La lingua più divertente del mondo

Nel post sulla storia di Bella ciao ho accennato all’eccellente sito di Riccardo Venturi, che vi ha raccolto le più popolari canzoni contro la guerra, accompagnate da traduzioni in varie lingue e da abbondanti documenti di storia e di stampa. Poco più tardi Riccardo mi ha fatto l’onore di includere nel suo sito la traduzione letterale di Bella ciao dalla versione ungherese del post, introducendola con delle parole calorose.

Ma la vera sorpresa è seguita dopo. Quando l’ho ringraziato – in italiano – e gli ho mandato l’indirizzo della versione inglese del post perché sicuramente avrebbe potuto essere capita da molti più lettori rispetto alla versione ungherese, Riccardo mi ha risposto in ungherese:

Szívesen köszönöm az egész munkádért a szép blogodon. Én is elfogadom, hogy az olvasók többsége könnyebben olvashat angolul, de én a magyar nyelvet mindig jobban szeretem, mint a “világnyelv”...Elkezdettem magyart tanulni 16 éves korában én részrehajló vagyok :-) Minden esetben remélem, hogy a blogod és a honlapom a jövőben is a magyar és olasz néphagyományok tanulmányáért és történetéért közreműködhetnek!

(Un ringrazio affettuoso per tutto il tuo lavoro nel tuo bel blog. Anch’io ammetto che la maggioranza dei lettori possa leggere con più facilità in inglese, ma ho sempre preferito l’ungherese alla “lingua del mondo”… All’età di 16 anni ho cominciato a imparare l’ungherese, e così sono parziale :-) In ogni caso spero che il tuo blog e il mio sito possano collaborare anche nel futuro per lo studio e la storia delle tradizioni popolari ungheresi ed italiane!)

Già il fatto che un ragazzo italiano di sedici anni scelga fra le migliaia di alternative proprio questa lingua estremamente difficile e di limitata utilità è abbastanza improbabile. Ma che poi arrivi a questo livello di perfezione – ovviamente con un bella dose di diligenza e di talento – è addirittura incredibile. Interrogato sulle cause della sua scelta, Riccardo ha risposto questo:

A magyar nyelv két legfontosabb szava: szerelem és szabadság. Mikor 16 éves voltam, voltam mint minden 16 éves: romanticizmus, elmezavar, eredetiség, “én-nem-vagyok-mint-a-mások” zűrzavara...s a többi. Továbbá a határtalan nyelvszerelmem volt, mert a nyelvek, mint mondta a híres olasz keleti nyelvész Alessandro Bausani, “a világ legszebb játéka”. Egy firenzei könyvesboltban Fábián Pál magyar nyelvtanát (“Manuale della lingua ungherese”) láttam meg, és a magyar nyelv a hihetetlen szerkezetével elbűvölt engem; de sajnos nem volt pénzem vásárolni, túl drága volt. Két honapot várnom kellett, és a napon, mikor a szükséges pénzem volt, buszsztrájk volt. Jól, hazámból a könyvesboltba gyalog mentem, hogy vásároljam: nyolc kilómeter. Szerelem első látásra. A magyar nyelv nem “nehéz”: különböző, másféle. Az elméjét különböző gondolatmódra, gondolatszerkezetre készteti; és a különbözés szabadság. Megtanultam és beszélek más nyelveket, de a magyar még kedvenc játszótársam, a világ legszebb, legszabadabb és legszórakoztatóbb nyelve. A szerelem és a szabadság nyelve.

(Le due parole più importanti della lingua ungherese sono: amore e libertà. All’età di sedici ero come tutti i sedicenni: in una confusione di romanticismo, follia, originalità, “non sono come gli altri”… eccetera. E poi c’era l’irrefrenabile amore verso le lingue, perché le lingue, come disse il famoso orientalista italiano Alessandro Bausani, son “il gioco più bello del mondo”. Ho scoperto in una libreria fiorentina il Manuale della lingua ungherese di Pál Fábián, e la lingua ungherese mi ha completamente affascinato con la sua incredibile struttura. Però, purtroppo, non avevo i soldi per comprarlo, costava troppo. Ho dovuto aspettare due mesi prima di avere i soldi, ma proprio quel giorno c’era sciopero degli autobus. Bene, sono andato a piedi da casa alla libreria per comprarlo: otto chilometri… Amore a prima vista. La lingua ungherese non è “difficile”: è differente. Apre la mente a un differente modo di pensare, a delle strutture mentali differenti. E la differenza è libertà. Ho imparato e parlo anche un paio di altre lingue, ma l’ungherese è tuttora il mio preferito compagno di gioco, la lingua più bella, più libera e più divertente del mondo. La lingua dell’amore e della libertà.)

Fábián Pál magyar nyelvtana (Budapest 1970, Tankönyvkiadó) az asztalomon, 30 év után... :-)
(La grammatica ungherese di Pál Fábián [Budapest 1970, Editore Libri Scolastici] sul mio tavolo, dopo 30 anni… :-) )

Anch’io mi ricordo bene di questo libro, con cui una volta ho insegnato, anzi due volte, e tutt’e due volte senza successo. Il mio primo studente è stato un ufficiale dei carabinieri molto simpatico, di Torino, nel mezzo del cammin fra i venti e trent’anni, che si era avvicinato a noi spinto dall‘attrazione per una ragazza ungherese, figlia di un famoso etnografo e studentessa al dipartimento di italiano. Alla fine degli anni ’80 una relazione ungherese era considerata un rischio per la sicurezza dello stato, e il ragazzo – con una carriera molto promettente dopo parecchi anni di servizio – è stato messo davanti a una scelta dai suoi superiori: o la ragazza o la professione. Ha scelto la ragazza. E dopo nemmeno sei mesi di studio dell’ungherese, la ragazza ha scelto qualcun altro al posto suo, mandandolo a casa perché cominciasse una nuova vita, la migliore che potesse.

La seconda volta abbiamo cominciato il libro con Bobo, il mio amico sardo-pratese, che negli anni ’90 ha trovato un’avventura eccitante aprire un caffé italiano a Budapest. Però questa è stata una breve parentesi. Bobo si è smarrito verso la terza lezione, nel corso dell’analisi morfologica della frase Hol vannak az amerikai turisták kocsijai? (“Dove sono le macchine dei turisti americani?” – in ungherese una costruzione un po’ prematuramente complicata per un principiante.) Bene, Dio abbia in pace il signor Fábián (è morto in questo settembre), ma se imparare ungherese è già difficile di per sé, allora impararlo di questo libro è addirittura un atto erculeo, per cui Riccardo merita veramente ogni riconoscimento.

Qualche giorno dopo il nostro scambio di commenti, il 6 di gennaio, quando la Befana porta i regali ai bambini, Riccardo ha fatto anche a me l’onore di farmi un regalo. Nella pagina del suo sito dedicata alla canzone Mio nonno partì per l’Ortigara di Chiara Riondino, ha tradotto in ungherese questa canzone con una dedica personale. In cima alla pagina ha anche incluso un link a una registrazione del canzone con Chiara, ma, dato che questo si può ottenere solo tramite diversi passaggi, qui sotto includo un link diretto.


Chiara Riondino: Mio nonno partì per l’Ortigara, registrazione fatta  in occasione all’evento organizzato dalla comunità di base fiorentina Baracche Verdi in piazza dell’Isolotto, il 13 di maggio di 2007.

Questa canzone – scrive Riccardo – parla anche di suo nonno, “ragazzo del ’98” che è stato altrettanto derubato della sua gioventù dalla prima guerra mondiale e dagli anni passati nelle trincee delle Alpi italiane, di fronte alle trincee dell’armata austro-ungarica.

In cambio anch’io mando a Riccardo la canzone di mio nonno, “ragazzo dell’88”, cantata negli stessi anni e fra le stesse montagne – però dall’altro lato dello stesso fronte. E, già che siamo, includo anche la canzone del mio altro nonno, che ha servito sul fronte russo, un canzone che è tanto piacciuta ai miei amici russi. Come la canzone italiana, così quelle ungheresi non parlano di nessun odio verso il “nemico”, ma solo di una vita insensatamente sprecata in una guerra insensata.


András Széles: Kimegyek a doberdói harctérre (Esco al campo di battaglia di Doberdò). Dal CD di Tamás Cseh - Péter Péterdi: Magyar katonadalok és énekek a XX. századból (Canzoni dei soldati ungheresi del 20mo secolo) (2000).

Kimegyek a doberdói harctérre, feltekintek a csillagos nagy égre: Csillagos ég, merre van a magyar hazám, merre sirat engem az édesanyám? Én Istenem, hol fogok én meghalni, hol fog az én piros vérem kifolyni? Olaszország közepébe lesz a sírom, édesanyám, arra kérem, ne sírjon.

Esco sul campo di battaglia di Doberdò guardo insù verso il cielo stellato: Cielo stellato, dov’è la mia patria ungherese, dove sta piangendo per me la mia dolce madre? Dio mio, dove morirò, dove si verserà il mio sangue rosso? La mia tomba sarà nel bel mezzo dell’Italia, mia dolce madre, ti prego di non piangere per me.

Zoltán Kátai and the Hegedűs Ensemble: Esik az eső, ázik a heveder (Cade la pioggia, la bardatura è umida). Dallo stesso CD. Tuttavia, la versione di mio nonno era molto più melancolica, proprio quella era la sua bellezza.

Esik az eső, ázik a heveder gyönge lábamat szorítja a kengyel bársony lekötő szorítja lovamat nehéz karabély nyomja a vállamat. Megjött a levél fekete pecséttel: megjött a muszka százezer emberrel kétszáz ágyúval áll a harc mezején így hát, jó anyám, elmasírozok én. Jön egy kapitány hófehér paripán fényes kard csillog annak az oldalán kardja megvillan, az ágyú mennydörög szép piros vérem a földre lecsöpög.

Cade la pioggia, la bardatura è umida i miei deboli piedi sono stretti dalla staffa una cavezza di velluto stringe il mio cavallo una mitra pesante pesa sulla mia spalla. È arrivata la lettera con il sigillo nero: sono arrivati i russi con duecentomila persone, con duecento cannoni stanno sul campo di battaglia perciò, mia buona madre, devo marciare via. Arriva un capitano su un cavallo bianco una spada lucente brilla al suo fianco la sua spada brilla, i cannoni tuonano e il mio sangue rosso stilla sulla terra.

Tante grazie a Francesca per la revisione del testo italiano.

The most entertaining language of the world

In the post on the history of Bella ciao I have mentioned the great site of Riccardo Venturi where he has been collecting a large amount of popular antiwar songs accompanied with several translations as well as historical and press documentation. Not much later I was honored by Riccardo’s having included on his page the verbatim translation of the Bella ciao from the Hungarian version of the post, introducing it with some warm words.

But the real surprise followed only next. When I have said thanks to him – in Italian – and sent to him the address of the English version of the post as it could be understood by much more readers than the Hungarian one, Riccardo answered to me in Hungarian:

Szívesen köszönöm az egész munkádért a szép blogodon. Én is elfogadom, hogy az olvasók többsége könnyebben olvashat angolul, de én a magyar nyelvet mindig jobban szeretem, mint a “világnyelv”...Elkezdettem magyart tanulni 16 éves korában én részrehajló vagyok :-) Minden esetben remélem, hogy a blogod és a honlapom a jövőben is a magyar és olasz néphagyományok tanulmányáért és történetéért közreműködhetnek!

(A warm thanks to you for all your work in your beautiful blog. I also accept that the majority of the readers can more easily read in English, but I have always loved Hungarian much more than “world languages”… I started to learn Hungarian when I was 16, and I’m therefore biased :-) In any case, I hope that your blog and my site could collaborate in the future too for the study and history of Hungarian and Italian folk traditions!)

It is already improbable enough that a sixteen years old Italian boy choose from thousands of alternatives precisely this extraordinarily difficult language of very limited usefulness. But it is completely unbelievable that he has reached – obviously with a great amount of diligence and talent – to this level of perfection. When asked about the reason of his choice, Riccardo answered like this:

A magyar nyelv két legfontosabb szava: szerelem és szabadság. Mikor 16 éves voltam, voltam mint minden 16 éves: romanticizmus, elmezavar, eredetiség, “én-nem-vagyok-mint-a-mások” zűrzavara...s a többi. Továbbá a határtalan nyelvszerelmem volt, mert a nyelvek, mint mondta a híres olasz keleti nyelvész Alessandro Bausani, “a világ legszebb játéka”. Egy firenzei könyvesboltban Fábián Pál magyar nyelvtanát (“Manuale della lingua ungherese”) láttam meg, és a magyar nyelv a hihetetlen szerkezetével elbűvölt engem; de sajnos nem volt pénzem vásárolni, túl drága volt. Két honapot várnom kellett, és a napon, mikor a szükséges pénzem volt, buszsztrájk volt. Jól, hazámból a könyvesboltba gyalog mentem, hogy vásároljam: nyolc kilómeter. Szerelem első látásra. A magyar nyelv nem “nehéz”: különböző, másféle. Az elméjét különböző gondolatmódra, gondolatszerkezetre készteti; és a különbözés szabadság. Megtanultam és beszélek más nyelveket, de a magyar még kedvenc játszótársam, a világ legszebb, legszabadabb és legszórakoztatóbb nyelve. A szerelem és a szabadság nyelve.

(The two most important words of Hungarian language are love and freedom. When I was 16, I was like any 16 years old boy: in a confusion of romanticism, madness, originality, “I’m not like others”… and so on. And I was fallen in love beyond limites with languages, for, as the renowned Italian Orientalist Alessandro Bausani told, languages are “the most beautiful toy of the world.” I found the Manuale della lingua ungherese, the Hungarian grammar by Pál Fábián in a bookshop in Florence, and the Hungarian language has enchanted me with its unbelievable structure. However, it was too expensive and I had no money to buy it. I had to wait two months, and on the day when I finally had the necessary money, there was a bus strike. Well, I went from my home to the bookshop on foot to buy it: eight kilometers. Love at first sight. Hungarian is not “difficult:” it is different. It opens your mind to a different way of thinking and to different mental structures. And difference means freedom. I have learned and have spoken a couple of other languages too, but the Hungarian language has remained my favorite playmate, the most beautiful, most free and most entertaining language of the world. The language of love and freedom.)

Fábián Pál magyar nyelvtana (Budapest 1970, Tankönyvkiadó) az asztalomon, 30 év után... :-)
(The Hungarian grammar of Pál Fábián [Budapest 1970, Schoolbook Publisher] on my table, after 30 years… :-) )

I remember this book well. I have taught with it. On two occasions, and both times without success. My first student was a very sympathetic twenty-and-some years old carabiniere officer from Torino who had been attracted to us by a Hungarian girl, the daughter of a renowned ethnographer and a student at the Italian department. As at the end of the 80’s a Hungarian connection was considered a risk of state security, the young officer – with a promising career after several years of service – was given a choice by his superiors: either the girl or the profession. The boy chose the girl. And then, after some six months of learning Hungarian, the girl chose someone else instead of him, and sent him home to begin a new life as best he can.

The second time we started the book with my friend Bobo who in the 90’s found it an exciting venture to open an Italian café in Budapest. However, this was a short round. Bobo lost track somewhere around the third lesson, during the morphological analysis of the phrase Hol vannak az amerikai turisták kocsijai? (“Where are the cars of the American tourists?” – in Hungarian a somewhat prematurely complicated construction for a beginner.) Well, may God give rest to signor Fábián (he died in this September), but if it is difficult to learn Hungarian, then to learn it with his book is a Herculean labor. So that Riccardo deserves all the possible credits.

Some days after our change of comments, on January 6 when in Italy the Befana brings gifts to the children, Riccardo also favored me with a gift of Epiphany. On the page of his site dedicated to the song Mio nonno partì per l’Ortigara (My grandfather set off to Ortigara) by Chiara Riondino, he translated to Hungarian this song with a personal dedication. On the top of the page he also included a link to a registration of the song with Chiara, but as this can be reached only through a number of steps, I also link the song here. While listening to it, you can read his English translation in parallel with the original Italian text of the song.


Chiara Riondino: Mio nonno partì per l’Ortigara, registration of the performance organized by the Florentine basis community Baracche Verdi on the Piazza dell’Isolotto, May 13, 2007.

This song – writes Riccardo – is also about his grandfather “of 98,” who was similarly robbed of his youth by the First World War, by the years spent in the trenches of the Italian Alps facing the trenches of the Austro-Hungarian army.

In return I also send to Riccardo the song of my grandfather “of 88,” which was sung in the same years and in the same mountains – on the other side of the same front. And since we are here, I also include here the song of my other grandfather serving at the Russian front, a song which was so much liked by our Russian friends. Similarly to the Italian song, its Hungarian counterparts are not about hatred against the enemy, but about life senselessly wasted in a senseless war.


András Széles: Kimegyek a doberdói harctérre (I go out to the battlefield of Doberdo). From the CD of Tamás Cseh - Péter Péterdi: Magyar katonadalok és énekek a XX. századból (Hungarian soldiers’ songs from the 20th century) (2000).

Kimegyek a doberdói harctérre, feltekintek a csillagos nagy égre: Csillagos ég, merre van a magyar hazám, merre sirat engem az édesanyám? Én Istenem, hol fogok én meghalni, hol fog az én piros vérem kifolyni? Olaszország közepébe lesz a sírom, édesanyám, arra kérem, ne sírjon.

I go out to the battlefield of Doberdo I look up on the starlit sky: Starry sky, where is my Hungarian homeland, where does my sweet mother cry for me? My God, where will I die, where will my red blood run off? My tomb will be in the middle of Italy, my sweet mother, I beg you not to cry.

Zoltán Kátai and the Hegedűs Ensemble: Esik az eső, ázik a heveder (The rain is falling, the girth is getting wet). From the same CD. However, the version of my grandfather was much more melancholic, exactly that was beautiful in it.

Esik az eső, ázik a heveder gyönge lábamat szorítja a kengyel bársony lekötő szorítja lovamat nehéz karabély nyomja a vállamat. Megjött a levél fekete pecséttel: megjött a muszka százezer emberrel kétszáz ágyúval áll a harc mezején így hát, jó anyám, elmasírozok én. Jön egy kapitány hófehér paripán fényes kard csillog annak az oldalán kardja megvillan, az ágyú mennydörög szép piros vérem a földre lecsöpög.

The rain is falling, the girth is getting wet my weak feet are pinched by the stirrup a velvet halter pinches my horse a heavy rifle weighs on my shoulder. The letter has come with a black seal: the Russians have come, a hundred thousand, with two hundred cannons they stay at the battlefield so my good mother, I have to march away. A captain is coming on a white horse a brilliant sword shines on his side his sword flares up, the cannons are thundering my beautiful red blood drips down on the earth.

Golden apples

Directly from the garden of the Hesperides – Vespertina, al-Sepharad, in short the Land of the Sunset –, what is more, directly from the Western Islands. The first crop.


The little tree from the garden sees the sea to the right, the mountains to the left and, down in the valley protected by the mountains, the olive tree plantation of Arabic origins of the estate Son Bunyola. In warm summer nights, when laying under the open sky near to the tree, you can hear the bells of the sheep grazing between the olive trees, and the breathing of the sea in the background.




Behind the mountains there live bears. Nobody has seen them in daylight, but at sunset they emerge from behind the mountain to the sky.


As Wang Wei dispatched the first fruit of the little tree from the Western end of the Mediterranean, so at the Eastern end of the Mediterranean a bottle with the majestic fruit of the Golan Plateau also set on the way thanks to Gyuri. The two ambassadors of the South met halfway, on our Christmas table.

The third ambassador of the South is the Iranian spice blend for the rice with almonds that we had received as a gift in the Isfahan bazaar. “Here only foreigners are served, or also Iranians?” a woman asked half-amusingly after the grocer having enthusiastically described to us for more than twenty minutes the subtle nuances between the different sorts of saffrons. “Only Iranians!” shouted merrily the grocer. “Cant’t you see that he’s Iranian, too?” he caressed with love my thorny beard, and he slipped a package of seven spices blend into the bag with the saffron.

The gorgeous wine of the Golan Plateau – according to Gyuri the best wine in Israel – perfectly matched Iranian rice and the fish steamed on ginger according to Zhen’s Chinese recipe.

And lemons were as tasty as no other we have hitherto tasted.

On the occasion of the New Year we hereby want to say thanks to all our friends for their love towards us. May God give all the best to them, and to us the possibility of meeting them several times on this or that navel of this world.


Odysseus Elytis: Ο Ήλιος ο Ηλιάτορας (The Sovereign Sun). Music by Dimitris Lagios, sung by Giorgos Dalaras (1982). First piece: The song of the Sun (omitting from the translation the two first lines of the introductory choir).

Εσείς στεριές και θάλασσες τ' αμπέλια κι οι χρυσές ελιές ακούτε τα χαμπέρια μου μέσα στα μεσημέρια μου «Σ' όλους τους τόπους κι αν γυρνώ μόνον ετούτον αγαπώ!» Από τη μέση του εγκρεμού στη μέση του αλλού πελάγου «Σ' όλους τους τόπους κι αν γυρνώ μόνον ετούτον αγαπώ!» Με τα μικρά χαμίνια του καβάλα στα δελφίνια του με τις κοπέλες τις γυμνές που καίγονται στις αμμουδιές «Σ' όλους τους τόπους κι αν γυρνώ μόνον ετούτον αγαπώ!»

You rocks and seas vines and golden olives hear my word as I follow my course: I turn above all places but I love this only one! At the middle of the universe among all the islands of the sea I turn above all places but I love this only one! With its little rascals riding on dolphins with its nude girls laying on the seashore: I turn above all places but I love this only one!

Butibalausí

The goblets were heavy when they were brought to us but when filled with pure wine they became so light that they almost flew up high with it just as bodies are lifted up high by the spirit

It would be nice to illustrate this poem with a wonderful medieval Arabic goblet, let us say from the recently published and in fact “royal” catalog of the royal collection of Islamic ceramics of Kuwait. However, I have absolutely wanted to find something local, Mallorcan, something which could have been eventually taken in the hand by the local poet Idris Ibn al-Yamini (?-1077) as he kept on drinking with his fellow poets of the thick, strong, subtly caramel-flavored wine of the island.

11th-century Arabic pitcher from the museum of Mallorca

That period, the age of the Arabic caliphates was the golden age of the Balearic islands – al-Yaza‘ir al-Sharqiya, “the Western Islands.” The memories of it are preserved by the stone drainage ditches enmeshing all Mallorca and in use even today, by the gorgeous fountains and painted beams with Arabic inscriptions of the ancient mountain estates, as well as by the names of most settlements – Binissalem, Banyalbufar, Alcúdia – and of several families. And of course by the vineyards. Among them especially by the estate Can Majoral, whose Butibalausí wines still preserve the former Arabic name of the vineyard, and each bottle of them has on its back label the poem Goblets by Idris Ibn al-Yamani.


Can Majoral is also linked with the name of another poet, namely the brother of the estate owner, Biel Majoral, professor of the Catalan department and one of the most eminent performers and researchers of Mallorcan folk music – and that’s saying a lot on this island that possesses a rich and archaic musical tradition. Here below I link one of my favorite songs, the ballad Don Francisco whose several motifs are so similar to the Hungarian folk ballads, as it is performed by Biel Majoral in the characteristic, archaic Catalan dialect of Mallorca.

A subsequent commentary of Wang Wei to the last phrase: The thing is subtly tinged by the fact that in the archaic Catalan of Mallorca of this 18th-century text some contemporary Spanish phrases are embedded too, and namely on two levels: “Don Francisco” (whose name in Catalan should be “Don Francesc”) speaks a perfect Spanish, while the woman only tries to speak Spanish to him with more or less success. This reveals her lover’s belonging to a social layer higher than she: most probably he is a representative of the central political power. This duality adds a lot to the subtlety and depth of the song.


Biel Majoral: Don Francisco (8'43"). From the CD Biel Majoral: Vou veri vou per no dormir (1997)

Bona nit prenda estimada Fins demà vespre no torn Jo me’n vaig a la caçada Sopa i colga’t de jorn. Ella sopa i se colga, fa allò que son marit diu. Quan va esser dins la cambreta a les portes sent: obriu. Quien es que llama a la puerta que no me deixa dormir Aixeca’t que som Don Francisco que te vengo a divertir. Ara aviso a mis criadas para que te vengan a abrir Jo no vullo a tus criadas sino que te vullo a ti. Aquí baix han mort un home no sé si és lo teu marit. Millor, millor, Don Francisco així més prest n’haurem sortit. Davalla amb camisa blanca i sabateta xoquí mentre que obria la porta ell li apaga el candelí. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, vós no ho solieu fer així. Ella torna a prendre escala i ell darrera la seguí. Com dins lo blanc llit se colguen Don Francisco fa un sospir. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, ¿de què sospirau així? Senyora, estava pensant son marit si ens deu sentir. No hagueu ánsia Don Francisco és nou llegos lluny d’aquí. Abans de la matinada Don Francisco fa un sospir. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, ¿de què sospirau així? Senyora, estava pensant quants infants teniu de mi. Jo en tenc tres de Don Francisco i dos del meu bon marit. Senyora, estava pensant son marit si és aquí dins. Mal li roeguin els ossos i la vista els escorpins. No digueu mal senyoreta, no digueu mal del marit que pensant tenir-lo fora potser el teniu dins el llit. Com comença a trencar el dia Don Francisco fa un sospir. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, ¿de què sospirau així? Senyora, estava pensant de fer-vos un bon vestit, una vestidura blanca amb collaret carmesí. L’agafà per la mà blanca i se l’emmena al jardí. Mon marit no em matis ara tres paraules dixam dir: Fadrines, viudes, casades, preniu exemple de mi, tenint lo marit a fora no vos aixequeu a obrir, perquè jo m’hi he aixecada per això tenc de morir i amb la punta de l’espasa ma vida acaba aquí.

Good night my dear wife, till tomorrow evening I don’t return: I go on hunting. Take dinner and go early to bed. She takes dinner and goes early to bed, does everything as her husband said. When she’s going to go to the bedroom, she hears at the gate: open it! Who is calling me at the gate, and does not let me sleep? Wake up, because I’m Don Francisco who came to entertain you. I immediately tell my servants to come to open it for you. I do not need your servants, I only need you. Here downstairs a man has been killed I don’t know whether he was your husband. That much better, Don Francisco, the quicker we got rid of him. She goes down in a white shirt and in her little slippers. While she was opening the gate he blew her candle out. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, you don’t usually do that! She turned back, up on the stairs and he followed her. As they go into the white bed Don Francisco gives a sigh. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, why are you sighing like that? My lady, it came to my mind: perhaps your husband is inside here. Don’t worry, Don Francisco, he is very far from here. Before sunrise Don Francisco gives a sigh. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, why are you sighing like that? My lady, it came to my mind: how many children do you have of me? I have three of Don Francisco and two of my good husband. My lady, it came to my mind: perhaps your husband is inside here? – Let the devil bite his bones and the scorpion his eyes! Don’t tell bad, my lady, don’t tell bad about your husband, because while you think he’s away perhaps he’s here in the bed. As the sun starts to rise, Don Francisco gives a sigh. Don Francisco, Don Francisco, why are you sighing like that? My lady, it came to my mind: I will prepare a good vest for you, a white vest with a red collar around the neck. He took her by the hand, he led her into the garden. – My husband, don’t kill me right now, let me tell some words before that: Girls, widows, married women, learn from my example: if the husband is away, don’t wake up to open the door, because I woke up to open, and this is why I have to die now, and through the edge of the sword here my life comes to an end.

San Sebastián

This little card was found in an old Mallorcan book. The script – based on the experiences of the publication of the Santacilia archive of Mallorca – can be dated perhaps to the 17th century.

J[esus]+M[aria]
January 20
feast of Saint Fabian and Saint Sebastian martyrs
to do every day the seven acts of love towards the neighbor [= seven good deeds]
to drop the wine once
to pray for the keeping off of famine, pestilence and war

I do not know whether this card is a list of penitences given by the confessor (in some Mediterranean regions this was a custom) or a list of ascetical tasks compiled for one’s own use which two hundred and fifty years later would have been sticked with a magnet on the fridge door by the Christian striving after the more serious living up to his belief.

It is probably the latter, for the practices are not very penitential, but rather festively mild if compared to the customs of the period. In fact, they do not include any fast, only the omission of wine once a day (which of course sounds a very great penitence to one who knows the majestic Mallorcan wines). The reason probably is that this day is a high feast in Mallorca, on which fast is prohibited. Saint Sebastian is the protector of Palma de Mallorca, and his feast is celebrated by three days of open fires and cooking, concerts, spectacular processions, and monumental fireworks.

Judging from the handwriting and the tone, as well as from the book in which we have found it, the note may have been written by a 17th-century Mallorcan cleric for himself. This engraving, representing contemporary Mallorcan clerics, was published in the great summary Die Balearen by Archduke Luis Salvador de Austria.

The prayer refers to Saint Sebastian, too. Famine, pestilence and war, called on the basis of verses 5-6 of Psalm 91 as “tria mala Davidica,” “the three plagues of David,” were the main terrors of the age, and on the votive columns erected from the late 17th century to keep them off we always see, in the company of Saint Roche who died in pestilence, also Saint Sebastian who was killed by the very arrows mentioned in the psalm.

Holy image protecting from pestilence, with the figures of the Holy Trinity, St. Mary the “Star of the Sea,” Saint Sebastian, Saint Rosalia, Saint Roche and the so-called Zachary Cross. Győr (Hungary), c. 1710. From Zoltán Szilárdfy, Barokk szentképek Magyarországon (Baroque holy images in Hungary, 1984).

However, the Phoenician blood of the island was revealed even on this festive-ascetical occasion. On the reverse of the card we find an addition, where – even if we do not count the script at the upper bottom which does not look like numbers – 15 is missing from the correct total of 495.


On the occasion of the nearing feast of San Sebastián we hereby wish all the best, plenty of blessing, a sober quantity of asceticism and always enough wine of Binissalem to all the Phoenician merchants, Punic pirates, Balearic slingers, Jewish goldsmiths and Arabic vinegrowers of Mallorca, not forgetting either about the descendans of the Chinese sailors of Zhen He who got stuck in Sineu in 1421.

Sant Sebastià

Hemos encontrado este papelito en un viejo libro de una biblioteca mallorquina. La letra tiene toda la traza de ser del siglo XVII.

J[esus] + M[aría]
Día 20 de enero
festividad de los santos Fabián y Sebastián, mártires
hacer cada día los siete actos de amor al prójimo
dejar de una vez el vino
rezar para alejar el hambre, la peste y la guerra

No sabemos si esta nota es una lista de las penitencias impuestas por el confesor o un recordatorio de tareas ascéticas para uso personal que, de haberse escrito hoy, tal vez iría a adherirse con un imán en la puerta de la nevera.

Debe ser más bien lo segundo, pues no se trata de obligaciones claramente penitenciales —y menos teniendo en cuenta las costumbres de la época—. La más dura, ciertamente, es «semel relinquere vinum», pero suena como un vago deseo de dejar de beber demasiado y, de hecho, también podría traducirse por «dejar de beber vino una vez al día». Mal momento ha elegido este buen hombre para enunciar sus propósitos, pues la fiesta de san Sebastián en Palma significa beber vino para acompañar todo tipo de carne a la brasa, hecha en los fuegos callejeros. ¿O quizá la escribió al poco de acabar la fiesta, al dictado de su mala conciencia?

Por el libro donde la encontramos y el tono general que tiene, esta nota pudo haber sido escrita, para sí mismo, por un clérigo mallorquín del s. XVII. Sacerdotes mallorquines. Grabado de Die Balearen, del Archiduque Luis Salvador de Austria.

Con todo, las oraciones (contra las tria mala Davidica —las tres plagas de David—, Salmos, 91.5-6) sí que cuadran con la fiesta del patrón de Palma que una vez libró a la ciudad de la peste. San Sebastián suele estar presente en este tipo de rogativas, y en las columnas votivas de las ciudades de Centroeuropa, normalmente en compañía de san Roque.

Estampa protectora de la peste, con las figuras de la Santísima Trinidad, santa María «Stella maris», san Sebastián, santa Rosalía, san Roque y la llamada Cruz de Zacarías. Győr (Hungría), c. 1710. De Zoltán Szilárdfy, Barokk szentképek Magyarországon (Imágenes sagradas del Barroco en Hungría, 1984).

Pero la sangre fenicia que corre por Mallorca también se revela en esta nota. En su reverso alguien ha hecho una suma apresurada donde se diría que el 15 ha sido hábilmente escamoteado de un total que debería dar 495 y no 480 (ignoramos los signos de arriba, pues no parecen formar parte del cálculo).


En ocasión de la fiesta de san Sebastián, deseamos felicidad a todos, todo tipo de bendiciones, una conveniente dosis de ascetismo y que haya siempre abundante vino de esta isla para todos los mercaderes fenicios, piratas púnicos, honderos descalzos, orfebres y cartógrafos judíos, curtidores árabes, sin olvidar a los chinos descendientes de aquellos marinos de la flota del almirante Zhen He que recalaron en Sineu en 1421.

As strangers

Photo by Kave Kiani

Just some months ago there was published in Iran a new item of the vast CD production of the Kamkars, the CD Sâye-ye roshan-e mahtab, “Moon Shadow,” created by Bijan Kamkar in collaboration with the Mastan Ensemble.


The Kamkars are eight Kurdish brothers, I mean seven brothers and a sister. They form one of the most successful musical groups of Iran playing classical Kurdish music, the Kamkars (in Persian Kâmkârhâ, in Kurdish Kâmkârân). On their highly professional homepage you can find lots of good photos about them. You are advised to have a look at it, at least for a short glimpse into the fantastically colorful world of Iranian music.


In this CD, however, only Bijan Kamkar, the male soloist of the group features from them. He is accompanied by the Mastan Ensemble, which was only formed in 2005, but they already belong to the promising stars of Persian classical music. They perform the poems of Sufi poets like Hafez, Rumi or Attar. Even their name, meaning “drunkenness,” refers to that desired condition of the Sufi mystic when he can finally drink of the goblet offered to him by his divine Beloved.

The poems on the “Moon Shadow” are all from modern, 20th-century Sufi poets. We find among them the well-known and much recited poem “Gharibâne” (As strangers) by Hushang Ebtehaj (1928), by his pen name Sayeh, “Shadow,” which repeats and recomposes the images of the desire for God much used in Sufi poetry. It fits very well to the complex and forceful Kurdish music, which also has a long tradition of the ecstatic joy music of Sufi ceremonies, the shema’.

The popularity of the poem is indicated by the fact that here they only sing some verses of it, again and again returning to the first one, the basic idea of Sufi existence: that we are strangers in this world. Besides, instead of the original plural they sing it in singular: “seek for it”, “you are stranger” and so on, which renders more personal the message of the poem. In the following Romanized transcription I mark in gold the verses sung by Bijan Kamkar and in dark red those sung in the background by the male choir and the female soloist. Even the order of the strophes has been somewhat changed in the performance: after the 9th strophe, the song finishes with the 7th one, “seek for the house of silence” which is a really adequate end to a song.

In contrast to usual transcription, here I also indicate the long vowels with a horizontal dash, so that you could feel the pulsation of the poem already by reading it. The â which sounds like a long closed – “Hungarian” – a is of course always long, and perhaps this is the sound which contributes the most to the unique resonance of Persian poems. I recommend you to read aloud the transcription together with my litteral translation, because only the two together can convey something from the experience of the original poem.

In the translation of this very special text I had some uncertainties and therefore almost surely made some errors. I have sent it to three Persian friends for a revision, but after more than a month none of them has replied yet. It seems like this feature is also a companion of the wonderful Persian character, like the shadow is of the light. Therefore I decided to publish my translation as it is. I will be grateful for any eventual corrections of our Readers.


Bijan Kamkar (Iranian Kurdistan) & Mastan Ensemble (Teheran): Gharibâne (As Strangers) (3'19")

As Strangers

Gharibâne

غریبانه

seek out, seek out in this house seek out in this house you are strangers as strangers seek out	بگردید ، بگردید ، درین خانه بگردید دراین خانه غریبند ، غریبانه بگردید begardīd, begardīd, dar in khâne begardīd dar in khâne gharībīd, gharībâne begardīd
a bird walked here who was a consort of my soul this world is not his nest seek the traces of his nest	یکی مرغ چمن بود که جفت دل من بود جهان لانه ی او نیست پی لانه بگردید yekī morgh-e chaman būd ke joft-e del-e man būd jahân lâne-ye ū nīst pey-e lâne begardīd
a cup-bearer became drunken he sat down behind the curtain he has sent the cup ahead so that you could seek it drunken	یکی ساقی مست است پس پرده نشسته ست قدح پیش فرستاد که مستانه بگردید yekī sâghī-ye mast ast pas-e parde neshast ast ghadah pīsh ferestâd ke mastâne begardīd
if the joy comes from drunkenness whose is the soul behind the lips? from one hand into the other – why would you seek any contract?	یکی لذت مستی ست ، نهان زیر لب کیست ؟ ازین دست بدان دست چو پیمانه بگردید yekī lazzat-e mastī’st, nahân zīr-e lab kīst? azīn dast bedân dast cho peymâne begardīd
a stranger bird ate in the garden of my heart I have tamed it – seek the traces of the seeds	یکی مرغ غریب است که باغ دل من خورد به دامش نتوان یافت ، پی دانه بگردید yekī morgh-e gharīb ast ke bâgh-e del-e man khōrd be dâmash betân yâft, pey-e dâne begardīd
is the sweet breath of the dawn breeze the fragrance I feel? here is he, here is he seek him in the whole house	نسیم نفس دوست به من خورد و چه خوشبوست همین جاست ، همین جاست ، همه خانه بگردید nasīm-e nafas-e dūst be man khōrd o che khoshbūst haminjâst, haminjâst, hame khâne begardīd
a never heard tune is sounding that springs forth from itself don’t sing in the middle of rumor seek the house of silence	نوایی نشنیده ست که از خویش رمیده ست به غوغاش مخوانید ، خموشانه بگردید navâye nashenīd’ ast ke az khavīsh ramīd’ ast be ghughâsh nakhânid, khamushâne begardīd
like tears falling on the earth we squeeze out the juice of the vine song is born from its fermentation – seek it in the taverns	سرشکی که بر آن خاک فشاندیم بن تاک در این جوش خروش است ، به خمخانه بگردید sershekī ke bar ân khâk feshândīm bun-e tâk dar in jūsh khorūsh ast, be khamkhâne begardīd
what is this sweetnes and this fragrance as if I felt it in my dream? this rose full of nectar is, oh butterflies, you must seek	چه شیرین و چه خوشبوست ، کجا خوابگه اوست ؟ پی آن گل پر نوش چو پروانه بگردید che shīrīn o che khoshbū’st, kojâ khavâbge ū’st? pey-e ân gol por-e nūsh cho parvâne begardīd
just laugh at argumentation do not admire its love in its circle closed with chains oh you fools, what do you seek?	بر آن عقل بخندید که عشقش نپسندید در این حلقه ی زنجیر چو دیوانه بگردید bar ân 'aghal bekhandīd ke 'eshghash nepasandīd dar īn halghe-ye zanjīr chu divâne begardīd
in this corner of sadness you cannot see his signs if you long for treasures seek them among the ruins	درین کنج غم آباد نشانش نتوان دید اگر طالب گنجید به ویرانه بگردید darīn kanj-e gham âbâd neshânash netavân dīd agar zâleb-e genjīd be vīrâne begardīd
a key to the gate of hope if it exists, you are that on that old lock of stone why do you seek any keyhole?	کلید در امید اگر هست شمایید درین قفل کهن سنگ چو دندانه بگردید kelīd-e dar-e omīd agar hast shomayīd darīn ghofal-e kohan-e sang cho dandâne begardīd
does a shadow hide the face covered in dream by a spell? do not search it in the dreams seek it in the rapture	رخ از سایه نهفته ست ، به افسون که خفته ست ؟ به خوابش نتوان دید ، به افسانه بگردید rokh az sâye nehfat’ ast, be afsūn ke khoft’ ast? be khavânash netân dīd, be afsâne begardīd
his essence bite into mine he robbed me, he robbed me accept his open heat seek him with gratitude	تن او به تنم خورد ، مرا برد ، مرا برد گرم باز نیاورد ، به شکرانه بگردید tan-e ū be tanam khōrd, marâ bord, marâ bord garm-e bâz biâvard, be shokrâne begardīd

The image of the bird walking around and pecking seeds in the garden as a metaphor of God makes more acceptable to me what I had read with surprise in the Hassidic stories, that the Hassidic rabbi of Szatmár interpreted the verse In a green forest, in a green meadow a bird is walking of the well-known Hungarian folk song as the symbol of God.

“Bismillah-bird”, composed of the letters of the Quranic verse Bismillah al-rahman al-rahim, “In the name of God, the merciful, the passionate”

Hushang Ebtehaj is still living, since 1987 in Köln. He must be really happy. It is not enough that he received a poetic talent and that he can write his poems in one of the most beautiful languages of the world, but they are also set to tune by the greatest representatives of one of the most subtle musical culture of the world – besides Bijan Kamkar, also by Shajarian and his son Homayoun – and they are sung, quoted and read by a hundred million people. To whom we can already count our Readers as well.