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A Cultural History of the Jews
Tzvi Howard Adelman, Jerusalem
adelman@macam98.ac.il
Week 10
Poetry and History
Hebrew Poetry in Muslim Spain
Dana International, Israel's award winning trans-sexual pop-singer,
announced that her entry at this year's Eurovision Song Contest
on May 29, to be held in Jerusalem, will be "Dror Yikra." Wearing
a strapless dress in the style of traditional Yemenite Jewish
costume and heavily guarded by security agents, she noted that
"This is a Yemenite song and I am Yemenite. I remember singing
it in synagogue when I was young. . . . It's part of me." According
to the Jerusalem Post (5/12/99, p. 2), the organizers of the contest
noted that "Dror Yikra" was written by Rabbi Shlomo Shabazi in
the sixteenth century and is a poem with no overt religious overtones.
The director of the show noted, "People are attributing all kinds
of meanings to the words that they wouldn't if Dana wasn't singing
it."
One of my now very famous professors of medieval Hebrew poetry
once noted that there are three words that don't attract students
to courses or lectures: medieval, Hebrew, and poetry, and noted
that his field involves all three. Yet this news story, which
no doubt will grow in Israel over the next few weeks, especially
after the election when new battles will be necessary to sustain
life here at it its usual combative, bilious level, moves a discussion
of medieval Hebrew poetry from the academy to the forefront of
Jewish cultural wars.
While Dana International may be able to get an operation to change
his sex, he and his promoters cannot so easily change the historical
provenance of a major cultural artifact. Deror Yikra was one of
the first Hebrew poems written in the rhyme and meter of Arabic
verse. It was written in Cordova, Spain in the mid tenth century
by Dunash ibn Labrat (d. 990), born in Baghdad where he was a
student of Saadia Gaon and later lived in Fez. His poetic innovations
gained him the position of court poet or Hebrew secretary to Hasdai
ibn Shaprut (910-970 or 905-975) who served as the court physician
and vizier for Abdurahman III (912-961), who established the Caliphate
of Cordova in 929. Shalem Shabazi was a great seventeenth century
Yemenite Hebrew poet, however the time difference between the
two is at least seven hundred years, a margin of error greater
than most of recorded US history, a fact that highlights the long
history of Hebrew poetry, a history that extends beyond both points
of reverence in this controversy by many centuries.
Under the influence of Arab culture, Hebrew poets radically changed
Hebrew poetry from the often obscure and usually very religious
style of piyyut, associated with cultural developments in Palestine,
Babylonia, Ashkenazic lands, and Spain up to the tenure of Menahem
ibn Saruq whom Dunash ibn Labrat replaced as court poet. Influenced
by the Muslims' devotion to the Koran, Dunash marked a return
to the purity of the language of the Bible in Hebrew poetry and
an end to the language of the midrash in his poetry. Influenced
by the secular poetry of the Arabs about love, wine, and war,
the Hebrew poets began to write on secular themes as well. Finally,
influenced by the quantitative syllabification of the Arabs, Hebrew
poets began to include precise rhythms in their poetry
Although the Hebrew poetry of Spain can be understood in translation
without commentaries, it is nevertheless stylized in its own way.
Since much of it reflects a conscious borrowing of themes, images,
and forms from the Muslim poets, it is, therefore, important not
to fall into the trap of viewing the motifs of these poems as
accurate reflections of the lives of the Jews of Spain. Rather,
they are accurate reflections of the kinds of images that Jews
borrowed from the poetry of the Arabs. Thus when the Hebrew poets
wrote about carousing all night in gardens around bonfires and
drinking wine, we cannot assume that this is what Jews did, only
that this is what they read. The Jews borrowed these themes in
their poems because they wanted to match what the Arabs did in
Arabic to show the strength and flexibility of Hebrew. This process
reaches its fullest development in the Hebrew poems about physical
intimacy-usually just kissing-- between young boys and old men
written in biblical Hebrew by rabbis in Medieval Spain (Carmi,
pp. 298, 302, 344, 356, 361, 362, 363.)
In this lecture, I will provide a thematic survey of medieval,
Renaissance, and early modern Hebrew poetry as a vehicle of Jewish
cultural expression. I will pay little attention to the aesthetic
and literary qualities and stress the poems as vehicles of ideas.
As in the past, I will draw examples from Leviant's Masterpieces
(where the poetry is not that well represented and the translations
are forced into rhyme) and T. Carmi's Penguin Anthology of Hebrew
Poetry (which uses prose translations to convey the ideas-I retranslate
the Hebrew to provide different nuances and in order not to run
afoul of copyright regulations). In Carmi each poet and poem is
introduced between pages 77 and 143; the introductory materials
between pages 7 and 75 are excellent. I have also described the
major poets in an early Juice course, Medieval Jewish History,
Lesson 5).
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Wine Poetry
Among Jews, the Jews of Muslim Spain wrote the first wine
poetry. It was a playful, seemingly secular genre with
little obvious religious or ethical purpose. This imitation
of the Arabic, like most subsequent drinking literature,
usually had six basic themes: 1) the place where the wine
was drunk; 2) the group of drinkers; 3) the time of the
drinking; 4) a description of the wine; 5) an erotic image
of the person serving the wine; 6) a description of the
musicians playing in the background.
Dana International's contention that the author of Deror
Yikra may not have been as religiously devout as some
of the singer's religious detractors finds mixed support
in the fact that the first Hebrew wine poem was written
by Dunash (Carmi, p. 280). In this poem, the listener
is encouraged not to sleep but rather to spend the whole
night up amid all sorts of fragrant spices in a garden
of pomegranates filled with fountains and musical instruments.
However, after a call to drink by the bowl, the poem shifts
to a call for offering a sacrifice of choice bulls and
rams and calves along with the anointing of oil and the
lighting of incense. Now this could be a BBQ, sixties
style, or it could be a reference to the Temple sacrificial
cult, leading us to reconsider the beginning of the poem
and to ask whether it referred to natural bounty or a
specific religious setting. This impression is sustained
in the next stanza as well. There, as part of a poetic
dialogue, the listener reproaches his interlocutor to
ask how he could issue such an invitation when the Holy
House, the footstool of God, is in the hands of the uncircumcised
ones. He further chastises him for neglecting the Torah
while Zion lies in desolation, adding nationalistic to
religious themes.
Samuel Ha-Nagid, the Jewish vizier of Cordoba also wrote
some zesty wine poems. At first one might be tempted to
say that they are purely secular, focussing on the hedonistic
aspects of life with calls for drinking, often to excess,
and good company. A careful examination, however, of each
of the poems usually reveals some connection with religious
themes. In one, The Reward (Carmi, p. 296), the poet suggests
dividing one's time evenly between serving God and carousing
with wine. In another, Winter Wine Song (Met Av, Carmi,
p. 296), the development of the vintage process traces
the Jewish calendar from Av and Elul to Tishri, reaching
its height at the time of the high holidays. In another,
however (Carmi, p. 298) he connects wine with the theme
of the love of men for young boys, "I would be a ransom
for the fawn who gets up at night with the sound of the
harp and flute." Moses ibn Ezra connects wine with sexual
lust (Carmi, p. 324), "Hug the breasts of the beautiful
woman all night; kiss her image all day." But even here
religious imagery from Temple sacrifice is added for almost
hilarious consequences: "This is earthly delight-take
your portion from it as did the priests from the ram of
installation . . . don't stop sucking your moist lips
until you have taken your portion-a breast and a thigh
(cf. Leviticus 10:15). (See also Leviant, pp. 175, 190-191.)
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Love Poetry
Hebrew love poetry had a secular, hedonistic side to it,
often as part of a wine song. These poems were a continuation
of Arabic themes, not biblical motifs, despite the use
of biblical terminology. The basic themes of secular love
poetry include: 1) the lover is usually described as tall,
with white skin and dark eyes and hair; 2) the lover is
called by the names of biblical animals, such as deer,
gazelle, or biblical personalities; 3) the love is kept
a secret, especially from the family; 4) the love is described
in terms of a stylized frustration--the poet is awake,
cannot sleep, and has no appetite; 5) the lover can be
a young man or a woman; 6) a friend tries to convince
the poet to give up the frustrating relationship; 7) the
poet seems himself as a sacrifice and the object of his
affection as an animal of prey; often parts of the woman's
body, especially her eyes, are described as weapons. In
short, people who are happily in love rarely write love
poetry. These love poems are usually about frustrated
love and can lead to misogyny.
Judah Ha-levi (Carmi, p. 343) captures the spirit of the
victimization of the man by his unavailable but radiant
object of affection, "Ophra washes her clothing in the
water of my tears and spreads them out to dry in her radiance.
With my two eyes, she doesn't bother with water from the
well; nor, with the beauty of her body, with the sun."
He cries his eyes out over his lover but all she can do
is use his tears to do her laundry an image that both
elevates her and condemns her in the harshest terms.(See
also Carmi, pp. 342-346, Leviant, p. 200)
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Religious Poetry
The Hebrew religious poetry of Muslim Spain borrowed many
themes from secular love poetry and often the only difference
was the choice of the object of desire.
Solomon ibn Gabirol (Carmi, p. 314) wrote two religious
poems that follow all the contours of erotic poetry. The
cause for confusion between the two genres is, as in Dunash's
wine poem above, his description of the Temple cult with
the double entendre as a house of earthly assignation
as well. "The gate which was shut, arise and open it,
and the gazelle that fled, send him to me! On the day
that you (m) come to me to lie between my breasts, there
you will cause you pleasant odor to linger. . . Carmi's
translation includes explanations not found in the Hebrew
that show the reader that the poem is a conversation between
God and Israel. The Hebrew certainly allows for this but
not in uncertain terms.
Similarly Gabirol's "He who lies on beds of gold," which
Carmi translates as "Zion longing for the messiah," begins
with a woman speaking to a man, not addressing him as
"Lord," as the Carmi translation indicates: "He who dwells
on beds of gold in my castle, when, O God, will you ready
my bed for the redhead?" The text then finds the loved
one sleeping in the morning and an affirmation of their
suitability for each other. The poem ends with "He who
comes in my castle will find my hidden delights, the juice
of my pomegranate, my myrrh and my cinnamon." These expressions
point to either a amorous tryst or Temple sacrifice.
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Zion
Religious poetry like love poetry included the element
of pining for a lost object, sometimes Zion, particularly
the Temple and its cult, connected with both memories
of the past and messianic hopes for the future. Judah
Halevi's odes to Zion represent some of the most important
examples of this genre. These hopes for a return to Zion,
where ever they appear are often accompanied by polemical
utterances, in coded language, against Muslims and Christians
(Carmi, p 347; Leviant, pp. 204-207). "My heart is in
the east and I am in the distant west-how can I taste
what I eat and how can it be sweet? How can I fulfill
by vows and oaths as long as Zion is in the chains of
Edom and I am in the binds of the Arabs?" Contrary to
Carmi's note about the author having vowed to leave Spain
for the Land of Israel, the point of this verse is the
poet's emphatic sense that he cannot function fully as
long as the Temple is destroyed. Like a frustrated lover
he can't eat and sleep. Edom is a medieval Hebrew reference
to Christianity, referring in particular to the Crusader
Kingdom in Jerusalem. "It would be easy in my eyes to
leave all the good of Spain, how dear it would be in my
eyes to see the dust of the destroyed Temple." The poet
prefers the salvific power of the ruined Temple to the
good life in Spain. In his Ode to Zion he gives a graphic
description of the Holy Land, almost a traveler's account,
based on the biblical text, and the immediacy of God's
presence there, especially where the Temple once stood.
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The Dirge
The Hebrew dirge in Muslim Spain, despite antecedents in
the Bible, was based on the Muslim genre. There are four
aspects of the dirge: 1) the crying: the personalized
pain of the poet over his loss, the negative image of
the messenger who brought the news of the death, the projection
of personal feelings on the whole world and all of nature;
2) the eulogy: praise of the dead, especially his generosity
towards the poet; 3) the expression of wisdom about fate,
the world, life, and death; 4) the consolation: usually
the superficial notion that all life must endure death.
One of the most beautiful poems of this type from the period
is Solomon ibn Gabirol's tribute to Yekutiel, his late
patron (Carmi, p. 306; Leviant, p. 180). In it, all of
nature shares his grief: "See how red the sun is at evening
time, like it is dressed in a scarlet robe. It uncovers
the corners of the north and the west and it covers the
south and the east with purple. It has left the earth
naked, . . . and the world becomes dark, as if it is covered
in sackcloth because of the death of Yekutiel."
Hebrew Poetry in Christian Spain
Whatever of a golden age happened in Islamic Spain was over by
the eleventh century. At that time, with Christian successes in
reconquering Spain, Jews began to enjoy a golden age of cultural
creativity in the Christian north. One of the outstanding cultural
creations of this period was the Tahkemoni by Judah Al-Harizi
(1170-1235), an epic containing both poetry and rhymed prose,
makama, which with its picaresque adventures resembles a traveler's
account, including accounts of Jerusalem, a history of Hebrew
poetry, and much on the subject of women, usually hostile if not
violent. The sixth gate of the Tahkemoni formulates quite clearly
the juxtaposition commonly found in medieval discussions between
the good woman and the bad woman, the goddess and the whore. At
the beginning of the chapter the protagonist is promised the ideal
woman. Instead he gets a very unattractive woman whose disparagement
is found in Carmi (p. 391). Here he draws together all sorts of
biblical quotations to present what is a literary tour de force,
but less than satisfying towards the end where he beats her, but
then she turns out to be his best friend and long time fellow
joker. His abuse of men is equally cutting: "He is afraid to urinate
less he be thirsty and he is reluctant to move his bowels less
he be hungry." (See also Leviant, pp. 389-414). Al-Harizi is drawing
on the medieval popular culture of the grotesque, exaggerated,
mocking, and satirical uses of bodily processes, especially sexual
and digestive.
Similar developments are seen in the work of Todros Abulafia (1247-1295).
He writes with even less restraint, fantasizing that he were a
women so he could kiss an Arab women with whom he is infatuated.
" . . because I am a male, I lost out (Carmi, p. 410). I think
that Carmi, though certainly not providing a Bawlderized version
of one of Abulafia's poems, missed the point. The poem is about
his request for figs from a friend: ". . . send a ripening fig,
give a portion for seven of them, even for eight." Carmi then
translates the next line as "And in return, here is my flatus,"
noting that the Hebrew word used, zemorah, also means vine-twig.
In addition, zemorah also means penis and fig, vagina. I think
that this is a sexual and not a scatological reference; both,
however, fit the category of the grotesque. The next line translates:
"Henceforth I won't give it to strangers" could fit either way.
Hebrew Poetry in Italy
Hebrew poetry reached both new creative heights in the work of
Immanuel of Rome (1261-1328) as well as what some Jews saw as
new depths in terms of taste and suitability, culminating in his
work being explicitly banned in the Shulhan Arukh (Orakh Hayyim
307:16). A friend of Dante and familiar with the Divine Comedy,
which he imitated, Immanuel was for a while a correspondent for
the Roman Jewish community until he went into exile. His Makhberot,
collections of poetry and rhymed prose on many subjects, usually
combining biblical and rabbinic idioms with intensive mockery,
have not been fully translated. I first encountered Immanuel when
my Hebrew was better than my taste and found his use of religious
terminology to describe a patient taking a laxative to be utterly
hilarious: "Isolate yourself after you drink this mixture and
set aside all your work until your body is purged and do not trouble
your thoughts with anything. Shut the doors of your house from
all sides because the wind will cause tekiah, teruah, and three
shevarim. . ." Hence flatus is described in beautiful Hebrew prose
as the sounds of the shofar blowing on the High Holidays.
Immanuel's work is filled with misogynistic passages as well as
a few barbs at men. In mocking the miser he says (Carmi, p. 425):
"Though he has a penis, for fear of wearing it out, when he has
sex he uses somebody else's." Again showing Jewish poets writing
in Hebrew drawing heavily upon popular usage of the grotesque,
a usage that seems different than that of Arab countries. There
the non-Jewish forbidden realms popularized in the literature
included the love of young boys and the drinking of wine, whereas
in the Christian countries misogyny, sexuality, and scatological
writings appear regularly. In neither case do these trends represent
positivistic reporting about actual behavior but almost mirror
images of popular conceptions of the grotesque..
One of the paradoxes of Italian Hebrew poetry is the fate of Leon
Modena's Yom Zeh Mishkal (Carmi, p. 491), Song for the Minor Day
of Atonement. This is the fast day at the end of every Hebrew
month initiated by the kabbalists. Modena (Yehudah Aryeh mi-Modena,
1571-1648) was a bitter opponent of Kabbalah, yet it was his poem
that became the anthem for that day, leaving not only his words,
but his name spelled out in the acrostic that begins every other
line. Heightening the paradox is the fact that many years after
his death various rabbis tried to ban the poem because of its
alleged reference to Shabbetai Tzi, the messianic pretender whose
movement formed in the year 1666, many years after Modena's death.
In the last stanza, notice how strongly it too expresses the hope
to return to burnt sacrifices, the expression hod roshenu, translated
simply as Messiah, replaces the original nezer roshenu which adds
up to the numerical value of Shabbetai Tzvi (814), a fact invoked
by opponents of Sabbatai Tzvi after his death..
Many of the rollicking, frivolous, witty and abusive qualities
of Immanuel are also found in the poetry of the Frances brothers,
Jacob (1615-1667) and Immanuel (1618-1710). They, often re-writing
each other's work, cover many of the conventional themes of wine,
women (oversexed or undersexed), and misogyny. Carmi's translation
of one such poem alters the meaning ( p. 502). The Hebrew is called,
Levad Shalosh Yetziot, There are only Three Exits, a poem in which
he lords three moments of transition and subordination in the
life of women over them: when she is born, in filth, when she
gets married, and when she dies, which he viciously calls the
most exalted of all. This poem is about all women, "great and
small," and not just about the Gadabout, as the English title
says.
Reaching the eighteenth century, Ephraim Luzzatto, expresses a
new sense of self in his poetry in which he writes about his land,
his street, his house, and even his own name (Carmi, p. 504).
Still in the tradition of Italian Hebrew literature, Luzzatto,
moving from the politically incorrect to sexual harassment, describes
a doctor who becomes passionately in love with his female patient
and propositions her.
Hebrew Poetry in the East
Several poems from Hebrew poets from eastern Mediterranean countries
have made an enduring impact on Jewish culture. With roots in
both Spain and Italy as well as in indigenous Jewish culture,
these poems often reflect mystical traditions. Simon Labi (1492-1585),
a Spanish, North African writer, wrote a poem, now a popular song
on Lag Baomer, which has been recorded, called Bar Yohai. Simon
Bar Yohai was a first century rabbi who, with his young son, hid
from the Romans in a cave for many years during the first century.
When the Zohar, the classic of Jewish mysticism emerged in Christian
Spain in the thirteenth century it was attributed to him. Carmi
connected each stanza of this poem to a different one of the ten
Sephirot, the mediating stages between God and humans. I don't
think that this is the case. It seems that each stanza rather
refers to a different moment in the mystical experience of Simon
Bar Yohai or the Jewish people: acacia wood refers to the Temple
and not to the seraphim; the Apple Trees, if referring to the
Garden of Eden, is a reference borrowed from Christianity since
rabbinic literature never identifies the tree of the Garden as
an apple tree; the sword is the flaming sword protecting the entrance
to the Garden; the marble stones is from the talmudic story of
the four men who entered Paradise, etc.
Yedid Nefesh, which now adorns most prayerbooks as well as many
tape and record collections, was composed in Safed by the kabbalists
Eliezer Azikri. One of the most famous verses in this poem, ".
. . eli, mahmad libi, husha na, ve-al titalem," "my God, my heart's
delight, have compassion, and do not disappear." From this emerged
a popular Hebrew song which garbles the words, "Ele hamda libi
. . ." which makes no sense whatsoever with its masculine subject
and feminine predicate.
Concluding the presentation, and returning to the theme we discussed
earlier in the course, Israel Najara (c. 1555-1625), author of
the Sabbath hymn Yah Ribbon, rabbi in various cities in the land
of Israel, and noted for acquiring his melodies in Arab taverns,
composed a dirge for the fast of the Ninth of Av on the theme
of child sacrifice based on a midrashic story (Carmi, p. 472).
In his poem, a mother builds an alter to sacrifice her son, slaughters
him, and removes his flesh like a sacrificial offering and dismembering
him into twelve parts. When the other Jews found her they confronted
her with a verse from the Akedah, "Here are the fire and the wood!"
Significantly, it is in the land of Israel that the imperative
to sacrifice emerges.
The fact remains that a central theme in all periods of Hebrew
poetry was the desire to offer sacrifices. Whether writing about
drinking wine, or love, or prayer, the poets gave expression to
the continued desire of Jews to offer sacrifices in Jerusalem.
A desire not eliminated by the destruction of the Temple and one
that continues to loom large in our own day.
In the meantime, during the long and often culturally very productive
diaspora from the land of Israel and from the Temple, Jews in
all parts of the world continued literary, cultural, and religious
traditions from Palestine while at the same time, continually
influenced by their neighbors, produced new works which reflected
the environment they lived in, Christian or Islamic.
So when Dana International steps up to the microphone at the end
of the month, here are a couple of the cultural features of the
first stanza of Deror Yikra. The first letter of each line of
the stanza, and several others as well, spells out Dunash (not
Shalem). The last word of each line of the first stanza rhyme,
vat, vat, bat, bat. The Spanish Hebrew poetry scanned with the
sheva [:] or vowels that combine with a sheva [-:] being short
and every other vowel long so that this poem's basic meter would
be short-long-long-long short-long-long-long. If, however, you
look at various songbooks or even prayerbooks, you'll see that
this pattern has been broken by some of them. For example while
the last line of the first stanza in Dunash's text reads she-vu-nu-hu
be-yom-sha-bat, in some places it reads she-vu ve-nu-hu be-yom-sha-bat.
What does it mean? Following the biblical idea of proclaiming
liberty, as found on the Liberty Bell, the shabbat is a day of
freedom for both men and women. By the way, there is some evidence
that Dunash's wife was also a Hebrew poet. The poem then moves
to connect the Sabbath observers with God and promises that their
name will be preserved. And encourages them to observe the Sabbath.
I hope this helps and permits those who see the show to pay more
attention to the costumes.
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