You have no parents, it's clear. . .I know
because of your indecisive look. I can tell
I won't tell you about truth,
because the word's going to die
will need it.
Father of yesterday who made hope
full of children and debts.
I conjure your hand which was never dry
Carilda Oliver Labra (born July 6, 1922) is a Cuban poet who was born in Matanzas. Labra studied law at the University of Havana. She is also known to excel at drawing, painting and sculpting. Known as one of the most influential Cuban poets, her work has focused on love, the role of women in society, and herself. Oliver Labra has received numerous national and international prizes including the National Poetry Prize (1950), National Literature Award (1997) and the José de Vasconcelos International Prize (2002). Me desordeno, amor, me desordeno might be her most famous poem. Other works such as Discurso de Eva ("Eve's Discourse") also show a profound literary technique. Her debut collection in 1943, Lyric Prelude (Preludio lirico) immediately established her as an important poetic voice. At the South of My Throat made her famous: the coveted National Prize for poetry came to her in 1950 as a result of the popular and notorious book, At the South of My Throat (Al sur de mi garganta) 1949. In honor of the tri-centennial of Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz in a contest sponsored by The Latin American Society in Washington D.C., in 1950, she had also received the national Cuban First Prize for her poems. Her work was highly praised by Gabriela Mistral, the Chilean poet and first Latin American woman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1945. In 1958, Labra published Feverish memory (Memoria de la fiebre) which added to her notoriety as a blatantly erotic woman. The book concerned a theme which has dominated her poetry, which of lost love, as it was written after the unfortunate and untimely death of her second husband.)
Declaration of Love
I ask if I'm wise
when I awaken
the danger between his thighs,
or if I'm wrong
when my kisses prepare only a trench
in his throat.
I know that war is probable;
because a red geranium has blossomed open.
Please, don't point your weapons
at the sky:
the sparrows are terrorized,
and it's springtime,
it's raining, the meadows are ruminating.
you'll melt the moon, only night light of the poor.
It's not that I'm afraid,
or a coward,
I'd do everything for my homeland;
but don't argue so much over your nuclear missiles,
because something horrible is happening:
and I haven't had time enough to love.