Mirta Yáñez is a Cuban philologist, educator and writer. In 1992, she earned her doctorate in philology from the University of Havana. Yáñez’s area of specialization is Latin American and Cuban literature with a secondary focus on Cuban women's literary discourse. She was a professor of Latin American literature for many years, teaching and conducting research at the University of Havana. Her fiction works include Sangra por la herida (2010); El búfalo ciego y otros cuentos (2008); Serafín y las aventuras en el Reino de los Comejenes (2007); Falsos documentos - Cuentos (2005); Narraciones desordenadas e incompletas (1997); El diablo son las cosas - Cuentos (1988); La hora de los mameyes (1983); Yo soy Jack Johnson (1982); La Habana es una ciudad bien grande (1980); Serafín y sus aventuras con los caballitos (1979); and Todos los negros tomamos café (1976). Yáñez’s poetry collections include Un solo bosque negro, (2003); Algún lugar en ruinas (1997); Poesía casi completa de Jiribilla el conejo (1994); Poemas (1987); Las visitas y otros poemas (1986); and Las visitas (1971). She has received numerous awards, including Poetry PrConcurso 13 de Marzo Las visitas (1970); Narrative Prize in Edad de Oro Competitiontion (1977); Critics’ Choice El diablo son las cosas (1988); Critics’ Choice La narrativa romantica en Latinoamérica (1990); Memoire Prize given by the Centro Cultural Pablo de la Torriente Brau (1999); Forderpreis der Iniciative LiBeraturpreis (2001); and Critics’ Choice for Falsos Documentos (2005). Yáñez has also written for film and television and been published extensively as a journalist and literary critic.
One a.m. hard bolero
A twelve meridian happening
One a.m. hard boleroWho hasn’t said it Using simple words, Definitely curdled in the heart, With a gramophone voice, Of quartered tango in its pure truth. Who can exclusively own Those wrong sentences for common use, As a puff they grow, They expand, And tear off the first dream of the dawn, One a.m. hard bolero, They crash into live blood The one thousand and one possible getaways to not suffering. Prayers which have been repeated since the world’s called world, Only they beat us there, At your balcony, At my hideaway, Hyperbolic, par excellence, Those half-sharp stabbing sentences; but how otherwise to say that I should rip out from my chest this desperate love.
Seven diurnalsEach morning I get older Against all proof. I feel obligated to report A rebellious part inside my core: Ringing, tinkling, Laborious rattle of seven diurnals, A pack from the sleeping person stays Stubbornly In childhood.
A twelve meridian happeningIt happened the way I tell it. I was thinking The everyday usual —I swear that it was the old same— I was scared That never happened anything extraordinary. And then the witch Crossed flying hopped on her broom, She shouted at me Mirta And I went pale.
- poetry by Domingo Alfonso
- poetry by Rito Ramón Aroche
- poetry by Caridad Atencio
- poetry by Miguel Barnet
- poetry by Pierre Bernet
- poetry by Yanelys Encinosa Cabrera
- poetry by Alberto Peraza Ceballos
- poetry by Maria Liliana Celorrio
- poetry by Felix Contreras
- art by Wally Gilbert
- poetry by Georgina Herrera
- poetry by Karel Leyva
- poetry by Robert Manzano
- poetry by Roberto Méndez Martínez
- poetry by Jamila Medina
- poetry by Edel Morales
- poetry by Alex Pausides
- poetry by Roberto Fernandez Retamar
- poetry by Soleida Ríos
- poetry by Mirta Yáñez