Madrid Spain. -Just died Manuel Diaz Martinez; and not because expected, his death hurts less. He was a necessary, sensitive man with an exceptional capacity for self-criticism and generosity.
He was a communist when he was frowned upon. He was Castroist when most Cubans thought they were on the right side of history. He later publicly broke with the dictatorship, along with nine other compatriots, and that “letter of ten” It cost him exile, but never rancor.
Shortly after arriving in Spain, he lost Ofelia, his most coherent, sensible and demanding muse; even if she didn’t look like it. It was a very hard blow, which fit with the virtue of those who know they are snails: always with the house on their backs. Despite this, he looked out in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Cuban alleys.
I have no knowledge to assess his poetic work, but many of his poems reached a corner of my soul, like the one about soup and the dead. It was a mockery of grim reaper and dogmatism.
His serene but inalienable defense of the inclusion of a text by Gastón Baquero in the first issue of the magazine Meeting of Cuban Culture Faced with the closure of some, it consolidated its status as an intelligent hinge. Manuel was educated without fuss, opposed to any totalitarianism; and educated to the point of calling twice to apologize because his health prevented him from attending an interview he wanted.
Rest in peace, Manolo, poets have the status of eternal because they endure in their songs, communicating with future generations who are discovering the gaze of those who sniffed out infinite twists and turns and manage to turn them into essential lyrics.
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