Paradisus Paradox – Stephanie Hrehirchuk – Author Skip to content Stephanie Hrehirchuk – Author Nurturing a love of nature through story Menu Books An Accidental Awakening Awakening on Purpose Householder Yogini Nourish Anna and the Earth Angel Anna and the Tree Fort Anna and the Food Forest Anna and the Christmas Tree Grandfather Grasshopper Stephanie Book Clubs Blog Discover Your Purpose (free EBook!) My Amazon Page Writing & Publishing Coaching Contact Paradisus Paradox I wrote these poems during my trip to Cuba in September, 2016: a generous gift from my in-laws and a wonderful adventure with family. I had intended to enter them in poetry contests or submit them for a chapbook. I have decided to offer them freely here, with the hope that if you enjoy them, if even one line speaks to you, that you make a donation to Australia for Dolphins. On our flight to Cuba, we bought a tourist sightseeing package for our family group. It included a catamaran trip to an island for lunch and swimming with the dolphins. I had made the assumption that, like in Hawaii, it’s an if-we-happen-to-see-them, we’ll-get-to-swim-with-them kind of understanding. I felt sick to my stomach to discover these beautiful, loving, smart beings were confined to a dank pen in the middle of the water. Trapped for the entertainment of tourists and the sole and soul-less purpose of making a buck at the expense of their health and freedom. I stood in the line of tourists, each of them awaiting a gentle kiss on the cheek from the dolphin. And the dolphin, scars on his head, complied. A gentle dolphin ‘kiss’ on each tourist’s cheek. Not mine, though. He hammered me in the jaw. I stepped back in pain. But the trainer was determined to provide a dolphin kiss for each tourist and instructed the dolphin to try again. Again he walloped me in the jaw, as if to say, Do something! I see you see me. Do something! When I returned from Cuba, I wrote an email to SunWing, asking them to stop selling the dolphin excursion. I received no reply. I donated to Australia for Dolphins, who are actively and tirelessly working to free dolphins in captivity, particularly abused, ill and injured dolphins. Cuba was a paradox to me. Every turn revealed contradictory elements that somehow created that which is Cuba. Equal parts beauty and suffering. It was a fascinating time that I am grateful to have experienced. I offer these poems that they may both honour the special place that is Cuba, and inspire you to add your energy, via voice or dollars, to ensure no living being is forced to endure life inside those dank pens. In gratitude, Stephanie Thank you to Vivian Hansen for your editing expertise. Donate to Australia for Dolphins today. La Playa 2 in a canoe 2 snorklers I wish I’d learned the language ¿Relaxed? Not me, not yet. Not the white tourists in hats and sunscreen The locals playing beach tennis beach volleyball Was that a dragonfly that flew by? Well-tanned Pink string bikini Music, salsa, as alive as the ocean, on the breeze She misses and falls. Her partner laughs and yells ¡Flaquita! Cubano She throws sand at him ¡Joder! Mucho conversation I wish I’d learned the language. Mucho laughter – universal language Tourists read. Locals play. That is a dragonfly! Play pauses My husband taps my leg. A hummingbird Pulls at the net Fodder for her nest They wait for her. ¡Bonita! ¡Esta volao! She tugs and tugs, takes her leave. Play resumes On the playa. Borrowed Spirit Yoga on the beach Latin beats Open bar Many would say This is not Cuba. Those who write about people Tell the stories on the faces of locals. In the peeling paint and crumbling stone I am not that storyteller. I come for her YHI, proclaims the sign above the spa door: the spirit of the land, Goddess of light and creation Though she comes from another Australian Not Cuban But it’s here that I meet her Her breath across the water relieves the heat of the sun 2 pelicans a sand crab The rhythm of waves on shore Listen Feel her She is here In the clouds Stories-high. In the land under cultivated beaches She is singing Can you hear her? Under the Africando beats Under the chatter of tourists Listen Let her know you are listening For her She will respond On the wave On the breeze Send a pelican Or 2 She came before the faces She will be here After. Revolution Square “Communists were hanged from the trees by barbed wire. How could a country once like that become communist?” said the man in the khaki pants and white running shoes in Revolution Square. Before I could even think of what he’d just said, the answer darted through my mind; They became what they feared the most. Ghost Busters. Classic scene. Clear your minds. Don’t think of anything. And then: the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man attacks. I wake early, missing too many meditation mornings. Get up. I slip on the guest housecoat in the hotel room closet and quietly slide open the balcony door. I sit on the chair, face the coming morning sun and close my eyes. R a a a a w w w n g What sounds like a crop-duster skims the resort roofs. I see a trail off the wings. No. He couldn’t be spraying. It must be dust. Condensation. I inhale and choke on what tastes like petroleum mixed with bug spray. I rush inside the room, securing the deck door. They’re spraying for mosquitos and who knows what else. I remember hearing the small plane yesterday morning. I had remained in bed. I strip off my robe and fetch my bathing suit from the hook on the bathroom wall. I grab my cover-up, pants and beach towel, and step into my flip-flops. I head for the beach. The wide-open ocean. I’ll find room there for solitude. As I walk under the treed canopy, another pass of the plane overhead. The tropical tent shields me from the spray. I emerge on the sand and set my things in the nearest beach chair. I sit, facing the now-rising sun. I close my eyes. R a a a a w w w n g He’s coming right for me. Directly at me. Do I run for the ocean? Back into the trees? That’s silly, I tell myself. You’re fine. I sit. The plane passes, pissing poison on me. I feel a rain on my right arm and again choke on the spray. Horrified, I run for the water. I scrub my arms and spit acrid saliva into the ocean. I begin to cry. What the hell?! Can’t we live in fresh air? With fresh water and food? Can’t we stop poisoning nature, each other and the earth? What the fuck, Angels?! I walk, waist-deep in the ocean, tear-blurred gaze fixed on the sandy bottom, defeated. And then I remember the man in khaki pants and white runners in Revolution Square. And I remember the words in my head. And I know this is a peace I must make. A fear I must face. So I return to my practice. I return to Green Tara. I call on her. In the midst of the horror I call her name. And the sand bars in my head-hanged view give way to a new sight. Green light reflects on ocean floor. Through each wave, each ripple, each breath of water. Green light. I bathe myself in it. I offer it to Cuba. Polarizing Paradise Cuba makes me want to make more of my life. To learn and teach. To try, even if I fail, again and again. Cuba makes me want to take advantage of every opportunity I’ve ever been given or can make for myself. And Cuba also makes me want to forget about all that and live simply. Grateful for what I have. Live off less stuff. More time with family. Playing. Cuba makes me want to succeed. Cuba makes me want to rest. Cuba makes me want to learn something new. Something different and out-there and boundary-pushing. Advance a cause. Advance the species! Cuba makes me want to stop trying. Stop striving. Cuba makes me want to make a difference. make a blanket fort start a revolution start a game of checkers play an instrument play a game of cards lay down the plans for a new venture lay in the sun build a community build a friendship cook like a chef cook with a child go back to school go back home. Becoming Cuba My lungs burn, raw from the cigarettes I smoked last night, second-hand, from the Spanish girl next to me at the pool. Castellano. The man behind me the Londoner from dinner in the Japanese restaurant asked her to extinguish it. The man cleaning the pool calls us over. He has a cabana by the pool, ¿A secret? His towels and cigarettes hold it but he moves them quickly and places our towels on the bed. My husband gives him 2 CUCs. The man moves to clean the other side of the pool. Flowers painted on pink toenails I lounge on the bed between the swim-up bar and spa. My lungs burn, raw from the cigars I smoked last night second-hand, walking to dinner along the narrow promenade filled with tables drinkers of rum cigar smokers, under cover from the tropical evening rain. White, sheer curtains of my cabana blow in the ocean breeze. Varadero Lover and tormenter. Chinese tourists chat in the pool. Salsa on the stereo. The only way to find silence is to become the sounds. Salud Hemingway wrote here. They’ll give you a pen to sign your name. I wonder what he’d have thought of this place, this attention. Hemmingway. He’d have written about it. Or not. Raised a glass to it. Time traveller People wait on the roadside, everywhere for buses Russian trucks taxis. They walk or travel by horse and wagon. If you have a bike here, you have a car, says our guide. If you have a car, you have an airplane. An airplane is a time machine here. You come to Cuba, you travel back in time. You leave Cuba, you travel into the future. Lo Siento, Cuba I am sorry for my part. 50% of your tourism comes from my country, my home. So I am partly to blame for the dolphins in the dingy pen dancing for dollars sentenced to confinement. For the staggering amount of plastic: water bottles, poolside and oceanside, snack trays on catamarans plastic-wrapped crackers and chips single-use cups single-use snorkels. For this morning’s chemical cocktail served by plane, by golf cart, covering beach, palm trees, pools and people to kill the mosquitos. But where were the bees? I saw one dead and one alive. For the layer of sunscreen that dances with bug spray an ugly salsa on the waves of the ocean. For the Afro-Cuban beats belching from speakers on the beach, at the pools, on the boats. For the mountain of lobster dragged from the ocean served up for dinner to the demands of more! Write Like Water Ocean does not plan the location of each shell on the beach. She simply heaves it all upon the shore for others to sift through and decide which are treasures. Poolside Lightning fast tail curled exposing bright green still poised on the grass, alert. A man comes places a cushion on my deck chair tucks my beach towel around Where you from? Canada Canadian, I can’t tell by his tone if that’s good or bad to him Indifferent. I’ve lost sight of her. Not on the grass Now atop the rock so still what does she think of this island of giants? She bobs her head twice signals another I cannot see. Flanked by foliage orange and pink flowers a bird, hidden, calls bobbing her head faster now. What we see is grand. Opulent life palm trees luxurious lounge chairs, poolside. Fountains and ocean. There is much we miss – a hidden world, an island life. Tail is no longer curled. Bites on my legs from something I could not see. Small red welts. Look closely she is still on the rock. Home Come, visit me in my home, said the East Indian fellow to his new friend on the beach. That’s my home, and he pointed to the ocean. Alright, replied his friend in a thick Jamaican accent, I’ll rent a room in a while. Home Run Hit it with your arm. The ball is soft toss it up yourself. 2 bases plus home Salsa music on the speaker run bases in sand ¡Aye! He’s out 1st baseman dances to the music ¡Out! ¡Out! ¡Out! A big hit dive sand spray safe at 1st ball on la playa. A Blessing for Cuba To the kitten with the big eyes and tiny tummy, ribs under fur, purring under my fingers outside the paladar. I leave you my portion of fish. To the man in the wheelchair with no legs, in the heat of Havana, near the shop where my husband bought Monte Cristos, the one near Old Square. I leave you my Ciego Montero water. To the beautiful brown-eyed dog in the hallway, who came running, tail-wagging and lay at my feet again, in the morning, playful paws hopeful gaze, scratching fleas, sunrise walk on the beach. To you I leave the loving care of a family. To the dolphins, enclosed, enslaved in a dank pen in the ocean for the pleasure of tourists, most of whom were not pleased with your captivity. I leave you freedom. To the people of Cuba, warm and welcoming, under the thumb of one yet oppressed by none. The spirit of Cuba lives in you. Simple and complicated, a long past in a short time. Heritage and history, lost, found, lost again. To you I leave Tara, a benevolent guide. To the island, trees and sunsets, storms and sandbars, vultures and geckos, breeze and beach, pelican, low, wings wide. Keeper of secrets, bearer of beauty, endurer of Killings, witness of war, object of obsessions, patient mother. To you I leave my gratitude and my hope for your future. Cuba’s Plea To those coming arriving by plane or making their plans I leave these instructions: Demand the freedom of the dolphins! Don’t feed their captivity with your dollars. Consume gently coax sustainability invite environmental responsibility care for me; my people my animals my island. Walk softly love fiercely look and listen closely, and I just may show you my hidden world. Be still, even for a moment be quiet, if only for a day turn off the music put down the drink avoid the distractions open yourself to me. I believe in you, my friend. Donate to Australia for Dolphins today. Share this: Twitter Facebook Pinterest More LinkedIn Like this: Like Loading... Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here... Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Email (required) (Address never made public) Name (required) Website You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change ) You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change ) You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change ) Cancel Connecting to %s Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. Δ Social View StephanieHrehirchukAuthor’s profile on Facebook Instagram Blog Stats 26,831 hits Privacy Policy Subscribe to Blog via Email Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Email Address: Subscribe Join 245 other followers Blog at WordPress.com. Follow Following Stephanie Hrehirchuk - Author Join 245 other followers Sign me up Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now. Stephanie Hrehirchuk - Author Customize Follow Following Sign up Log in Copy shortlink Report this content View post in Reader Manage subscriptions Collapse this bar Loading Comments... Write a Comment... Email (Required) Name (Required) Website %d bloggers like this: