Poem for an anonymous Moorish Poet on the defeat at Seville November 1248

by John E Marks

Friday 12th October 2018 10:40 pm

We have eaten rats during this seige

The Goths want us acquiesce to Christian suzerainty.

They never tell us why we should do so

We have our music, poetry, wine, gardens and our beautiful women.

And beauty gives light like lamps to one travelling in the dark.

Makes one wake up, notice a sparkling jewel
A pearl from the deeps of a distant ocean

A rarity of dreams:

A passion that is large and does not fade

Hearts beat in harmony :
Tears come down like rain;
The body wracked by childbirth and war;
Indifference breaks hearts:
Stars burn in her eyes,
In the depth of night

She loves her garden,
Spreads perfume, colour

All is as summer dictates,
Mirroring my state of mind;
Desire might extinguish me.

Man, you must wait for a woman

Sometimes for a whole lifetime

Or longer still - far and distant -

The world is sick of injustice -

Heaven knows. We must help each other

Die before the walls fall.

Comments

keith jeffries

Sun 14th Oct 2018 12:10

John,

Thank you for this. Time is often not properly understood yet in our thoughts we flit from time and place past to the present with a sense of peering into the future. Our imagination can even be a tool to alter reality in this respect. I think I need to explore this concept more fully.
Thank you again

Keith

John Marks

Sat 13th Oct 2018 23:25

Thank you Keith and thank you Jacob. I am fascinated by the fourth dimension, time; man is not made to live in the continuous present but past, present and future mingle always to catch him unawares, in a different time and place. This is illustrated most poignantly, for me, in the Cornish poet Charles Causley's haunting poem 'Eden Rock':

They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, ‘See where the stream-path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think.’
I had not thought that it would be like this.

keith jeffries

Sat 13th Oct 2018 10:42

John,

I was strangely introduced to you after you so kindly commented on one of my articles on Poets of the Great War. This has led me to explore some of your poetry which I have found fascinating. This particular poem took me back to the Al Hamra in Granada and then to Seville. Andalusia permeates through your words. Thank you for this poem which is so rich in so many ways but the last three lines stopped me in my tracks and made me think even more.

Keith

Big Sal

Sat 13th Oct 2018 03:52

This reminded me of a scene out of The Godfather (my favorite film I might add) where Vito Corleone is playing with his grandson in his garden until the worst happens and fate strikes.

I enjoy how you reap inspiration from the past like a farmer with last year's harvest, and you sow it for all to see in the present. You are an excellent writer John, never stop writing. That'd be like telling birds not to fly.?

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Poem for an anonymous Moorish Poet on the defeat at Seville November 1248

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