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OYE

Samuel Ibn Naghrela versus abu Ishaq of Elvira - The power of the pen! - Sons of Abraham and the innocents.

The Power of the Pen Man's wisdom is at the tip of his pen, His intelligence is in his writing. His pen can raise a man to the rank That the scepter accords to a king. Samuel ha-Nagid

Qasida Go, tell all the Sanhaja,1 the full moons of our time, the lions in their lair The words of one who bears them love, and is concerned and counts it a religious duty to give advice. Your chief has made a mistake which delights malicious gloaters He has chosen an infidel as his secretary when he could, had he wished, have chosen a Believer. Through him, the Jews have become great and proud and arrogant --- they, who were among the most abject And have gained their desired and attained the utmost and this happened so suddenly, before they even realized it, And how many a worthy Muslim humbly obeys the vilest ape2 among these miscreants. And this did not happen through their own efforts but through one of our own people who rose as their accomplice. O, why did he not deal with them, following the example set by worthy and pious leaders? Put them back where they belong and reduce them to the lowest of the low, Roaming among us, with their little bags, with contempt, degradation and scorn as their lot, Scrabbling in the dunghills for colored rags to shroud their dead for burial. They did not make light of our great ones or presume against the righteous, These low-born people would not be seated in society or paraded 3 along with the intimates of the ruler Badis!4 You are a clever man and your judgment is sure and accurate How can their misdeeds be hidden from you when they are trumpeted all over the land? How can you love this bastard brood when they have made you hateful to all the world? How can you complete your ascent to greatness when they destroy what you build? How have you been lulled to trust a villain and made him your companion - though he is evil company? God has vouchsafed in His revelations a warning against the society of the wicked Do not choose a servant from among hem but leave them to the curse of the accurst! For the earth cries out against their wickedness and is about to heave and swallow all. Turn your eyes to other countries and you will find the Jews are outcast dogs. Why should you be different and bring them near when in al the land they are kept afar? --You, who are a well-beloved king, scion of glorious kings, An are the first among men as your forebears were first in their time. I came to live in Granada and I saw them frolicking there. They divided up the city and the provinces with one of their accursed men everywhere. They collect all the revenues, they munch and they crunch. They dress in the finest clothes while you wear the meanest. They are the trustees of your secrets --yet how can traitors be trusted? Others eat a dirham's worth, afar, while they are near, and dine well. They challenge you to your God and they are neither stopped nor reproved. They envelop you with their prayers and you neither see nor hear. They slaughter beasts in our markets and you eat their trefa. Their chief ape has marbled his house and led the finest spring water to it. Our affairs are now in his hands and we stand at his door. He laughs at us and at our religion and we return to our God. If I said that his wealth is as great as yours, I would speak the truth. Hasten to slaughter him as an offering, sacrifice him, for he is a fat ram And do not spare his people for they have amassed every precious thing. Break loose their grip and take their money for you have a better right to what they collect. Do not consider it a breach of faith to kill them --- the breach of faith would be to let them carry on. They have violated our covenant with them so how can you be held guilty against violators? How can they have any pact when we are obscure and they are prominent? Now we are the humble, beside them, as if we had done wrong, and they right! Do not tolerate their misdeeds against us for you are surety for what they do. God watches His own people and the people of God will prevail. Abu Ishaq Midnight on the Front Line By Samuel Ibn Naghrela Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in a reconstruction of medieval Andalusi Hebrew pronunciation That night, I quartered my troops in a citadel Laid waste by commanders of yesteryear They fell asleep at its walls and foundations While its former masters slept beneath. Then I said in my heart: "O what has come Of the people that dwelt here before we came? Where are the builders, and where the destroyers, The rich and the poor, the lords and their slaves, The mourners and grooms, the fathers and sons, The bereaved, the begetters, the meek, the courageous? Great peoples one by one have all come And died in the passage of years and ages. They lodged on the face of the earth long ago Who are lodged in the gut of the ground today. Their proud palaces turned into humbling tombs. Their pleasant courts to dust again.. And if they could raise their heads and rise they'd take our lives and pleasures! Believe it, My living soul! In truth and tomorrow, I'll be like them- and this troop of sleepers." The Original: הלינותי גדודשמואל הנגיד הלינותי גדוד כבד בבירה הרסוה ימי קדם קציניםוישנו עלי גבה וצדהותחתינו בעליה ישניםודברתי ללבי אי קהליםועמים שכנו בזאת לפנים?ואי בונים ומחריבים ושריםודלים ועבדים ואדוניםומולידים ושכולים ואבותובנים ואבלים וחתניםועם רב נולדו אחר אחריםבימים אחרי ימים ושניםוהיו על פני הארץ שכניםוהם היום בלב ארץ שכוניםוקבר חלפו מארמונותםועפר מחצרים נעמניםואילו העלו ראשם ויצאושללונו נפשים ועדניםאמת נפשי, אמת, כהם למחראהי אני ואלה ההמונים!

LA LÁMPARA MARINA

La Lámpara Marina

Pablo Neruda

I

El Puerto

Color de cielo
Cuando tú desembarcas
en Lisboa,

cielo celeste y rosa rosa,

estuco blanco y oro,

pétalos de ladrillo,

las casas,

las puertas,

los techos,

las ventanas,

salpicadas del oro limonero,

del azul ultramar de los navíos.

Cuando tú desembarcas

no conoces,

no sabes que detrás de las ventanas

escuchan,

rondan

carceleros de luto,

retóricos, correctos,

arreando presos a las islas,

condenando al silencio,


pululando

como escuadras de sombras

bajo ventanas verdes,

entre montes azules,

la policía

bajo las otoñales cornucopias

buscando portugueses,

rascando el suelo,

destinando los hombres a la sombra.



II


La Cítara

Olvidada
Oh Portugal hermoso

cesta de fruta y flores,

emerges

en la orilla plateada del océano,

en la espuma de Europa,

con la cítara de oro

que te dejó Camoens,

cantando con dulzura,

esparciendo en las bocas del Atlántico

tu tempestuoso olor de vinerías,

de azahares marinos,

tu luminosa luna entrecortada

por nubes y tormentas.


III


Los presidios
Pero,

portugués de la calle,

entre nosotros,

nadie nos escucha,

sabes

dónde

está Álvaro Cunhal?

Reconoces la ausencia

del valiente

Militão?

Muchacha portuguesa,

pasas como bailando

por las calles

rosadas de Lisboa,

pero,

sabes dónde cayó Bento Gonçalves,

el portugués más puro,

el honor de tu mar e de tu arena?

Sabes

que existe

una isla,

la isla de la Sal,

y Tarrafal en ella

vierte sombra?

Sí, lo sabes, muchacha,


muchacho, sí, lo sabes.

En silencio

la palabra

anda con lentitud pero recorre

no sólo el Portugal, sino la tierra.

Sí, sabemos,

en remotos países,

que hace treinta años

una lápida

espesa como tumba o como túnica

de clerical murciélago,

ahoga, Portugal, tu triste trino,

salpica tu dulzura

con gotas de martirio

y mantiene sus cúpulas de sombra.



IV

El Mar

Y Los Jazmines
De tu mano pequeña en otra hora

salieron criaturas

desgranadas

en el asombro de la geografia.

Así volvió Camoens

a dejarte una rama de jazmines

que siguió floreciendo.

La inteligencia ardió como una viña

de transparentes uvas

en tu raza.

Guerra Junqueiro entre las olas

dejó caer su trueno

de libertad bravía

que transportó el océano en su canto,

y otros multiplicaron

tu esplendor de rosales y racimos

como si de tu territorio estrecho

salieran grandes manos

derramando semillas

para toda la tierra.

Sin embargo,

el tiempo te ha enterrado.

El polvo clerical

acumulado en Coimbra

cayó en tu rostro

de naranja oceánica

y cubrió el esplendor de tu cintura.


V


La Lámpara

Marina
Portugal,
vuelve al mar, a tus navíos,

Portugal, vuelve al hombre, al marinero,

vuelve a la tierra tuya, a tu fragancia,

a tu razón libre en el viento,

de nuevo

a la luz matutina

del clavel y la espuma.

Muéstranos tu tesoro,

tus hombres, tus mujeres.

No escondas más tu rostro

de embarcación valiente

puesta en las avanzadas de Océano.

Portugal, navegante,

descubridor de islas,

inventor de pimientas,

descubre el nuevo hombre,

las islas asombradas,

descubre el archipélago en el tiempo.

La súbita

aparición

del pan

sobre la mesa,

la aurora,

tú, descúbrela,

descubridor de auroras.

Cómo es esto?

Cómo puedes negarte

al ciclo de la luz tú que mostraste

caminos a los ciegos?

Tú, dulce y férreo y viejo,

angosto y ancho padre

del horizonte, cómo

puedes cerrar la puerta

a los nuevos racimos

y al viento con estrellas del Oriente?

Proa de Europa, busca

en la corriente

las olas ancestrales,

la marítima barba

de Camoens.

Rompe

las telaranãs

que cubren tu fragrante arboladura,

y entonces

a nosotros los hijos de tus hijos,


aquellos para quienes

descubriste la arena

hasta entonces oscura

de la geografía deslumbrante,

muéstranos que tú puedes

atravesar de nuevo

el nuevo mar oscuro

y descubrir al hombre que ha nacido

en las islas más grandes de la tierra.

Navega, Portugal, la hora

llégó, levanta

tu estatura de proa

y entre las islas y los hombres vuelve

a ser camino.

En esta edad agrega

tu luz, vuelve a ser lámpara:

aprenderás de nuevo a ser estrella.



Poema extraído de Obras Completas, 3ª ed. aumentada, Buenos Aires, Editorial Losada, Col. Cumbre, 1967

À madrinha e à Ti Silva.

O Beijo Mata o Desejo

MOTE

«Não te beijo e tenho ensejo
Para um beijo te roubar;
O beijo mata o desejo
E eu quero-te desejar.»

GLOSAS
Porque te amo de verdade,
'stou louco por dar-te um beijo,
Mas contra a tua vontade
Não te beijo e tenho ensejo.

Sabendo que deves ter
Milhões deles p'ra me dar,
Teria que enlouquecer
Para um beijo te roubar.

E como em teus lábios puros,
Guardas tudo quanto almejo,
Doutros desejos futuros
O beijo mata o desejo.

Roubando um, mil te daria;
O que não posso é jurar
Que não te aborreceria,
E eu quero-te desejar!

António Aleixo, in "Este Livro que Vos Deixo"

António Fernandes Aleixo (Vila Real de Santo António, 18 de Fevereiro de 1899 — Loulé, 16 de Novembro de 1949) foi um poeta popular português.