José Martí, Poetry, and Cuban Culture: A Journey of Self-Reflection

Last week while washing dishes after dinner, I was feet-tapping and singing to random tunes in my head until I found myself reciting these words.

Hay sol bueno y mar de espumas,

Y arena fina, y Pilar

Quiere salir a estrenar

Su sombrerito de pluma.

There is good sun, foamy sea,

and fine sand, and Pilar

wants to go out to wear her

brand new feathered hat.

And like when a good song comes on at the club, the lyrics leave my mouth without missing a beat.

“¡Vaya la niña divina!”

Dice el padre y le da un beso,

“Vaya mi pájaro preso

¡A buscarme arena fina!”

“Go my divine girl!”
The father says, and kisses her,

“Go my caged bird
to find fine sand”.

These are the first stanzas of José Martí’s poem Los Zapaticos de Rosa.

 I have probably not heard this poem in years, so it was an eerie feeling once I realized that I still remembered all of the words. Although to be fair, it is probably the poem I have heard the most in my entire life.

One of the most vivid memories I have of elementary school is of my mother reciting this poem on the bus ride home. I always thought it was crazy the way she remembered all of those words. And it wasn’t just Los Zapaticos de Rosa, but hundreds (or at least what six-year-old me considered to be “hundreds”) of poems by Martí that she just knew off the top of her head. Magic!

José Martí was one of the most important writers in Cuban history. He was a poet, a philosopher, a revolutionary who spent his entire life fighting for the liberation of Cuba from the Spanish Empire.

At the age of sixteen, he published Abdala in his own newspaper publication called La Patria Libre. The periodic drama talks about an imaginary country, called Nubia, that is struggling with a foreign invasion. Abdala, the main character, discusses his loyalty to Nubia and his responsibility to fight for its liberty. A rough translation of its last stanza reads “Nubia won! I die happy: death/ It matters little to me, because I managed to save her.../ Oh, how sweet it is to die, when you die/ Fighting to defend the homeland!”

That same year he was sentenced to six years in prison for treason, after a letter in which he called one of his classmates a traitor for joining the Spanish army was found. His sentence was later changed and he was exiled from Cuba at the age of eighteen.

If this is the first time you have heard of him, I truly recommend a quick google search, this man’s life is an interesting one.

In many ways, Martí is part of the fabric of Cuban culture. The Cuban Communist Party has attributed many of its ideals to his work, and his memory is carefully preserved on the island. From the street where my grandparents live, Paseo Martí, to the name of the international airport in Havana, José Martí International Airport. His name is everywhere.

However, his presence is not just in the monuments that carry his name. It is in the culture of Cuban people that I’d argue his words live the most fervidly.

When my mother was growing up in Cuba, kids at school would have to recite poems by Martí over and over again, until saying the words felt natural. Seeing the videos of my six and eight year old cousins practicing those same poems for their test the next day, I’d say that part hasn’t changed that much.

His words are passed down generation after generation. The same poems that my great-grandmother recited to my grandma, my grandma recited to my mom, and my mom now recites to me.

My mom has often referred to La Edad de Oro as “la biblia de los niños cubanos.” It is often one of the first books kids in Cuba will ever own. As a matter of fact, I still have five copies of it I was given by different family members growing up.

To some extent, his influence has allowed me to stay connected to a part of my family’s culture that has at times felt very far away. His poems are part of the cultural heritage that comes with being Cuban, and in a way, that has allowed my parents to feel closer to home as well.

​​Until last week, I don’t think I had read one of his poems in ages. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that his presence in my life ever left. One of the first places my parents took me to visit when we first moved to New York was the statue of José Martì in South Central Park.

The statue was meant to be part of the plaza of South American heroes, honoring him as the Apostle of Cuban independence and Leader of the people’s America. He spent fifteen years of his exile living in New York City, as the inscription at the base mentioned.

Looking at it back then, it felt like a part of home away from home. 

For the second Christmas that my boyfriend and I spent together, my mother gave him one of Martí’s collection of poems, Versos Sencillos, with English translations of each that we had found in a flea market in Havana. I remember she asked me about his opinion every day for a week, acting as if it was a test on whether or not he was worth my time.

 I have no idea why it had taken me so long to notice how much of my life José Martí had taken a part of. Trying to reflect on it has been a very interesting experience, even writing this article right now is.

This small introspection has led me to start reading his poems again, and I encourage everyone with an inkling of curiosity to do the same. Even if you are not Cuban, and even if you are not even remotely interested in poetry, the love for people, culture, and liberty can be a source of inspiration for all.