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ADONIS: “TWELVE CANDLES FOR GRANADA”
By Samuel Hazo
A
nyone who has had the opportunity to visit
the Alhambra comes away from the visit
knowing that what he has seen is more than
architecture. It is actually a testament that began
in the twelfth century, before being defaced and
otherwise partially destroyed until its restoration
and resurrection in the nineteenth century. And
that history survives in the atmosphere and, if
you will, the spirit that pervades it. I sensed it
when I walked through it less than ten years ago,
listening to a knowledgeable guide tell me that
the various fountains there were symbols of
wealth to people of the desert, like the Syrian
and North African Arabs who created them.
Adonis in “Twelve Candles for Granada”
evokes the spirit of the place in the twelve
sections of the poem, each devoted to a different
aspect of it. I have worked from both the
original Arabic and a Spanish translation of that
original published in Spain and generously
passed on to me by the distinguished artist
Kamal Boullata. In both cases I had to rely
heavily on linguists, but I hope that I have
caught in my versions — as I have tried to in
other translations of the poetry of Adonis — the
spirit of his poetic vision of the place as well as
something of the place itself. If so, that
is what I intended. If not, the failing is mine.
Adonis
Twelve Candles for Granada
1
Heaven and earth are at home here
between the Mediterranean and the Sierra
Nevada.
The mountains and shores and waves
are like friends shaking hands,
and the sea reflects the shore and treetops in
reverse.
At the Gate of Gomerez
I see the ghosts of poets climbing one by one
to the Alhambra:
Hugo, Gongora, Jimenez, Rilke, Lorca,
and I hear Armando Palacio Valdez:
“I wish I had been born in the Age of
Granada.”
This space cannot contain the echoes of history.
What history can hold the spirit of Granada?
Only a poet can ask the right questions,
can understand the airy language of the
myrtle
and taste the wine of revelation on his lips.
2
The Alhambra opens its doors to heaven
every afternoon to welcome its children.
Its welcome resembles the spirit of a hand lifted
in prayer
while its other hand contends with blood and
wounds.
Here is el Darro barefooted,
his only garment a bracelet.
The walls accept the fusillades of sunlight
until they seem like tapestries of sun and
colors.
I find my way to darker pleasures and put away
my cares.
I seem to be the Adam of Creation,
and Eve is the Alhambra itself.
And so I dream, I dream
for without dreams I am nothing
but food to slake the hungers of the night.
3
Am I coming or going
as I move through arches and curves where
the jasmine
of each moment totally intoxicates me?
Translation Review 37