Passion, Not Only for Poetry

Eadbhard McGowan

I took the bus to attend a poetry and music session in the centre of Seville. It was mild. Not yet the deadly heat, which will hold the town in its grip in summer. I got off the bus near the Cathedral and walked in the direction of Iglesia Santa Maria de la Blanca. I passed by the jaunting cars with the white horses, which are standing in front of the church, and crossed Santa Cruz, which was formerly the Jewish Quarter La Judería. I wandered around the small squares, lined with orange trees, getting lost in the maze of narrow alleys, where the ancient houses lean so far towards each other that they almost seem to touch. I stood and admired the leafy patios of private mansions through their iron gates. Finally, I stepped into Calle Mateos Gago with trees full of oranges on both sides, and looked for the location. I heard guitar music from afar and saw a loud, debating crowd outside one of the restaurants.

Illustration by Nir Stern

I recognised Manoli Montero-Bernal, whom I met accidentally when I was browsing through books in a nearly empty bookshop in the town centre, where she worked. We engaged in a lengthy conversation because I was looking for a grammar book on Ladino, the Jewish-Spanish language, which I speak and cherish. I saw the poster advertising this poetry session and one of the program points was ‘poetry in Ladino’, which made me very curious.

It so happened that Manoli also intended to attend this meeting.

She was an attractive lady with black hair, a cherry mouth and mysterious eyes full of the history of Andalusia. As she looked at me, I was spellbound. I could have stayed in Andalusia and burned all the bridges behind me.

She saw me and waved in my direction. When I joined the group, she introduced me to the organiser, with whom I exchanged a few words referring in particular to the Ladino program point. He called to a man, who was sitting near a blue-tiled wall. “This is Caro Carduso.” He is a member of a Sephardic family and an author of a book on Ladino.

Caro gave me a glass and filled it with red wine. Soon, we fell into a very academic discussion on this language. Being fluent in Spanish and able to read Hebrew letters, I am fairly acquainted with Ladino, the language of the Sephardic Jews, who live and lived in Spain, Portugal, Greece, Turkey and North Africa. Ladino is one of my many passions.

We were called to gather for the meeting in a large room which was wrapped around a pretty, wooden-balconied courtyard. I counted nearly thirty people.

Grilled sardines and razor-clams with a glass of manzanilla sherry, salchichón iberico made from veal and cured goose waited for us at tables tucked under the 13th-century Moorish-gothic stone wall. Among all these dishes, “bienmesabe” swordfish stood out, marinated, cut into cubes, breaded in flour and then fried until crispy. This typical Spanish recipe of Jewish origin is very popular along the coast of Andalusia. I loved it, food being another passion of mine.

The last item on the poster’s agenda said that people attending were free to bring a poem of their own along. Leaving this to the end of the event suggested a long night of poetry.

Guitar music was played in the background as we listened to the deep-rooted poetry of Spanish poets present and past. Caro Carduso read a love poem in Ladino from a book: Un Ramo de Poemas - A Bouquet of Poems by Haim Vitali Sadacca:

Primer Amor

Kamino en las kayes… tú siempre en mi tino,
Sol de mi vida, tu azes briyar mi destino,
Nesesito ver tus miradas kon las sonrizas,
Mi oyido en tu boz, mis ojos onde pizas.
En mis lavyos tu nombre, tu sangre en mis venas,
Las siento komo si fueran de lumbre yenas.
Nunka puedre estar sin la flama d’este fuego,
Topo la fuersa de bivir… sin ti no puedo.
Kamino solo… en lugares muy asolados,
Tú en mi korasón i ninguno a mis lados.
Tú kerensya, tú dulsura siempre en mi tino,
Me siento borracho komo bivir en el vino.

First Love

I walk down the streets… you, always on my mind,
You brighten my destiny, light of my life.
I need to see your glances, your smiles,
Your voice in my ears, your steps before my eyes.
You set my veins throbbing with delight,
Your name on my lips burning bright,
I cannot be without the flame of this fire.
I cannot live without you; you are my life’s desire. I walk alone on empty streets in the night,
You in my heart and no one at my side,
Your affection, your sweetness always on my mind,
I feel drunk on this intoxicating wine.

I looked over at Manoli and she looked into my eyes throughout the recitation of this poem. Passions met.

When it was my turn, I read my poem and said that it was dedicated to a wonderful woman.

The meeting ended late in the night. I gave Manoli a copy of my poem.

We left together and walked into the darkness to her home.

We spent a night together full of passion and we woke up with the breeze of the young morning.

My poem read:

Rojos, llevados por el viento

Diez mil pétalos

caen en el río

son llamas

Fuego en la maraña verde.

Mi grito púrpura penetra

la red luminosa de la noche

madera incandescente y rosas amargas

rojo como sus labios atentos

cierto como la lluvia.

Bailando en olas nubladas

espuma violeta sangrienta de la noche

Sol, prensado en una fórmula

insoluble en el desafío de la tarde,

tejido gris, apasionado.

El crucero pálido de la luna

la luz azul de los cementerios

brilla en los charcos y

el cálido brillo

enrojece los jardines pálidos.

Cuán ciegas las casas,

las calles centelleantes,

ya que son numerosos

y estrechas, exuberantes,

los folletos de piedra.

Red, blown away by the wind

Ten thousand petals

fall into the river

are flames

Fire in green disarray.

My purple cry permeates

the luminous power of night

rotten wood glows and bitter roses

red as your attentive lips

true as the rain.

Dancing in cloudy waves

bloody foam violet of the evening

Sun, pressed into a formula

insoluble in the whirl of the late,

grey weaving, passionate.

The pale window cross of the moon

the blue light of the graveyards

shines in the puddles

the barmy glow

reddens the pale gardens.

How blind the houses,

the glistening streets,

how numerous

and narrow, exuberant,

those stone leaflets.