Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology (9 page)

And I must keep on wearing it as long as my life may last,

For though a man may hide his off ense, he cannot be rid of it,

For once it is attached to him, it never will come loose.”

Th

e King then sought to comfort the knight, as all the court did, too,

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Laughing out loud at what he confessed, and they amiably agreed—

Th

e lords who belonged to the Round Table and all their ladies as well—

Th

at each bold knight of that brotherhood should obtain a similar baldric,

A cross-belt slantwise from the shoulder, colored a bright green,

Which for the sake of that good man they would follow suit and wear.

For that was agreed to be the highest glory of the Round Table,

And whoever wore it thus was honored, forever aft erwards,

As is recorded, written down in the best book of romance.

Th

us it came about in Arthur’s day that this adventure happened,

And the books of British history bear witness to it as well,

Ever since Brutus, the bold knight, fi rst landed on these shores,

Aft er the siege and the assault had been exhausted at Troy:

Finis.

Many strange things have been found

In Britain before this:

Now He that once was crowned

With

Th

orns bring us to bliss.

AMEN

HONI SOIT QUI MAL PENCE

John Ridland, 2010

A non y mou s F ou rt e e n t h- C e n t u ry P oet
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O l d F r e n c h

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R ich a r d I
(ca. 1157–99)

Chanson

Never man caught could muster fi t excuse

Lithe to the tongue to parry his distress,

Yet for my comfort I can song devise;

Now gift less hangs of many friends the grace

While I in shame and hopeless of release

Am these two winters held.

Well my knight can recall, and my sworn man,

Englishman, Norman, Gascon, Poitevin,

How I have let no least companion

Lie wasting thus for long his heart in prison.

Pride forbids arguments of worth and ransom,

But still, I am close held.

Ah, I know well enough that in the end,

By death locked up, I shall fi nd parent nor friend

Helpful with gold or capable dear hand.

More than myself I mourn who to me bend

And may, aft er my death, need, and none lend

While closed I lie, and held.

Count it no marvel that my heart is rent

Now Philip cramps my kingdom in torment,

But were he minded of the covenant

Once we together made by joined consent

I could expect no pain long continent

Nor long in shame lie held.

Th

is though they know, Angevin and Torraine,

Unmarried men whose gold and faith are fi ne,

Love hides so hampered help cannot be shown,

And past touch of their love fast am I down.

R ic h a r d I
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Light from bare swords bent I see fl ood the plain

Who meantime am close held.

Companions whom old love has held this late,

To you of Caen and Percherain I write,

Long vexed: may song call constancy to sight;

I have dealt no one falsely or in spite

And who shows faithless now is base past hate

For straightly am I held.

Countess and sister, to your fame may the lord

Whose prisoner I stay, to whom is spurred

My prayer, guard you and hold.

To the mother of Louys I send no word

I have here told.

W. S. Merwin, 1949

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Ol d F r e n c h

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M i d d l e F r e n c h

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Chr istine de Pisa n
(ca. 1365–1430)

“Doulce chose est que mariage”

Th

at marriage is a sweet delight

For one whose husband’s good and wise,

My married life will demonstrate,

As God has made me realize.

Praise Him who made this man my prize,

His goodness I am swift to tell,

And know of my own expertise,

Surely my sweetheart loves me well
.

I learned his goodness on the night

Th

at we were wed and with great ease

Can prove it, for, from dusk to light,

He off ered me no injuries;

Before time came for us to rise,

A hundred kisses I recall

He gave, but took no liberties;

Surely my sweetheart loves me well
.

His language, courtly and polite,

Assured me: “I was born to please

You, darling—I am yours by right,

To serve you well, as God decrees.”

And lest the dream he wove should cease,

He’d tell me this and this retell

All night, unswerving from his course:

Surely my sweetheart loves me well
.

Princes, I’m mad with some disease,

For when he says he’s mine, I swell

To bursting with Love’s ecstacies;

Surely my sweetheart loves me well
.

C h r i s t i n e de Pi s a n
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“Seulete suis, et seulete vueil estre”

Alone am I and wish to be alone,

Alone am I my love has gone away,

Alone am I and master have I none,

Alone am I with none to share my way,

Alone am I in languor and dismay,

Alone am I in utter poverty,

Alone am I
no lover lives with me
.

Alone am I at door or windowpane,

Alone am I in corner hideaway,

Alone am I with tears to feed upon,

Alone am I in grief or grief at bay,

Alone am I my pleasure so to stay,

Alone am I my chamber’s company,

Alone am I
no lover lives with me
.

Alone am I in every place I’ve known,

Alone am I where I abide or stray,

Alone am I more so than anyone,

Alone am I to all a castaway,

Alone am I abased by everyone,

Alone am I in tears most frequently,

Alone am I
no lover lives with me
.

O princes

now my sorrow has its sway,

Alone am I of every grief the prey,

Alone am I as dark as mulberry,

Alone am I
no lover lives with me
.

“Sage seroit qui se saroit garder”

Wise would she be, who keeps her own good name

From those deceiving lovers who would wage

War on her reputation as a game:

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Groaning, they overdo the amorous rage

Th

at has them pent like fi nches in a cage,

And go about playacting, wan and pale—

But I endite this plainly on my page:

Who most complain are not those who most ail
.

Listen to this one’s oaths, to that one’s claim

Th

at he’s the slave of Love and not his page!

Whoever saw these gawkers without shame

Telling such tales to women as they gauge

Will best deceive them—if that man were sage,

He would correct these lovers without fail.

Confi ne such overacting to the stage:

Who most complain are not those who most ail
.

To mend such lovers surely is God’s aim,

For much harm comes from men who will engage

Women with pleas for favors, who defame

Th

eir honesty, who beg them to assuage

Th

ose passions which they feigningly allege;

For my ballade (when asked) will tell this tale:

No matter noble birth or lineage,

Who most complain are not those who most ail
.

Charles Martin and Johanna Keller, 1999

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F r e n c h

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Fr a nçois Villon
(1431–63)

From the
Testament

Th

e Old Woman Regretting the Time of Her Youth,

Lament of the Beautiful Helmet Maker

I thought I heard an old woman,

Th

e beautiful Helmet Maker,

Grieving for her youth that’s gone,

Speaking of it in this manner:

“Ha! Felonious age, destroyer,

Why did you beat me down this way?

Who’s to stop me suff ering further,

Ending it with a stroke today?

Th

e power I held over men

You took, my beauty at its height.

Clerks, leading merchants, clergymen,

Would have given all for a night

With such beauty, though they might

Regret it later. And would today

If they saw me as I am, a sight

To make a beggar turn away.

Many a man I would refuse—

It wasn’t quite so bright of me—

For a smart boy whom I chose,

Fed well, and dressed in fi nery.

I cheated on him but, believe me,

I loved him, though he drove me mad.

He knocked me around a bit roughly,

And loved me only for what I had.

He could drag me through the mud,

Tread on me . . . I loved him more.

Had he maimed me, I still would.

F r a nç oi s V i l l on
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When he told me to kiss him, the sore

Ribs and curses went out the door.

Th

e glutton, full of wickedness,

Embraced me. And a lot of good

Th

at’s done me. Shame and sinfulness.

It’s thirty years that he’s been dead,

And I remain with my gray hair.

When I think of the times I had,

And what I am now! When I stare

At my naked body, and compare

Its dried up, shriveled ugliness

With what it used to be, I swear

I’m fi lled with such great bitterness!

Where has the smooth forehead gone,

Blond hair, arched eyebrows, wide-spaced eyes,

Th

e playful look that nets the pigeon

However timorous he is, or wise

He thinks he is? To itemize:

A straight nose, neither big nor small,

Th

e ears too, just the perfect size,

And crimson lips, to cap it all.

Pretty shoulders, long and slender

Arms; beautiful hands and wrists,

Th

at my fate seemed to intend for

Heated tourneys in the lists

Of passion . . . small, tilting breasts,

Rounded thighs, wide loins, and then

Th

e vulva in its little nest

In the middle of the garden.

Wrinkled forehead and gray hair,

Sunken eyebrows, and the eyes

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Whose laughter drove men to despair,

Clouding . . . again to itemize.

Th

e nose that was a perfect size,

Hooked. Two hairy ears hang down.

You’d have to look hard to realize

Th

is death’s-head is a face you’ve known.

Th

e end of beauty isn’t good:

Shoulders pulled into a hump,

Arms short, fi ngers stiff as wood.

Th

e breasts? Shrunk, scarcely a bump.

Th

e same goes for the hips and rump.

Th

e vulva? Ugh! Th

e rounded thigh is

A thigh no more, a shriveled stump

Covered with spots, like sausages.

So now here on our heels we squat,

Each miserable poor old fool,

Talking among ourselves of what

We had, when life was wonderful.

Women are like balls of wool

Close to a fi re. Soon set afl ame,

And soon burned out. All beautiful

Women like us would say the same.”

Ballade