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http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36212763/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 12:14:23 -0700

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJPTBcJneMY

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36212758/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 12:14:10 -0700

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJPTBcJneMY

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36210835/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 10:31:40 -0700

http://www.occitania.online.fr/aqui.comenca.occitania/en-oc.html

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36207058/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 06:41:36 -0700

This is one of the earliest Provencal song templates, giving shape to many quatrains that followed -- Pour Beatrix d'Est� voy. Diez, Leben und Werken . So far as I know there are no English translations, so I'll have a shot as a same-form verse rendering. I found the text in the French Romance Language Society's Poesies Provencales Inedites Tirees des Manuscrits d'Italie.

Nothing compares to her towards tr. JB

Heart and soul -- your will, your wit, your sense
In love songs strain a sinew
Give your mistress all that is in you
Merit and praise are joined...

[rime and half-rime thoughts: limn'd/ hymned; venery/seignory; found/intoned]

Cor, poder, saber e sen
ai de chantar e d'amor
e de servir gai seignor
que prez e valor enten;

Q'esters es obra perduda,
e � 'ill mort son greu per garir �,
e si"m volguesson auzir,
mel traissera de secuda.

Bella dompn' ab cors plazen
�tri�t co'l grans de la flor
am eu, del mont la genzor :
que negun' ab leis no's pren

oilz de falcon trait de muda,
bocha rien per ben dir,
�e"l cors plus dolz per sentir
c'uns prims ranzans sus char nuda.

Bona dompna etavinen
am, e no ges per amor.
mas en luoc de bon seignor
�servirai son bel cors gen, —

15. cor.

ar es tost causa sauhuda, —
e pren per luoc de iauzir
qant li plai que'm faz'auzir.
aitals, domna, vos saluda.

24. donnae.

8. secuda, cign� = cicuda dans llaynoiuird. Prov. uiod. cigudo.
12. � Nulle ne peut se comparer � elle. �

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36205643/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 04:53:27 -0700

DG Rosetti At the station of the Versailles Railway (pub. 1911)

I waited for the train unto Versailles.
I hung with bonnes and gamins on the bridge
Watching the gravelled road where, ridge with ridge,
Under black arches gleam the iron rails
Clear in the darkness, till the darkness fails
And they press on to light again—again
To reach the dark. I waited for the train
Unto Versailles; I leaned over the bridge,
And wondered, cold and drowsy, why the knave
Claude is in worship; and why (sense apart)
Rubens preferred a mustard vehicle.
The wind veered short. I turned upon my heel
Saying, “Correggio was a toad”; then gave
Three dizzy yawns, and knew not of the Art.

I wonder if this inspired Pound's 'In A Station of the Metro'?

For Claude: http://www.claudelorrain.org/

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36205050/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 04:04:32 -0700

Aimeric de Pegugnan Ela per qe m'ameria? (tr. may follow)

Chaiitar vuilh. — per qe ? — ia'm platz. [Sing I must - For what? For my relief. ]
iate'i� eras tu laicliatz? —
eu. — fols es tu. qin' es
de cui chantas ? — fola res.
de la gensor q'el mon sia. —
oc, benleu; mas si tu'l cres,
altre no'l te creiria ges. —
per deu, si faria

toz hom qe vis sas beutatz. — [all men who see your beauty]
�es tan pros corn lo-m lau�az? —
la melher q anc dieus fe�es. —
doncs fas tu ben qe cortes. —
et eu, fol, no t'o di�ia? —
si be. — douez, de qe-m moscres? —
sai, si es, platz mi e sos bes. —
no'ra entremetria,

1. qpm ia plaJz. — ."j. fia. — 9. sa. (who pleases /pleasures me)

sai, si no fos la vertatz. —
era, vos, qar me digaz ! —
e qe ? — ama*us tan ni qan? —
■^0 vai tu, mensongier truan ;
ela per qe m'ameria?
en tant qant soleilhs resplan,
n'a tan pro ni tan preean.
fol, co's tanheiia

a mi sos genz cors liondratz? —
Ben es doncs nesis e fatz, —
cum? — car as mes t�t afan,
a guisa de fol aman,
la on ga res no*t valdria. —
�cre me tu qe merseian
aman sirven e preian
conqer hom amia

tost o tard, don, . . — er auiatz
qe be"n es hom enguanatz. —
non es ges. Saps qe m'a sors? —
eu no. — us conortz : q'amors
restaura t�t en un dia
qant qe a mesfait alhors,
per qe*m sofri sas dolors
�en pae tota via

e*ls afans qe m'a tardatz.
las, eu mur! — cum ? — soi nafratz. —
q.ui't nafret ? — del mon la flors. —
qe flors es? — de las melhors. —
per qe fetz? — qar se voila. —
be'l cre ; don atens socors? —
de leis, qe sa granz valors
m'es suaus medgia.

garir ses leis no poiria
per re de mas greus dolors,

I wonder if line 21 Ela per que m'ameria (Does she have any love for me?)� is doing double-duty in flagging up the poet's tag: (aimeric/ameria) much as the Arabic tafhaluz does in their jarcha form.

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36204619/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 03:26:31 -0700

Un sirventes on motz non faill
Ai faich, c'anc no.m costet un aill.
Et ai apres'un'aital art,
Qe s'ai fraire, cosin ni qart,
Eu.l part l'ou e la meailla.
E puois s'il vol la mia part,
Eu l'en get de comunailla.

Tot jorn contendi e.m baraill
Escrim e.m defen e.m coraill,
C'om me fond ma terra e m'art,
E.m fai de mos arbres issart,
E mesclo.l gran am la pailla.
E no.i a volpill ni coart
Enemic que no m'asailla.

Talairans non trota ni.n saill,
Ni non hieis de son arandaill,
Ni non dopta lanssa ni dart.
Anz viu a guisa de coart.
Et es tant ples de nuailla,
Greu m'es qan l'autra gens se part,
Et el s'esten e badailla.

Guillem de Gordon, fol bataill
Avetz mes dinz vostre sonaill -
Et eu am vos, si Dieus mi gart.
Pero per fol e per musart
Vos tenon d'esta fermailla
Li dui vescomt'et es lor tart
Que siatz en lor batailla.

Bertrand de BorsTot mon sen teing dinz mon serail

Tot mon sen teing dinz mon seraill,
Sitot m'ant mes en gran trebaill
Entre n.Azemar e.n Richart.
Lonc temps m'ant tengut en regart,
Mas ar lor mou tal barailla,
Qe li enfan, si.l reis no.ls part,
Auran part en lur corailla.

A Peiregos pres del muraill
Tant cant poirai gitar ab maill,
Volrai anar sobre Baiart.
E se.i trob Peitavin pifart,
Sabra de mon bran cum tailla
Que sus el cap li farai bart
De cervel mesclat ab mailla

Tot jorn resoli e retaill
Los barons e.lz refon e.lz caill.
Q'ie.ls cujava metr'en eissart,
Per q'ieu sui fols car m'i regart.
Qu'ill son peior per obrailla
Que non es lo fers Sain Leonart,
Per qu'es fols qui s'en trebailla.

Baron, Dieus vos sal e vos gart
E vos aiut e vos vailla,
Ab sol que digatz a.n Richart
So qe.l paus dis a la grailla.

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36203804/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 02:21:32 -0700

Dante, and Romantic artists like John Flaxman, William Blake and Gustave Dore disapproved of Bertran de Born's morals and put him in Hell. Certainly his sexism and ageism won't endear him to the modern age either. Nothing very loveable about this troubadour and despite my fondness for provencal verse I find most of what he wrote rather sickening. However this revulsion makes for an interesting dialogue with this notoriously bloodthirsty, treacherous and amatory baron! Ever since Robert Browning used the dramatic monologue form ('The Last Duchess') to expose Renaissance morals to Victorian censure, poets like Ezra Pound, have been using de Born's own words to condemn him out of his own mouth.

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36203693/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 02:13:13 -0700

Bertrans de Born Mal o fai domna cant d'amar s'atarja�

Mal o fai domna cant d'amar s'atarja
Mentr'es joves a�l color fresc e blanc
E las tetinas duras ses tot embart,
E�l ventres planz senz ruas e senz comba
E�l conz es gros e�l pelet estan som;
A las ancas planas per meils jazer
E�ls petz petitz e�ls oils clars e rizens
E�l cors fresquet e�l pel saur en la testa.

Pois s'en repen cant il ha la pel larja
Que li ruon li costat e li flanc,
Et a los oils plus vermeils d'un rainart
E�l cap canut e pansa con retomba,
Et a perdut tot son prez e son nom.
Adoncas vol zo que nom pot aver,
Mas mentr'en leis es beutatz e jovenz,
Qui la enquier no s'o ten ges a festa.

A lady's wrong when she delays her love.tr. James Donaldson

A lady's wrong when she delays her love,
while she is young her color's fresh and white,
her breasts are firm and they don't have a spot,
her belly's flat, unwrinkled, undepressed,
her cunt is large and all its hair is light,
her hips are smooth to make a better lie,
and she has also bright and laughing eyes,
her body's lithe and on her head red hair.

She'll change her mind when all her skin is loose,
and she has wrinkled sides and flanks besides,
her eyes grow redder than a fox's eyes,
her head is gray and belly gets a pot,
and she has lost her name and her repute,
and then she'll want what she cannot then have,
but while she has her beauty and her youth
if someone seeks her love, she's not amused.

http://jack-black.stumbleupon.com/review/36203154/

Sat, 19 Sep 2009 01:33:31 -0700

Here's a translation of the Bertran's poem 2 posts above. Interesting, but it doesn't bother with the real challenge of the poetry - which is its rhyme-form, (I should liked him to have rhymed 'barrel' with 'quarrel' , travail, ' prevail' and 'Grail' as does Bertran). Plus the moral superiority of a latterday perspective on the warmongering lord isa little too cosy with the liberal reader.

M E T H O D N U M B E R O N E

The unfailing words of foot soldiers
never cost more than a garlic clove.
We've learnt one artistic method
brother and cousin to this other craft.
They share these qualities:
topical occasion and mesh.
When we're paid in one capacity
the other is expected to follow.
Every day contentious and over a barrel
worn out by my aegis
my incorrigible fame
as I substructure my country
with my art. I jot
down my isotopic trees
I lick my great soul pale
I've no enemies craven
or lowbred enough to molest me.

Tallyrand doesn't scamper any more
doesn't mount his bay mare
doesn't practice with his big knife.
He's not even seen at court.
He's such a boring crease of a man;
ugliness is when the others leave
and one becomes distempered.
William, crazy pugilist
with me at our last rout:
we'll battle again, if God keeps me.
Perowne, equally all in for folly and mustard,
how your mortise closed hard on
The dewy viscount and that tart of a page
who would sit on his old battle wound.

All my senses eviscerate
on my serrated blade.
I'm back in the great clash
between old king asthma and Richard.
Long ago I was held in high regard,
but these sword monkeys with their defamatory patter
and childishness, won the king's ear and stole
my share of the glory.
At Piros, near to the wall
what a battle royale we had
with those canting bohemians.
Wanton took it against By Art.
We found the Vine
scalped. The shaft of my sabre
did some pruning
right under the head of fey Bartholemew
his brain pear-like and malleable.

Risoles and oxtail,
barons with their cutlets and their quails
and their filthy reformed creed
in isinglass sauce. It was stupid of me
to hold them in esteem. They work
off the fear of hard esthetic graft
(both kinds) and carry the flagellant
chains of St. Leonard
to lessen the zealotry and chafe
of their affictions. Barons, false gods
with your salt and your cheap
restaurants and your aioli
and your overcooked gallantry,
with no due respect I say: Richard,
you're a derisory little grail sucker.