Le Temps Revient...

Poetry, Music, Art & Ideas for the Archaic Recurrence...

miércoles, 26 de enero de 2011

Hispania Ulterior Canto VI: Castile.

Aye, what solemn paths hath thou trod?
Doth make little difference to thy Gods!
Hispania Ulterior here be it call'd,
A land where many an atrocity hast apall'd!

A varied lot be they whom hath liv'd,
Or pass'd through these lands that seem a gift,
That they couldst claim as their own or fought o'er,
A peaceable place be it not! Nor sober!

Once Boabdil had to quit these realms,
And back to Africa fled he at the helm,
Of a ship destin'd ne'er agen to see,
From his native land Al-Andalus didst flee he.

'Twere quickly forgot, his culture and history,
Castile establish'd a new order of pious ministry,
That which didst not fit its scheme,
Intolerance threw out whate'er different seem'd!

'Twas a time of Catholic Kings, oh so righteous!
Isabella of Castile also known as the pious,
To Ferdinand of Aragon she tied the knot,
To wedding bells and marriage vows, war cannons shot!

And o'er these lands they tried to rule,
Peoples who thought law naught but cruel,
Who ne'er wouldst follow, but passively observ'd,
What was written, understanding not what it serv'd!

In a land as unruly as that which I speak,
With little in options, and e'en they be bleak!
If crime alone be that which obeys,
Set it a new purpose ¡La policia de los Reyes!

Many a Spanish monarch hast admitt'd openly,
That their empire wouldst count for little possibly,
If it had not been for those Catholic Kings, 
Their time was decisive, chang'd e'erything!

Need I but mention? One Cristobal Colón?
'Though it be still debatable -a Catalan son,
Thought mad by many that across the ocean,
The world be not flat -caus'd quite a commotion!

A route to Indian spices didst think he,
Be found due west, the direction contrary,
He was sent o'er those waves to prove the theory,
Howe'er in other lands didst eventually grow weary.

A whole new continent he didst discover,
On his travels thought he not in America but other,
Remaining convinc'd that to India he'd found his way,
Until his tormentedly confus'd dying days!

'Twas in a time of prosperity, call'd a "Golden Age",
When from a monarch's pocket came patronage,
Many a dramatist, prose writer or sage,
How true were their words? Left for others to gage!

In with the new! The old cast low!
That buildeth they un mundo nuevo,
See ye not? Then from our lands go!
Africa welcomes infidels, those who say "No!"

"Golden Ages" be all similar in type,
Poverty and hunger, in spite of the hype,
Remaineth the same, unchang'd as e'er hath been,
Yet at the king's court all's a sparkle and clean!

Hispania Ulterior hath been since always,
A barren land without pastures to graze,
Nor fertile crops, especially since,
The Moor was kick'd out -agriculture! Ceas'd!

We hear those fine words of empire,
Impressive they sound, no matter how bad a lier,
New world orders doth they create,
Politicians' words, whether crooked or straight!

And e'ery fine language of the world,
Needeth a literature to spread and unfurl,
Lope de Vega didst he narrate,
Of how a king's people could be releas'd from hate!

Of Miguel Cervantes knoweth we all,
Who wrote of that knight always enthrall'd in a brawl,
Who pick'd a fight with any man he saw,
But to dignity's honour blam’d the illusion of law!

'Tis a tale to which we canst easily relate,
As all be suseptable to a foolish state,
Of mind or matter, 'tis rarely that we've,
Seen the difference b'twix the noumenon and perciev'd!

Tirso de Molina 'though the name,
Dost not stand up recognis'd by fame,
Came up with an archetype universally revil'd,
The seducer to whom all brought vicious smiles!

To do harm seemeth its own reward,
That a man may be unto himself lord,
And put aside for the moment petty thoughts,
Repercussions! Consequences of thy taunts!

Of Don Juan didst he tell his tale,
Whose seductive charms ne'er couldst fail,
Many chose to see not the story's inner moral,
That to hell went he not to rest on his laurels!

There Don Juan didst bide his time,
Roasting in Christianity's harsh paradigm,
'Till Zorrilla didst unto him a hand lend,
Made a popular rewrite with a happy end!

Ay, the seventeenth century had its thrills,
Of literature poignant or fighting against mills,
Such high points hardly e'er be they achiev'd,
Yet from repression common people be rarely reliev'd!

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