In these strange times—when laws travel faster than books—a volume of contemporary Cuban poetry remains in institutional quarantine in a Miami-Dade County prison. The tome, an elegant anthology as sharp as a machete, brings together verses by Soleida Ríos, Carlos Augusto Alfonso, Legna Rodríguez Iglesias, Oscar Cruz, Jamila Medina, and Reina María Rodríguez, among other usual suspects of uncomfortable versification.
But its journey ended before it began: it was confiscated, held as if it contained ideological contraband or coded melodies. Its recipient is none other than reggaeton artist Yosvanis Sierra, alias Chocolate MC, king of the cast and, apparently, aspiring poetry reader in environments not conducive to introspection.
What is the crime of the book? Too hermetic for the walls of a cell? Being a bad influence on an inmate? Too Cuban for South Florida? Too free for such a… corrective environment?
“I don’t know who the f*** those people are,” Chocolate declared upon learning of the confiscation, with a visceral eloquence that would have delighted a Baudelaire born in Centro Habana. ‘But I have my rights!’ he added. And he’s not wrong, because being in prison—for more or less conventional reasons such as illegal substances, physical altercations, and unauthorized reconfiguration of other people’s property—should not prevent access to a good poem under fluorescent lights.
The volume was seized by the prison authorities on the grounds that it had to be reviewed first by the officer in charge of such matters, a nebulous figure reminiscent of the former culture commissars of other islands. It is unclear whether the censor is an official with a desire for prominence or a secret reader trapped in bureaucracy, but the fact is that the book has not reached the hands of the so-called “King of Distribution.”
“If they let me put Legna on a reggaeton beat, the prison will come down,” said Chocolate with a smile that, according to witnesses, mixed irony with genuine enthusiasm. “Can you imagine Soleida giving it her all and putting it out there on a DJ Yordy track? … That makes sense too, doesn’t it?” said the delivery man, making use of his daily phone call as an inmate.
Chocolate is also an avid baseball fan, which may explain the initial confusion surrounding the book. Its title, The Cuban Team, suggests a work dedicated to Cuba’s former national pastime, when in fact it is an anthology of poets from the island. Years ago, a group of Cuban salsa musicians gathered in Havana under that same name, but although he has confessed that his childhood idol was José Luis Cortés (El Tosco), Chocolate had no intention of reading anything related to timba. “My thing has always been poetry, you know, moving forward with that,” he said.
Reactions from the literary world have been swift. An anonymous critic—who asked to remain anonymous for fear of being packaged along with the book as part of a metaphor trafficking ring—declared: “This only confirms what we have always suspected: poetry is dangerous, especially in these times of right-wing politics. It enters where it is not wanted, questions the order, and now—apparently—it also needs to pass through an ideological metal detector.”
Meanwhile, the book remains in custody, perhaps under observation, as if Oscar Cruz’s verses were a particularly sophisticated form of Caribbean conspiracy. Will poetry manage to slip through the bars, rhythms, and bureaucracy? Or will this be the beginning of a new genre: lyrical reggaeton with echoes of prison baroque?
In any case, Cuban literature has just added another milestone of canonical subversion: it now also poses a risk to prison security in South Florida. And not all literature can boast that.
