of the amount of poetry and reference information it contains, 602
pages), and it’s been published as a bilingual reader, with Spanish and English
pages facing each other for easy cross-referencing. Mark Weiss took a few
minutes out of his busy schedule as a poet, translator, and publisher to answer
some questions regarding Cuba’s centuries-old literary history, its tense political
relations with the US, and how this has shaped a highly-disciplined and colorful
poetic legacy.
CV: You mention Cuba’s rich, 400-year-old
literary tradition in the book’s comprehensive
introduction and that Cuban poets were/are
| . |
| . |
It will probably be a while before Arenas’ fiction is published in Cuba.
It’s precisely the regime’s unpredictability, given its punitive actions in the past that
acts as the most powerful means of control. It’s in the nature of artists to test
boundaries. For Cuban artists where the boundaries are today is no clear indication
of where they will be tomorrow, and people are very careful. And no one ever
forgets where the power lies.
I think it would be fair to say that the Revolution has been better for writing than for
writers. Among the first things that the regime did was a massive literacy campaign,
and the stress on education has continued, with the result that Cuba has one of the
highest literacy rates anywhere (higher than that of the US) and a superb free public
education system, from grade school through graduate and professional study,
despite restrictions on information. So there’s a large potential readership.
Another early effort was the establishment of a modern publishing industry. We tend
to forget that before the Revolution if a book of poems was published in Cuba it
was by a local printer at the writer’s expense. Despite chronic paper shortages, a
plethora of presses now turn out hundreds of books a year, and there are major
literary periodicals and cultural institutions.
The regime also established UNEAC, the union of artists and writers. Membership
entitled a poet to a monthly stipend—in effect, a salary for being a poet. Until the
fall of the Soviet Union that salary was close to a living wage. It goes without saying
that all of these have also been instruments of control. But they do help explain the
immense flowering of poetry on the island.
CV | As with any of the high arts, Cuba’s poetic legacy is dotted with colorful, queer
characters—who were often very “out”, despite the harsh repercussions this
position often invited. Many chose and still choose to keep their sexual orientations
private. Did Cuba’s oppression of queer persons help forge a “coded” homoerotic
style in Cuban poetry, which served as a channel through which poets could discuss
It’s precisely the regime’s unpredictability, given its punitive actions in the past that
acts as the most powerful means of control. It’s in the nature of artists to test
boundaries. For Cuban artists where the boundaries are today is no clear indication
of where they will be tomorrow, and people are very careful. And no one ever
forgets where the power lies.
I think it would be fair to say that the Revolution has been better for writing than for
writers. Among the first things that the regime did was a massive literacy campaign,
and the stress on education has continued, with the result that Cuba has one of the
highest literacy rates anywhere (higher than that of the US) and a superb free public
education system, from grade school through graduate and professional study,
despite restrictions on information. So there’s a large potential readership.
Another early effort was the establishment of a modern publishing industry. We tend
to forget that before the Revolution if a book of poems was published in Cuba it
was by a local printer at the writer’s expense. Despite chronic paper shortages, a
plethora of presses now turn out hundreds of books a year, and there are major
literary periodicals and cultural institutions.
The regime also established UNEAC, the union of artists and writers. Membership
entitled a poet to a monthly stipend—in effect, a salary for being a poet. Until the
fall of the Soviet Union that salary was close to a living wage. It goes without saying
that all of these have also been instruments of control. But they do help explain the
immense flowering of poetry on the island.
CV | As with any of the high arts, Cuba’s poetic legacy is dotted with colorful, queer
characters—who were often very “out”, despite the harsh repercussions this
position often invited. Many chose and still choose to keep their sexual orientations
private. Did Cuba’s oppression of queer persons help forge a “coded” homoerotic
style in Cuban poetry, which served as a channel through which poets could discuss
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sexual feelings and politics through ambiguous literary devices such as double-
entendre and allegory?
MW | Another complex question, and difficult to answer without outing people
who have preferred to remain closeted, which is basically everyone.
Actually, there’s much more openness about being gay among people in their
twenties and younger, and the climate has clearly changed for the better—it’s now
possible for the transgendered to have sex-change operations under the national
health service, for instance. But the rule seems still to be that even those well-
known as gay maintain the fiction of being straight, although being gay has been
legal since the late 80s and there’s far less homophobic violence in Cuba than we’
re used to in, say, the US. I know of several poets who suffered as gays in the past
but have been very high in the regime for twenty or thirty years who make sure at
first meeting that a stranger hears about their spouses and children. And I know of a
dissident writer of homosexual fiction who also remains in the closet. There’s plenty
of reason to be cautious, going back well before the Revolution, and the Castro
regime especially for its first eighteen years was pretty terrifying to gays. And I think
no one fully trusts today’s more open climate to continue—autocracies can
change their minds in a split second.
The only openly gay poet I can think of who is active in Cuba now is Antón Arrufat.
Among those of an earlier generation, José Lezama Lima and Virgilio Piñera were
openly gay, Piñera flamboyantly so. It got both of them in a lot of trouble. I’m not
aware of any kind of code for discussing sexuality, but I suppose that could be my
naiveté. What’s pretty common is taking advantage of the ambiguity of Spanish to
write about gender without using gendered pronouns—“su” can be his, hers, its or
theirs—or by simply avoiding gender identification. A good example is Baquero’s
poem “The Wind in Trieste Told…,” written entirely in the first person plural. The
lovers are “we” or “us.”
Here’s an interesting case, the first stanza of a poem by Delfín Prats, written in the
earliest years after the Revolution, when things were relatively open.
entendre and allegory?
MW | Another complex question, and difficult to answer without outing people
who have preferred to remain closeted, which is basically everyone.
Actually, there’s much more openness about being gay among people in their
twenties and younger, and the climate has clearly changed for the better—it’s now
possible for the transgendered to have sex-change operations under the national
health service, for instance. But the rule seems still to be that even those well-
known as gay maintain the fiction of being straight, although being gay has been
legal since the late 80s and there’s far less homophobic violence in Cuba than we’
re used to in, say, the US. I know of several poets who suffered as gays in the past
but have been very high in the regime for twenty or thirty years who make sure at
first meeting that a stranger hears about their spouses and children. And I know of a
dissident writer of homosexual fiction who also remains in the closet. There’s plenty
of reason to be cautious, going back well before the Revolution, and the Castro
regime especially for its first eighteen years was pretty terrifying to gays. And I think
no one fully trusts today’s more open climate to continue—autocracies can
change their minds in a split second.
The only openly gay poet I can think of who is active in Cuba now is Antón Arrufat.
Among those of an earlier generation, José Lezama Lima and Virgilio Piñera were
openly gay, Piñera flamboyantly so. It got both of them in a lot of trouble. I’m not
aware of any kind of code for discussing sexuality, but I suppose that could be my
naiveté. What’s pretty common is taking advantage of the ambiguity of Spanish to
write about gender without using gendered pronouns—“su” can be his, hers, its or
theirs—or by simply avoiding gender identification. A good example is Baquero’s
poem “The Wind in Trieste Told…,” written entirely in the first person plural. The
lovers are “we” or “us.”
Here’s an interesting case, the first stanza of a poem by Delfín Prats, written in the
earliest years after the Revolution, when things were relatively open.
| . |
Never return to the scenes of your happiness
to the island you and he crossed together
like Hadrian visiting his domains
with the Bithynian boy
(that sea with its black sand beaches
where his eyes would widen in astonishment
was just the invention of nostalgia)
The second, third and fourth lines indicate that the poem is homoerotic, but only to
those who know their Roman gossip. It reminds me of old books in which the dirty
parts were in Latin. But that presumably wasn’t obscure enough for Prats to feel
safe, and he first published the poem without those lines. They weren’t restored until
2002.
As to politics, particularly political complaints, Cuban poetry is full of it, and it’s
variously coded, sometimes even masquerading as memories of childhood, as in
Ramón Fernández Larrea’s “The Land of Elves.” I use Fernández Larrea’s poem as an
example because he’s been out of Cuba for fifteen years. I’m reluctant to draw
examples from those still on the island. It might be safe to do so, but the poets
themselves aren’t so sure.
CV | What do you suspect is the future for Cuban poets on the island, in light of the
changes slowly developing as Fidel creeps toward his end?
MW | A lot of people seem to think that things will change abruptly with Fidel’s
death, but it’s good to remember that there’s an entire power structure whose
fortunes depend on the status quo. But it’s clear that things are changing, and they
probably will continue to do so. Among the changes we’ve already seen is that
membership in UNEAC has become so unimportant that most poets don’t bother to
apply. Another is that poets are very rarely denied travel visas, allowing some of
them to spend part of every year giving readings elsewhere and bringing their
to the island you and he crossed together
like Hadrian visiting his domains
with the Bithynian boy
(that sea with its black sand beaches
where his eyes would widen in astonishment
was just the invention of nostalgia)
The second, third and fourth lines indicate that the poem is homoerotic, but only to
those who know their Roman gossip. It reminds me of old books in which the dirty
parts were in Latin. But that presumably wasn’t obscure enough for Prats to feel
safe, and he first published the poem without those lines. They weren’t restored until
2002.
As to politics, particularly political complaints, Cuban poetry is full of it, and it’s
variously coded, sometimes even masquerading as memories of childhood, as in
Ramón Fernández Larrea’s “The Land of Elves.” I use Fernández Larrea’s poem as an
example because he’s been out of Cuba for fifteen years. I’m reluctant to draw
examples from those still on the island. It might be safe to do so, but the poets
themselves aren’t so sure.
CV | What do you suspect is the future for Cuban poets on the island, in light of the
changes slowly developing as Fidel creeps toward his end?
MW | A lot of people seem to think that things will change abruptly with Fidel’s
death, but it’s good to remember that there’s an entire power structure whose
fortunes depend on the status quo. But it’s clear that things are changing, and they
probably will continue to do so. Among the changes we’ve already seen is that
membership in UNEAC has become so unimportant that most poets don’t bother to
apply. Another is that poets are very rarely denied travel visas, allowing some of
them to spend part of every year giving readings elsewhere and bringing their
earnings home. I’d like to think that this represents an opening for more
fundamental change, but it probably means that the regime fears the words of its
intellectuals and artists less than it did and worries more about the impact on
tourism of the bad publicity that attends persecution. I suspect that, as in the
former Soviet Union, poets, who once enjoyed prestige even among those who
couldn’t read them, will become less important as political figures or lightning rods.
CV | What was the most challenging aspect of compiling this amazing volume?
MW | Lots of challenges, among them the logistics of securing permissions, which
meant figuring out how to reach the poets and their heirs. Sometimes a string of
five or six contacts finally yielded a viable email address or phone number. An even
bigger challenge was finding the books. Now a fair number of American universities
are actively collecting Cuban books, but when I started the holdings were meager.
So I accumulated, through luck and perseverance, my own library. Some of the
books came from the used book market on the Plaza de Armas in Havana, one
through an old friend who for a long time was the only non-Cuban bookseller
working on the island, others came from bookstores in Spain and Mexico, and a few
from Lectorum, New York’s wonderful Spanish bookstore that closed a few years
ago.
The biggest challenge was mastering a field that I came to cold, with all the usual
“yankee” preconceptions. It was an amazing experience.
CV | Are there any websites or other resources you can recommend for people
who want to know more about Cuban literature?
MW | Dozens, but very little in English. Here are two of the best from off-island.
Encuento de la Cultura Cubana, a print journal with a great website,
http://www.cubaencuentro.com/. It closed last year, but the site is still up, and all
fundamental change, but it probably means that the regime fears the words of its
intellectuals and artists less than it did and worries more about the impact on
tourism of the bad publicity that attends persecution. I suspect that, as in the
former Soviet Union, poets, who once enjoyed prestige even among those who
couldn’t read them, will become less important as political figures or lightning rods.
CV | What was the most challenging aspect of compiling this amazing volume?
MW | Lots of challenges, among them the logistics of securing permissions, which
meant figuring out how to reach the poets and their heirs. Sometimes a string of
five or six contacts finally yielded a viable email address or phone number. An even
bigger challenge was finding the books. Now a fair number of American universities
are actively collecting Cuban books, but when I started the holdings were meager.
So I accumulated, through luck and perseverance, my own library. Some of the
books came from the used book market on the Plaza de Armas in Havana, one
through an old friend who for a long time was the only non-Cuban bookseller
working on the island, others came from bookstores in Spain and Mexico, and a few
from Lectorum, New York’s wonderful Spanish bookstore that closed a few years
ago.
The biggest challenge was mastering a field that I came to cold, with all the usual
“yankee” preconceptions. It was an amazing experience.
CV | Are there any websites or other resources you can recommend for people
who want to know more about Cuban literature?
MW | Dozens, but very little in English. Here are two of the best from off-island.
Encuento de la Cultura Cubana, a print journal with a great website,
http://www.cubaencuentro.com/. It closed last year, but the site is still up, and all
| . |
of the 51 issues of the journal are downloadable. It’s produced in Spain. Check out
its enlaces for more sites.
La Habana Elegante, http://www.habanaelegante.com/, comes out of the US.
Some of its content is in English.
Two from the island, Cuba Literaria, http://www.cubaliteraria.com/, and La Jiribilla,
http://www.lajiribilla.cu, are both often surprisingly good, though the editorial
content is predictable. La Jiribilla has a great list of enlaces.
Thanks, Mark!
CLICK HERE for more Charlie Vázquez
Copyright © AMBIENTE MAGAZINE. Do not reproduce without citing this source
its enlaces for more sites.
La Habana Elegante, http://www.habanaelegante.com/, comes out of the US.
Some of its content is in English.
Two from the island, Cuba Literaria, http://www.cubaliteraria.com/, and La Jiribilla,
http://www.lajiribilla.cu, are both often surprisingly good, though the editorial
content is predictable. La Jiribilla has a great list of enlaces.
Thanks, Mark!
CLICK HERE for more Charlie Vázquez
Copyright © AMBIENTE MAGAZINE. Do not reproduce without citing this source