Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (31 page)

For the favor of me.

And have a care, daughter;

I knew such another

Once, who showed great desire

Only for my favor.

W. S. Merwin, 1952

Pe ro M e o g o
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Joa n de Guilh a de
(Th

irteenth Century)

“Friends, I cannot deny”

Friends, I cannot deny

Love wears me grievously,

For I walk sorrowfully

And sorrowfully I say:

Th

ose green eyes I have seen

Changed me in this fashion.

He that lends ear may learn

Whose eyes draw my lament;

And he may make complaint;

Th

is, live I or die, is mine:

Th

ose green eyes I have seen

Changed me in this fashion.

But no man should betray

His senses’ weakening

By sorrow in his speaking,

And I say sorrowfully:

Th

ose green eyes I have seen

Changed me in this fashion.

W. S. Merwin, 1952

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P o r t u g u e s e

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Nuno Fer n a ndes Tor neol
(Th

irteenth Century)

“Waken, my love, who sleep in the cold morning,”

Alba

Waken, my love, who sleep in the cold morning,

—all the birds in the world, of love were speaking.

Merrily walk I.

Waken, my love, in the cold morning sleeping,

—all the birds in the world, of love were singing.

Merrily walk I.

All the birds in the world, of love were speaking,

Th

inking upon our love, on our love thinking.

Merrily walk I.

All the birds in the world, of love were singing,

Remembering our love, remembering.

Merrily walk I.

Th

inking upon our love, on our love thinking.

But you have hushed the boughs where they were swinging.

Merrily walk I.

Remembering our love, remembering.

But you have hushed the boughs where they were sitting.

Merrily walk I.

But you have hushed the boughs where they were swinging

And you have dried the springs where they were drinking.

Merrily walk I.

But you have hushed the boughs where they were sitting

And you have dried the springs where they were bathing.

Merrily walk I.

W. S. Merwin, 1952

N u no F e r na n de s T or n e ol
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Fr a ncisco de Sá de M ir a nda
(1481–1558)

“At the voice of the enchanter”

At the voice of the enchanter

Even the serpent shuts his ear:

Lo, I who listened would that sense

Deranged with grief might disappear.

Th

ose most chary of the sea

Flee the singing of the siren;

Not strength restrained nor policy

When your voice invading me

Struck soul and senses alien.

W. S. Merwin, 1952

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P r o v e n ç a l

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Guillem Comte de Peitau
(1071–1127)

“Th

at the fevered breath attain relief ”

Vers

Th

at the fevered breath attain relief

I shape a song upon my grief

Who will to love no more hold fi ef

Here in Poitou or Limousin,

Who in terror turn and peril

A stranger, and commence my exile,

And where neighbors work his evil

In time of war forsake my son.

Ah lords and counties of Poitou,

In this forsaking is my sorrow!

I beseech Foucon d’Angou

To guard this country and his kin.

If not his hand avails us, nor

Th

at king in whom I rest my honor,

How great the pack eyeing the plunder:

Gascon thieves and Angevin.

Lords, if valor and wit be small

Th

ese when I leave will seize the wall

And quickly shake it, and it fall

Where little I left it, young and thin.

May he nearest who follows me

If ever I wronged him pardon me;

To Jesus on his throne I pray

Th

is in my own tongue and in Latin,

Who have been kin to strength and mirth

And know this parting from them both

Gu i l l e m C om t e de Pe i tau
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Toward that demesne whose king and faith

Wall them with peace even who sin.

I have been gay but this my laughter

Th

e lord forgets from his desire;

I can no burden longer bear,

So near I come to the last pain.

From all I love I turn aside,

I leave my knighthood and my pride;

May all reach welcome under God

And pray him that he take me in.

May those my friends aft er I die

Form in honor about my body

Who have been guest to mirth and joy

Far and near and in my mansion,

And thus depart mirth and joy,

Th

e colored robes and sable skin.

W. S. Merwin, 1950

“Friend, I would make verses . . . that’s understood,”

Vers

Friend, I would make verses . . . that’s understood,

But I witless, and they most mad and all

Mixed up,
mesclatz
, jumbled from youth and love and joy—

And if the vulgar do not listen to them?

Learn ’em by heart? He takes a hard

Parting from men’s love who composes to his own liking.

Two horses have I to my saddle, sleek,

Game: but husband both for battle? I have

Not the skill, for neither will allow the other.

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But could I fasten them both to serve my rein

I would not change cavalage with any other,

For then would I be better mounted than any man living.

Th

e fi rst is of mountain stock, the swift er running;

Sure-footed, well-composed she treads, but wild,

Shy, fi erce, so savage she forbids currying. Th

e other

Was nourished up and bred past Cofolens

And I have seen none more beautiful to my knowing,

No, nor would exchange her, not for gold or silver.

I gave her to her lord a grazing colt,

Yet, by the saints, so well have I retained her

At a sign her bridle would she rive asunder to come to me.

Lord, in this diffi

culty counsel me!

Never was I more harassed in a choice.

Agnes or Arsen! Madness or death will take me fi rst.

At Gimel have I a castle under domain,

At Nieul have I pride before men; for both

Th

ese
nonpareils
are sworn to me, and pledged by oath.

Paul Blackburn, 1952

Gu i l l e m C om t e de Pe i tau
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Gir au t de Bor nelh
(Twelft h Century)

“Glorious Lord, fountain of clarity,”

Alba

Glorious Lord, fountain of clarity,

God of all power, if it please Th

ee,

Be by my friend unslumbering vigil

Whom I no longer see, for the night fell,

Until arrives the dawn.

Friend, whether dreaming or half-roused you stay,

Slumber no longer, but renew the eye

Where in the east I see the light rise

Th

at salutes day, and the star recognize

Th

at trembles upon dawn.

Friend, I smooth the entreaty into song:

Slumber no more, for I hear the bird sing

Th

at goes inquiring day among the trees,

And tremble lest one jealously surprise

You as now the dawn.

Friend, but approach and by the window stay

And see the stars diminish from the sky;

Judge if the word is amiable I send you

Th

at you neglect, and yours will be the sorrow

When the time fades to dawn.

Friend, friend, since you departed me,

I have not slept nor straightened from the knee

Petitioning the holy Virgin’s son

Th

at he to me render my companion,

And soon arrives the dawn.

Friend, on these garden and indiff erent stones

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I prayed that no sleep touch my orisons

Till all dark vanishing rewarded day,

But comes no answer when I sing or pray,

And early comes the dawn.

W. S. Merwin, 1950

Gi r au t de B or n e l h
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R a im bau t de Vaqueir a s
(ca. 1155–1205)

“Guard us well, my sentry,”

Alba

Guard us well, my sentry,

Cold the pike and heavy

While your radiant mistress, she

Most superb, most lovely,

I have to lie thus close to me ’til dawn.

Command the night stand to,

Bid or forbid as I will, day

Puts out my joy

Palbe, oc l’albe
.

’Til the auzel wakens,

Watchman guard this richness;

’Til the morningstar rises

Eastward, I am wantless.

Enemy am I of that gravesman, dawn:

But a long day forces

All candor from our eyes,

Wholly destroys us

l’albe, oc l’albe
.

Cry the hour from the keep, friend;

Keep us here below you from

Your ill-favoured master, warm,

Snug, snoring, cozened, Christ!

Flat on his back, symmetrical, ’til dawn.

Be warder on his treasure

Th

at I may count her over

And only fear

l’albe, oc l’albe
.

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Love, adieu, adieu!

Longer I could not stay

Beyond our kinsman night, who fl ies

Before the sun’s uprising.

How soggy red these fi elds lie in the dawn.

And changing his routine watch, unbuckling

Massive keys, my sentry

Cries from the tower

—
l’albe, oc Palbe!
—

Paul Blackburn, 1952

“High waves that shift and gather from the sea”

Planh

High waves that shift and gather from the sea

With any wind or fancy, from my lady

What do you, syllable or sighing, carry,

Or casual song, who comes not back to me?

And ah, Deus d’Amor,

Grant in its hour joy as grief in its hour.

Such sweetness folds him who returns from where

My lady holds her sojourn and glad slumber

As seems reprieve and liquid off ered where

Th

ese lips wait parted, aged with desire;

And ah, Deus d’Amor,

Grant in its hour joy as grief in its hour.

Poor is the love one sends from alien fi res

When all his hopes must make content with tears.

Now from her dreams the shape of me retires

As promises forgetfulness requires.

R a i m bau t de Vaqu e i r a s
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Ah, Deus d’Amor,

Grant in its hour joy as grief in its hour.

W. S. Merwin, 1950

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Peir e Vida l
(ca. 1175–1205)

From the
Vida

Canso

I suck deep in air come from Provence to here:

All things from there so please me, when I hear

In dockside taverns traveler’s gossip told,

I

listen

smiling,

And for each word ask a hundred smiling words—

all news is good

For no man knows so sweet a country as

from the Rhône down to Vence.

If only I were locked between

Durance and the sea:

Such pure joy shines with the sun there.

I left my heart-for-rejoicing

there among noble people,

And with her who bids my sadness dance.

No man can ever pass a day in boredom

who has remembrance of her,

For in her is the beginning and birth of all joy.

And he who would praise her,

No matter how well he speak of her, he lies;

For the world shall not look on one

better or fairer.