by Fayad Jamis (Cuba)
translated by Kathleen Weaver

Philosophy of the Optimist
for Jaime August Shelley

The optimist sat down at the table, looked around
and helped himself to a little of the little he found.
The others pointed out there was too much of nothing
(in fact there was a little bit of a lot).
But he ate his portion without comment,
opened his newspaper, inhaled his coffee
and finished dining in peace. Musing: I have the right
to eat in good humor the little bit of plenty
I earn while abundance is drawing near. Still
they went on and on about all they didn’t have
did not, did not, did not have. None of this, none of that.
But the optimist rose in silence
and thought again of those years
when tears were his only nourishment. When nobody
was there to say: “There’s no soup,” or “no meat” or
“Take this scrap of hard bread for the dog of your hunger.”
Yet he spoke not a word in protest. And now
he was satisfied with his frugal supper.
The optimist
went out to the street and set off walking and whistling
The electric lights reminded him of the future.

by Juan Gelman (Argentina)
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen and Victor Rodriguez Núnez

like two young ladies sitting down on the fever’s edge
the fever leans to one side and to the other side and breaks or
rises
enlarges the head or throbs
against the head enlarging it

is that why it looks to me like everything is flying?
why the president gentlemen passengers neighbors are flying?
the plumber from across the street flying with his shirt filled with
gas?
the sullen next door citizen flying?

and where are they going with those flights?
what part of themselves do they manage to reach when they fly
this two–young–ladies night?
or are they getting nowhere?

the day is sad or gray with the plumber riding his bicycle
loaded down with tools on the back of it
silvery under the hot ray of sunlight
he too silvery under the sun

flying tonight could he have gotten nowhere?
flying tonight could he have gotten to an unknown part of
himself
awake now for the first time beautiful like an island
though covered in blood and exertion or in pain from the work of
being born?

the work of being born to this world?
why born to this world and not another?
to this world and not to any other?
to this world of lonesome wonders under the sun?

like the plumber from across the street riding his bicycle?
loaded down with tools on the back of it?
silvery under the hot ray of sunlight?
he too silvery under the sun?

like two young ladies sitting on the night?
like two or many sadnesses flying but getting nowhere?
no beautiful island?
no island awake now for the first time?

by Juan Gelman (Argentina)
translated by Katherine M. Hedeen and Victor Rodriguez Núñez

the home of the foreman of the wolfram mine
the mouth of the wolfram mine
the stream to wash the wolfram and a few ranches
that is all that is La Carolina

San Luis is small and La Carolina is in San Luis
La Carolina is small
thirty miners extract the wolfram
with their carbide lamps they write messages on the tunnel walls

above the earth, can you read what’s written below the earth?
can you read the messages from La Carolina?
“careful not to extract any more mineral until they’ve braced it”
says one
“tomorrow keep going down this tunnel jos ”

but up here, can you read?
is there someone reading the messages the miners write down
there?
can you really read those messages?
“Perón is our only hope” says one

San Luis is small and La Carolina is in San Luis
La Carolina is small
thirty miners extract the wolfram
does anyone read them? do they read them above the earth?

they write even though nobody reads them
write on the walls of the mine
write with their carbide lamps
write beneath the deep night

by Carlos Maria Gutierrez (Uruguay)
translated by Margaret Randall

I know this street where I walk
but it doesn’t feel familiar

as usual it’s 3 p.m.
but time here begins at zero

this is my city my ancient beloved
but I am a stranger I am lost

this is the bar where I drank coffee with milk
this the bookstore that sells my books
that man who passes with downcast eyes
is called Andr s or I think that was his name

I lived here but I’m not sure

“You can lower your hands,” the grunt says
and puts away his pistol we’ve arrived

there are fifty of us at this station house
roundup tribe first cell
I discover who I am my purpose all of it.