Arte por Excelencias - - Cuba -

I ha­ve ne­ver be­en an aus­te­re woman in lo­ve. Ne­ver so­met­hing el­se but just lo­ve led me to wri­te ver­ses, which per­haps burst out of me to ma­ni­fest the in­des­cri­ba­ble be­auty with which my body “sang” them first. If now I am the one who, on oc­ca­si­ons, spent ti­me on the ig­no­ble work of making lan­gua­ge out of what, in the first ins­tan­ce, is pu­re li­fe, is be­cau­se I was drag­ged to that of­fen­se out of va­nity, be­cau­se the­re is no po­e­tic dis­cour­se that may sup­press the pri­mi­ti­ve events of the flesh: what is ali­ve clo­se to the heart. In es­sen­ce, the nu­tri­ti­ve sour­ce to sus­tain po­etry ema­na­tes from my sta­tus as a woman. I ne­ver me­ant to bot­her anyo­ne, nor did I ima­gi­ne, by re­ve­a­ling my in­te­ri­or, that I would gi­ve way to all kinds of in­tri­gues: the offs­prings of pre­ju­di­ce and ig­no­ran­ce. I wro­te my bo­oks from a fe­ma­le pers­pec­ti­ve, without re­noun­cing the ex­pres­si­ve fre­e­doms that in the Cu­ba of the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tury we­re the ex­clu­si­ve pa­tri­mony of men. I put words in my ver­ses that soun­ded obs­ce­ne to many male ears, un­fit for a midd­le-class lady disen­ga­ged for the pri­mor­di­al fe­ma­le sub­jects of the ti­me, such as dress­making, hou­sework and mar­ri­a­ge. I had in re­turn a for­tu­na­te reward: in ex­plo­ring the body of man, by des­cri­bing the sa­va­ge gra­ce of our se­xu­a­lity, I met with ri­gor a sickly ne­ed: to be free. Who can be two cre­a­tu­res? When I wro­te about ot­her to­pics re­la­ted to Cu­ba, I suf­fe­red from the sa­me ur­gen­ci­es as when I wro­te about in­ti­ma­te lo­ve. Both wo­men and their own country are con­tai­ned in a vi­tal body, and from that body it was in­dis­pen­sa­ble to con­form to the po­e­tic dis­cour­se. Thus, when I men­ti­on the dust of Ma­tan­zas, its stre­ets, its ri­vers, or the ma­jes­tic sad­ness of its va­lley, I am lo­ca­ted in my hands, in my legs, in my lips, be­cau­se sen­su­a­lity, Eros, are not ex­clu­si­ve con­di­ti­ons of the cul­tu­re of pe­o­ples or hu­man cha­rac­ter. Rat­her, so­ci­ety res­tricts, or ex­pres­ses in a li­mi­ted way, the ero­tic uni­ver­se ma­ni­fes­ted in each cre­a­ti­on. So this son­net is pro­bably, for being so in­ti­ma­te and ro­o­ted, the one that pe­o­ple pre­fer with par­ti­cu­lar emo­ti­on, be­cau­se it is al­so a po­em la­tent in the collec­ti­ve sub­cons­ci­ous.

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