Dulce María Loynaz remains an enigmatic figure in Cuban letters, a writer whose legacy is both profound and strangely muted. Born in Havana in 1902, she lived through some of the most turbulent decades in Cuba’s history, yet her work remains curiously removed from the overtly political narratives that defined many of her contemporaries.
Instead, Loynaz’s writing is introspective, lyrical, and deeply attuned to the complexities of identity, belonging, and the ways in which personal and national histories intertwine. Her best-known works, including her only novel, Jardín (Garden), and her poetry collections, reflect a life spent meditating on the fractures and continuities of Cuban culture and her own place within it.
Dulce María Loynaz was born into a prominent and patriotic family. Her father, Enrique Loynaz del Castillo, was a general in Cuba’s War of Independence and the author of the lyrics to Cuba’s national anthem, El Himno de Bayamo. Her mother, María de las Mercedes Muñoz, was a cultured woman who instilled in her children a love for literature and the arts.
The family home in the Vedado district of Havana became a meeting place for poets, artists, and intellectuals, exposing Loynaz to complex and deep cultural influences from a young age.
Growing up in this atmosphere, Loynaz was immersed in Cuban nationalism. Yet her upbringing was also marked by privilege, and she often found herself straddling two worlds: the genteel refinement of Havana’s elite and the broader, more tumultuous currents of Cuban society. This duality would become a recurring theme in her work, particularly in Jardín, where the enclosed, decaying mansion serves as a microcosm for Cuba itself—at once beautiful, insular, and haunted by the past.
Loynaz attended prestigious schools in Havana, excelling in literature and languages. Her early exposure to the works of European writers like Rainer Maria Rilke, Federico García Lorca, and Gabriela Mistral influenced her poetic sensibility. However, she was equally shaped by Cuba’s oral traditions, folklore, and the rhythms of its music. The contradictions between European literary traditions and the distinctly Cuban cultural milieu in which she was raised gave her work a unique tension that is universal yet rooted in place.
Loynaz began publishing poetry in the 1920s, earning a reputation for her elegant, restrained style. Her work was introspective, often focusing on themes of love, time, and the natural world. In her early poetry, she explored the landscapes of Cuba with an almost mystical reverence, imbuing the island’s flora and fauna with a sense of permanence and memory.
In one early poem, she writes:
“The palm tree stands silent, its roots tangled in the earth’s secrets, its fronds brushing the edge of the sky. It has seen empires rise and fall, and still, it sways, indifferent to the passing of time.”
This quiet yet powerful imagery became a hallmark of Loynaz’s work, reflecting her ability to evoke complex emotions through simple, unadorned language.
This is another example:
Roses
In my garden, roses:
I don’t want to give you roses
that tomorrow …
that tomorrow you won’t have.
In my garden, birds
with crystal song:
I do not give them to you;
they have wings to fly.
In my garden, bees
craft a fine hive:
A minute’s sweetness …
I don’t want to give you that!
For you, the infinite or nothing:
what is immortal or this mute sadness
you won’t understand …
The unnamable sadness of not having
something to give
to someone who carries on the forehead
a portion of eternity.
Leave, leave the garden …
Don’t touch the roses:
things that die
should not be touched.
Rosas
En mi jardín hay rosas:
Yo no te quiero dar las rosas
que mañana …
mañana no tendrás.
En mi jardín hay pájaros
con cantos de cristal:
No te los doy,
que tienen alas para volar …
En mi jardín abejas
labran fino panal:
Dulzura de un minuto …
no te la quiero dar!
Para ti lo infinito o nada;
lo inmortal o esta muda tristeza
que no comprenderás …
La tristeza sin nombre
de no tener que dar
a quien lleva en la frente
algo de eternidad …
Deja, deja el jardín …
No toques el rosal:
las cosas que se mueren
no se deben tocar.
While her poetry gained her a modest following in Cuba, she remained on the periphery of the island’s literary scene, increasingly dominated by politically charged voices. Writers like Nicolás Guillén and Alejo Carpentier produced works that directly engaged with Cuba’s colonial history and socio-political struggles. Loynaz, by contrast, seemed almost indifferent to these concerns, focusing instead on the interior lives of her characters and the subtler ways in which history shapes identity. This perceived detachment from the political currents of her time would later contribute to her marginalisation within Cuban literary circles.
Published in 1951, Jardín is Loynaz’s only novel, yet it stands as one of the most significant works of Cuban literature. The novel centres on Bárbara, a young woman who retreats into the overgrown garden of her family’s decaying mansion, seeking solace from the chaos of the outside world. The garden is both a sanctuary and a prison, where Bárbara confronts the weight of her family’s history and the broader forces of change sweeping through Cuba.
The novel is marked by its lush, evocative descriptions of the natural world, which serve as both setting and metaphor.
In one passage, Loynaz writes: “The garden grew wild, defying the hand of man. Vines twisted around statues, and flowers bloomed in unexpected places as if nature sought to reclaim what had been taken from it. Here, time moved differently—slower, heavier—measured not by clocks but by the opening and closing of petals.”
Through Bárbara’s journey, Loynaz explores themes of memory, loss, and the passage of time. The garden becomes a symbol of Cuba itself, embodying its beauty and entrapment in cycles of history. Bárbara’s isolation mirrors the isolation of the Cuban elite, who remained cut off from the broader currents of change even as they shaped them.
Despite its literary merit, Jardín failed to achieve widespread recognition, overshadowed by the more dynamic and outwardly political works of Loynaz’s male contemporaries. This marginalisation was compounded by Loynaz’s reluctance to engage with the literary establishment or align herself with the revolutionary government following Fidel Castro’s rise to power in 1959. While other writers were celebrated as cultural heroes, Loynaz was quietly sidelined, her work falling out of print and into obscurity.
The political climate of post-revolutionary Cuba further complicated Loynaz’s position. Her aristocratic background and apolitical stance made her uncomfortable in a society that increasingly valorised proletarian ideals. She withdrew from public life, spending much of her later years in seclusion at her family home in Vedado. Yet she continued to write, producing poetry that remained introspective and evocative.
In one of her later poems, she reflects on the passage of time and the weight of history:
“We carry the past in our bodies, in the lines on our hands and the shadows in our eyes. The land remembers, even when we try to forget. It holds our stories in its soil, waiting for us to return.”
It was not until 1992 when Loynaz was awarded the Miguel de Cervantes Prize, that her contributions to literature were fully acknowledged. The recognition brought her work back into the public eye, but by then, Loynaz was in her 90s and in frail health. She died in 1997, leaving behind a body of work that resonates with those willing to engage with its quiet brilliance.
Dulce María Loynaz’s writing is not loud or incendiary. It does not demand attention or call for revolution. Instead, it invites readers to pause, reflect, and see the world through a lens of quiet intensity. Her work captures the beauty and complexity of Cuba in ways that are both timeless and deeply rooted in the specifics of place and history.
For Cuban readers, Loynaz mirrors their experiences of love, loss, and resilience. For the wider world, she provides a window into a Cuba that is often overshadowed by its politics—a Cuba of gardens and palm trees, whispers and memories, and the spaces between silence and song.
Ira Mathur is a Guardian Media journalist and winner of the 2023 Bocas Prize for Non-Fiction for her memoir, Love The Dark Days.
Website: www.irasroom.org
Author inquiries: irasroom@gmail.com
