Oral Tradition, 22/2 (2007): 3-11
Basque Oral Poetry Championship
John Miles Foley
Imagine selling 13,025 tickets for oral poetry. Imagine further an entire 6-7 hours of live
performances broadcast on regional television as they happen, with excerpts, summaries, and
expert commentary on national television. Imagine a one-day event––the final act in a multistage,
four-year, Olympian drama of qualification and elimination––galvanizing ethnic, national
identity to a degree unparalleled virtually anywhere in the world. Imagine the confluence of all
of these phenomena and you have the Bertsolari Txapelketa,1
the national championship of
bertsolaritza, the improvised contest poetry from Basque oral tradition, which took place in
Barakaldo, Spain, on December 18th
, 2005.
The rules for competitive bertsolaritza are at once straightforward and extremely
demanding. An emcee reads a topic or prompt to the contestants, who then have a few
seconds––usually less than a minute––to assemble an 8-12-line poem along the pattern of a
prescribed verse-form that also involves a rhyme scheme. Melodies are chosen from among
hundreds of traditional tunes. In other words, poets must fit their unique, never before realized
ideas into a highly complex framework of rules and patterns, and they must accomplish all these
tasks concurrently in extemporaneous performance. That’s a lot of balls to keep in the air all at
once, so bertsolariak must be expert jugglers. (Speaking of balls, organizers chose a rolled-up
ball of paper with words scribbled on its strips as the icon for the 2005 championship.)
I heard three explanations of this memorable image, all purportedly from the mouths of
the oral poets themselves. Some people saw it as a symbol of the transience of the oral poem,
carefully constructed and delivered but then discarded like trash; the moment of performance
was what mattered, they said. The poem lived as an experience in time, not as a timeless artifact.
A second group suggested an opposite perspective on the process but a similar basic concept,
namely that the ball represented a nest of ideas opened up in performance, so that individual
words became actual poetry only during the process of singing––only as the ball was unrolled.
The third explanation held that these balls of paper/poetry were in fact the bertsos, the poems
themselves, tossed back and forth between dueling competitors. As we shall see, this last
interpretation reflects the direct verbal combat that lies at the heart of bertsolaritza.
As the opening session of the championship final began, and amid energetic strains of
techno-pop that flooded the arena, the eight finalists marched to the stage. To honor these heroes
1
For photographs associated with this article, click on link.
4 JOHN MILES FOLEY
of oral poetry-making, let me name them in an “epic catalogue” in the order they appear in the
photo below (left to right):
1. Igor Elortza Aranoa
2. Andoni Egaña Makazaga (the current and three-time champion)
3. Jon Maia Soria
4. Amets Arzallus Antia
5. Sustrai Colina Acordarrementeria
6. Aitor Mendiluze Gonzalez
7. Maialen Lujanbio Zugasti (the 2001 runner-up)
8. Unai Iturriaga Zugaza-Artaza
Seven men, one woman (Maialen)––a reflection of the fact that this oral tradition has,
until recently, been primarily a male genre, but also a sign that more and more women are
performing, and performing very well. In this and many other ways bertsolaritza is adapting to
and documenting social change.
To get a sense of the strong cultural underpinnings, it is important to take account of what
didn’t actually occur on December 18th, but serves as the crucial background for the quadrennial
ritual––the 47-month backstory, if you like. In fact, even the regional competitions that serve as
the opening rounds of progressive eliminations, gradually yielding the chosen eight for the finals,
themselves represent only a part of that backstory. To understand the power and presence of
bertsolaritza, we need to realize that the art and practice of oral poetry is woven very deeply into
the fabric of Basque society, in both formal and informal settings and on a virtually everyday
basis. Perhaps the most intimate of such settings is the ubiquitous “bertso-dinner,” a city or
village ritual that features a community feast followed by performances by two or more
bertsolariak, who duel not for prizes or glory but for the enjoyment of all those present. More
than one thousand of these oral poetry feasts take place each year, I was told.
When I accompanied friends to a bertso-dinner in 2004, I learned something of the
complex, recurring context that these events provide. One of the bertsolariak performing that
evening was Maialen Lujanbio, the sole woman among the eight performers catalogued above.
She and her opponent-for-the-occasion had been hired through an agency run by Bertsozale
Elkartea, an organization formed in 1986 to support Basque oral contest poetry in all of its
dimensions––cultural, historical, economic, academic, and whatever other aspects need attention.
Before the meal began, the guest poets circulated freely throughout the gathering of 40-50
townspeople, picking up tidbits of local color and personal anecdotes that they would later use
ORAL POETRY CHAMPIONSHIP 5
during their performance to amuse their hosts. I found myself hoping that colleagues in
Bertsozale Elkartea would someday research and write a full ethnography of a bertso-dinner,
from the initial arrangements many months before the event through the long-planned and muchanticipated
night of performances. Such a longitudinal perspective would help us grasp the
central role of oral poetry in this society.
At any rate, suffice it to say that the championship finals rest on established social
practice, and that bertsolaritza is an everyday as well as a quadrennial vehicle for entertainment
and commentary, and for declaring and reaffirming Basque national identity. It is, in other
words, a continuous tradition with many diverse manifestations throughout the cultural scene.
Now back to December 18th, about mid-day, and the much-awaited entrance of the eight
finalists. The ritual begins with extemporaneous improvisations of greeting, as each contestant
uses the medium of oral poetry to welcome the audience––both the 13,025 in attendance and the
100,000 watching live––to the event. Their bertsos (“verses, poems”) range from professions of
modesty (“it’s a pleasure to take part, no matter what the outcome”) to solicitations of support
(“please take pity on me”) to expressions of gratitude and even to bold warnings directed toward
the favorite (“Andoni, we’ve come to challenge you”). In terms of ready adaptation to variant
settings, bertsolaritza is reminiscent of the praise-poetry of the Xhosa and Zulu peoples of South
Africa, which is tailored to particular chiefs and more recently to political figures both positive
and negative, and to the pre-dinner toasts I experienced during fieldwork in Mongolia,
extemporaneous poems composed by oral poets and chronicling the guests, their countries of
origin, and other details.
With this joint prologue accomplished, the verbal warriors turn to their jousting in
earnest. For each of the specific contests that follow during the first (11:00-14:00) and second
sessions (16:30-19:45), the emcee will prescribe a topic or scenario, which serves as a prompt for
the bertso, and in addition the verse form and number of iterations. The particular melody––and
some 3,000 have been recorded across the larger tradition––is in part determined by the verse
form. While it’s conceivable that the greeting poems (for which neither prompt nor parameters
were prescribed) could have been partially pre-composed; what follows them now couldn’t
possibly be prepared in advance. What takes place from this point onward is improvisation in the
true sense of the term, improvisation made possible by fluency within the multi-dimensional
compositional language.
For example, the first prompt, given to Igor and Andoni, runs as follows: “You are
workmates. After a labor strike of two years’ duration is finally settled, the bell rings in the
locker room and you are called to work.” The emcee then prescribes the verse form (leaving each
bertsolari to choose an appropriate melody) and indicates that they must compose competing
poems for a total of three cycles (three sequences of bertsos). Here’s a précis of their
collaborative, dueling response:
Igor: Friend, I’m not so happy to be here, but we’re two workers, so let’s be gentlemen.
Andoni: We’ve had a major struggle, and in the end achieved something––probably not
enough, but let’s continue to work like donkeys and make the best of things.
Igor: Yes, we’re going back there to work for our bosses; like donkeys we bear our
burden.
6 JOHN MILES FOLEY
Andoni: Not all our objectives have been attained, but we haven’t bowed down; our
backs are still straight.
Igor: The union and the militants have had time enough––I don’t want to end up working
like a donkey on four legs.
Andoni: You’re sad. I’m not completely happy either. Let’s hope we can eat our
sandwiches soon.
While the judges privately mark their scores based on the quality of the poetry, the
performance, and the singing (no gestures are allowed in this tradition), three more pairs of
dueling poets step to the microphone, one twosome after the next. The fourth pair, Maialen and
Unai, both of whom will eventually finish very high in the standings, are assigned one of the
most evocative topics of the competition, and they handle it with great dexterity and wit.
Here is the scenario: “You are the parents of three young children, and for the first time
in a long time you have the opportunity to spend the weekend together without your children.”
Once again the verse form is prescribed, the melody is open (though of course limited by the
verse form), and the contestants are asked to produce three bertsos each. A summary of their
memorable exchange runs as follows:
Maialen: Not one, not two, but three! We’re always thinking of how to get rid of our
children, but now that we’re on our own we don’t know what to do with ourselves.
Unai: Yes, we had lots of money until the three children arrived. But, dear, how did we
go about this sort of thing in the past?
Maialen: We start and finish with three children. My husband, you always have an
excuse because of your job; you can’t tell the difference because you’re always busy.
Unai: Oh, I feel something warm! There goes the cell phone––I’ll bet it’s your mother
calling us again . . . .
Maialen: My mother’s always calling at the wrong time. I’m not sure what’s warming
up––is it what you have on your shirt [the “18/98 plus” symbol associated with Basque
nationalism]? I have three-plus children [her husband is also a child]!
Unai: That’s how things go. My oven is boiling; you’re exciting me even though you’re
angry.
In these as in so many other instances all afternoon and evening, the oral poets are called
upon to wrestle with difficult, many-faceted scenarios that are at the same time familiar human
commonplaces. Family, society, ethnicity, and politics are the favorite topics, and bertsolariak
must give their thoughts a lyrical and appealing spin even as they navigate the demanding series
of formal verse and musical requirements.
For their part, audiences leave little doubt about whether or to what degree they approve
of the poets’ best efforts. Sighs of delight and surprise punctuate the well-received bertso as it
draws to a close, and each poem is accorded a clear, unequivocal evaluation, all the way from
polite, unenthusiastic applause through footstamping, screaming support. And 13,000 voices can
register quite an impact!
ORAL POETRY CHAMPIONSHIP 7
Another dimension of performer-audience interaction is especially striking. Because the
tight pattern of rhythm and rhyme will dependably illuminate the horizon of the last few lines
before the poet ever performs them, the audience very often sings these never-before-uttered
lines in unison with the bertsolari even as he or she makes them. And in a show of worthy
sportsmanship typical of every aspect of the event, each poet’s competitors regularly do the
same, with a generous smile of appreciation on their faces. As I listen to the audience and try to
gauge their criteria and preferences, I remember a discussion with two colleagues, Koldo Tapia
and Joxerra Garzia, about the effects of mass media on this performed oral poetry, and try to
imagine what reactions are taking place across the much-expanded virtual arenas of live
television and radio.
With round one behind them, the bertsolari now move on to improvised poetic debates
that are designated formally as “polemics.” Consider the first prompt, with the emcee providing
the same framework as above (different particulars, but a corresponding set of parameters
prescribing verse form and cycles): “Andoni, you’re out late and you’re hungry when you come
back early in the morning. So you’re eating the left-over squid in the refrigerator when your
mother (Jon) walks in and catches you in the act.” Of course, the situation is rife with overtones:
the young man living with his parents but naturally wanting to express his individuality and keep
his own hours, the mother watching her son becoming a man at inconveniently close quarters,
and so forth. Here is how Andoni and Jon handle the challenge:
Andoni: What’s going on in the kitchen? Oh, good evening, mother, you’re wearing such a
beautiful nightie!
Jon: My nightie’s as black as the squid you’re gobbling down!
Andoni: I think I’ve been sipping whiskey. But my lips are covered with ink; I suppose it’s
because the squid has squirted me.
Jon: Squids squirt––let’s ignore that remark. Next time get out of bed in time for lunch instead of
sleeping through it!
Andoni: Say whatever you want––I’m going to eat the squid now, and I won’t get up any earlier
than 15:30!
Jon: You want to ignore me? Well, go ahead. When your father speaks with you, things will get
really complicated.
Andoni: I want to eat the squid right now. Here, let me give you a kiss . . . . Oh, sorry, I’ve left an
ink-stain on your face.
Jon: Yes, you’ve stained my cheek! Next time, instead of having me work so hard [preparing
food], just call Tele-Pizza!
This exchange reveals the heart and soul of bertsolaritza as a contest. The two poets duel,
casting contrary remarks back and forth, seeking to win the bloodless war of words by outthinking
one another. And through their linked series of bertsos run several common
threads––the nightie, the squid, the color black, the ink, the daily schedule––that each competitor
tries to twist to his advantage. That is, not only must each participant obey the rules of the versemaking
game as dictated by the emcee, but he also has to echo the vocabulary and images used
by his opponent. This “horizontal” strategy of echoing the opponent’s words, which lasts
8 JOHN MILES FOLEY
throughout the six-bertso series, is reminiscent of similar tactics in other oral traditions of verbal
dueling, notably the early medieval English flyting (verbal combat) between Beowulf and
Unferth in Beowulf or between Byrhtnoth and the inimical Viking messenger in The Battle of
Maldon.
Three more polemics ensue, with topics ranging widely over matters of love and
seasickness, jobs and status, and friends and money, and the other six participants respond to the
prompts in reshuffled pairs. There’s a lot of humor involved, much of it stemming from the vivid
portrayal of comically familiar behavior––problems and responses we all recognize. But there
are occasional moments of unveiled social criticism, too, especially of the plight of powerless
laborers in comparison to the comfortable, wealthy existence enjoyed by their bosses (at the
workers’ expense, of course). Like the North American contest performances known as “slam
poetry,” bertsolaritza serves as a vehicle for lamenting the ills of the common person, a platform
for raising one’s voice in objection to the status quo. It often aims at exposing injustice in the
hope that social maladies can be addressed and remedied.
The rest of Session One consists of “solos,” in which each competitor is given the first
line of a bertso and required to create the rest; and the so-called “prison cell intervention,” in
which the other bertsolariak are locked in a room so that they can’t hear their competitors
perform. Each person is asked to respond with three related poems on the following theme: “You
hadn’t cried for a long time, but tears have just come to your eyes.” Responses are predictably
various, as are the farewell bertsos composed as a ritual closure to this opening session. The
audience heads out of the arena for their mid-day meal, with Amets’ bold reference to the
reigning champion ringing in our ears: “I’m happy to crucify [Andoni] Egaña, though he’ll soon
be resurrected.”
Over lunch my table of non-native enthusiasts conducts an informal poll to determine our
favorites, and specifically to select those two bertsolariak we expect to reach the ultimate stage,
a one-on-one competition at the very end of the proceedings. Most of us had listened to a
Spanish translation of the performances; I and a few others heard a simultaneous English
version, provided by Alfonso Vidal and Mikel Vidal and arranged by Kaldo Tapia. Our
discussion is earnest, and our criteria are applied with as much expertise as we can muster; in the
end, however, our conclusions prove only about half right. We settle correctly, as it turns out, on
the eventual champion, the winner of the trophy and the cap, but only one of the twelve
accurately picks the runner-up.
After the two and one-half hour break, the eight competitors return to battle, this time in a
different sequence in order to vary the dueling combinations during the second session.
Illustrating the “horizontal” structure of the ongoing competition, Andoni’s bertso of greeting
refers back to the offhand remark uttered by Amets at the end of the first session: performing
entirely within the traditional idiom, he observes that “I got off the cross because, as you
understand, it’s really difficult to eat in that position.” In addition to responding wittily, his poem
reveals a remarkable ability to harness the traditional form for a unique and present purpose.
During this first contest of the second session the following topic falls to Unai and
Amets: “One of you is an old soldier, the other a young soldier; you are about to lose the battle,
and the old soldier sees that his younger comrade is disheartened.” Their response is equal parts
painful realism, social politics, and metaphor:
ORAL POETRY CHAMPIONSHIP 9
Unai: What a cruel fate we have! Why did we become soldiers? Better to have a
wounded coward than somebody dead!
Amets: Don’t give me poetry when I’m in the middle of a battle––you have to carry on
fighting!
Unai: What are you talking about? Everything has been decided for us in some office
somewhere; we have nothing to say and nothing to do.
Amets: I have a wound, I’m bleeding––do you think that tears are better? Set aside your
desperation! I prefer a white sheet to tears.
Unai: Leave the sheet––we are nobody’s dinner. Lie on the ground, pretend you’re dead,
hold your breath.
Amets: Let’s not play tricks. I want to continue. If we lose, it’s because soldiers like you
have no guts.
The second competition in this session involves a dueling contest in alternate lines, first
one line by one poet, then the second by another, and so forth. Reminiscent of the AfricanAmerican
verbal games of “the dozens” or more generally of certain varieties of hip hop
(especially in competitive freestyling), these duels are prescribed to continue for a maximum of
four exchanges. A couple of pairs get carried away and exceed the set limit, but no one seems to
regret the spontaneous overflow.
The third bout requires each of the bertsolariak to compose three poems on a designated
topic in a verse form of their choice. Although many of these cycles are impressive, one stands
out as embodying the core political concerns of bertsolaritza. Here is the prompt given to
Andoni: “You’ve been on holiday with your friends in Madrid, but you get separated from the
rest of the group. You find yourself standing in front of the steps of the High Court of Justice.”
After approximately thirty seconds’ pause, he offers three bertsos that we can summarize as
follows:
1. I was walking down by La Castellana Avenue and saw the north of the city, and all of a
sudden I bumped into the steps. I may as well turn my back to the steps. I am perhaps
the only Basque who has come up the steps without being summoned by the court itself.
2. Shall I go inside or not? Perhaps I could, but then the judge might issue an order and
sentence me to many years in prison. But I’ll go inside and make a statement, tell the
judge everything because I’m “a know-it-all jester” [as the court had described
bertsolariak some years before during a trial in which Andoni took part].
3. I step inside. Perhaps the best thing is to turn around––making a statement was just a
whim. I’d better not make a statement. I’m in danger now and I need to find my friends.
At this juncture a brief intermission now interrupts the proceedings, and the tension
builds as the emcee thanks the judges, naming them one by one, as well as all who supported this
event either financially or though volunteerism. This includes not only officials from various
levels of the government, but most immediately the local associations linked to the bertsoschools
in which children are educated in Basque and in the art and practice of bertsolaritza
itself.
10 JOHN MILES FOLEY
After a few moments the names of the final two bertsolariak are announced. To no one’s
surprise, the first is Andoni Egaña; the second name, less universally expected but greeted with
raucous and sustained applause, is that of Unai Iturriaga. So the final battle is set––Andoni
versus Unai in a duel for the national title over a series of four challenges: two back-and-forth
polemics, a bertso based on a “mystery word,” and a final solo on a new topic.
The first of the polemics takes shape around a popular song about Maritxu, a young
woman, and her boyfriend Bartolo. The emcee gives the prompt as follows: “Unai, you are
Maritxu. Your father has sent you to the fountain to fetch a bottle of white wine that has been
cooling there. You happen to meet Bartolo (played by Andoni), who has discovered the wine and
is very drunk.” It’s worth adding that even the reading of this topic gets a lively response among
the audience, who eagerly await the two maestros’ comic exchange over familiar territory. Here
is their encounter in paraphrase (and entirely unexpurgated!):
Unai (Maritxu): I’ve come because my father sent me. What a surprise to run into you!
But we’ve missed an opportunity; you’re drunk!
Andoni (Bartolo): I’ve been tempted by wine. I started little by little, then I drank the
whole thing. But I’m still capable of “ahem”!
Unai: Look at the kind of answer I get: he’s drunk but still willing to try a bit of “ahem”!
You better put your head in the water first.
Andoni: You’re going to make me confess; ok, I’m a bit drunk, but Maritxu, you come
closer and see where I put my head.
Unai: You’re randy, so we both feel like it––let’s make a deal: kneel down and you’ll see
a rainbow.
Andoni: I got on my knees with the best of intentions to see what Maritxu had, but there
was no rainbow––it was light, and then it was dark.
The second polemic is much more serious and generalized: “You have different world
views: for Andoni the future of the world is bleak, while for Unai the future of the world is open
and promising.” The two bertsolariak respond with pointed social commentary on subjects
ranging from high-speed trains and shopping centers through third-world poverty and Basque
politics.
Andoni then goes off-stage while the final two tests are administered to Unai. Since they
will be addressing the very same topics, it’s crucial that the second poet not hear the topics posed
to his opponent and thus have extra time to think and compose. Both competitors handle the
bertso on the “mystery word”––which is simply “chair”––quite cleverly: Unai voicing his
satisfaction that his chair is presently empty (because he is performing in the ultimate stage of
the contest and is therefore closer to the cap and trophy) and Andoni mentioning a small chair for
milking cows.
The final topic treats the problem of learning Basque and keeping the language and
culture alive and thriving: “You work at a night school teaching Basque language to twelve
people who are very tired after a full day of work but still want to learn.” Both poets speak
eloquently about the challenge before their students and the solidarity of the group, and in the
ORAL POETRY CHAMPIONSHIP 11
microcosm of these verses we can glimpse the outlines of a larger, comprehensive social
movement.
And then suddenly it’s over. After more than six hours of high-level juggling, of
creatively and publicly meshing new ideas with the traditional patterns of Basque oral
performance poetry, the bertsolariak are silent and the judgment goes to the jury. Soon the
winner is announced, and for the fourth consecutive championship Andoni Egaña is victorious,
this time over the runner-up Unai. Maialen places third, Amets fourth, Igor fifth, Sustrai sixth,
Aitor seventh, and Jon eighth.
Fittingly, the ritual comes to a close with brief performances given by children attending
Basque bertso-schools and by all eight of the competitors themselves. Without exception, the
other seven are generous in complementing the victor Andoni, each in his or her own way. Jon
asks, “What can we do if you were born to be great?” and Sustrai congratulates “baldy” and
looks forward to the next championship four years hence. Maialen observes that the planets seem
to have been aligned in Andoni’s favor, but that the women are getting closer (she was second in
2001 and third this time) and she’ll be back in 2009. Unai congratulates all of the competitors but
tempers his joy by remembering “the prisoners who couldn’t listen to us today.”
Finally, Andoni, who receives the champion’s cap from the great bertsolari Imanol
Lazkano, past president of the association, sings his victory ode, mentioning most prominently
“my children and the woman I love, with love to my mother and, with my Father’s permission,
the mothers of us all.”
So ends an oral poetry event that is, to my knowledge, unique in the world. For the
cheering thousands who came to Barakaldo, drawn by the cultural need to personally experience
and co-create bertsolaritza, the event is manifestly fulfilling and inspiring. There is obviously
great joy not only for the eight finalists, but also for their 13,000 friends. Likewise for the
100,000 more who attended this “grand war of words”––in which no one was injured and
everyone behaved honorably––via their radios and television sets, joining vicariously in this
culminating celebration of Basque traditional identity.
I close with a word on context and tradition, which remain immanent after this particular
instance of bertso-making has ceased. No matter how impressive these championships may
seem, and they certainly were remarkably impressive in scope, process, and outcome, their
power doesn’t derive solely from the grand but transient moment of the every-fourth-year
festival. Not at all. That considerable power stems just as surely from the ongoingness and
ubiquity of bertsolaritza, its long history and continuing significance in Basque culture. Whether
on the “macro” scale of the filled-to-the-brim exhibition hall or within the much more modest,
intimate setting of the local bertso-dinner, this remarkable oral poetry is simply doing what oral
poetry always does: it works on behalf of society, on behalf of ethnic and community values, as
an adaptive mechanism for negotiating the world. In a real sense bertsolaritza is the pulse of
Basque culture, an index of what it means to be Basque––past, present, and future.
Center for Studies in Oral Tradition
University of Missouri