![]() | ![]() Kit Fryatt Translator’s Note: The poems from “Erscotz” are versions,respectively, of a lyric by the Comtessa de Dia (fl. 1170s) and of an anonymous 13th-centuryOccitan song whose speaker is an unhappily married woman. I used thetexts in Songs of the Women Troubadours(eds Bruckner, Shephard, White) to make these adaptations. Theycarry the broad sense of the originals, with the greatest departure, I think,being in the second stanza of the Comtessa de Dia’s lyric. I am generallyinterested in poetry written in synthetic language or idiolect, but I cannotpretend that I had any systematic method in writing these. There areprecedents for the analogy between Occitan and Scots – for example,Dorothy L. Sayers translates Sordel’s dialogue into a rather kailyard Scots inher version of the Purgatorio –but since like all analogies it is problematic, and I am not a Scots speaker, Idecided to sidestep the problems by writing in a language that never was spoke.“Gospel from the Waning Middle Ages” emerged from the reflection that I seem toknow a disproportionate number of people who are both early modern literatureand blues geeks. These are loose translations, carrying the broadsense of Pernette de Guillet and Villon’s originals. The idiom ofthe Villon translation is a synthetic blues idiom, meant to suggest the koinethat has emerged as the result of the commercialisation and globalisation ofthe music. “Lock” is a version of Paul Celan’s ‘Die Schleuse’, made with thehelp of Michael Hamburger’s and (especially) John Felsteiner’s translations. Itattempts to suggest, with neologism, some of the grammatical complexity ofCelan’s original. The words ‘Kaddish’ and ‘Jiskor’ are not words that I, a non-Jew,could articulate; nor could I embody the loss that is suggested in his‘Schwester’. I have left them as (I hope) respectful ellipses, but I’m far fromcertain that I’m improving on the blank page here. from,Erscotz (i) after the Comtessa de Dia (fl.1175) I’mfashin myself oor yon hauflin wantin to ken (& no to) my passion. Bauldnes has me undone & huggen peine anicht, abed alane aa day, neuth my naprin. Mind quhen we twind armis & legges naikid I airlie scryd I have made a pilwe-bere for your wille-wand how quik you were, quick dwind & scunnerit hard. Douce chevalier I wish you in my pouer & in my armis, but fear I’m threwen oor. My lawfu bed is dour & fort wi peine. I’d liefer have you there then ony ─ docile fere. (iii) after ananonymous 13th century Occitan lyric, ‘Coindeta sui’ I am fine & my hert grues mairit to neither lack nor loue I’m gey quik as I’m keen ─I’m fine─ nippy sweetie wee bit quean ─I’m fine─ I bood hae a man whae dulls my sherp-set blues. I am fine. Gin I said I loued that yin ─I’m fine─ ye’d ken me mad & put me doon ─I’m fine─ quhen I mind him I crine come friendly flux, come ague. I am fine. Upon harmonious thocht determine ─I’m fine─ my ain kin dearie at length returnin ─I’m fine─ that hope alone cannae abandon greetin & soughin for my jo. I am fine. These words set to airs sae fine ─I’m fine─ cannae be lang til they catch on ─I’m fine─ the kittle lasses all amang my strain renew. I am fine. Gospel from the Waning Middle Ages (i) after Pernette de Guillet (c.1520-45) Dark the night, cold the ground; earth and sky departed sight; noon split rocks, still was I blind to known faces – poor plight– but dawn’s successive light dropping serene, prismatic makes me quick dervishing raise pitch his praise. (ii) afterFrancois Villon (1431-1463) Dedication Po lil mama this one for you to say it to the maw of us all god knows I’ve done you wrong and made you cry & moan running you all over town but I ain’t got no home in this world any more— tho for all that, mama, neither haveyou. The Ballad Dame taller than the sky, broad as earth, swamp mama let a lonesome soul bide (tho I mounted to a lotta nothin at all) with you awhile. You got goodness by the ton gainst my lil parcel of sin but (straight up) without you say can’t no one get no salvation so a believer I’ll live & die. Go tell your son I belong to him he gon wash me clean pray for me like you done for gypsy Mary & that dumb teller who went on down the crossroads & sold his soul hope I never do nothin so damfool so sweet pure mama, wise & gentle home of the faithful a believer I’ll live & die. Papa never taught me how to read I don know nothin at all ifn a po old woman like me don read the painted pictures on the wall at church my soul be lost thru nobody’s fault but mine. Hell a-fright me lady I want my golden robe and crown can’t no-one but you make them mine so a believer I’ll live & die. Fine high-steppin girl, you mama toour Redeemer, who live forever. You & he one blood, his the power almighty, yourn the body he dwellinside. That flesh body he done sacrifice that we won’t burn po misrablesinners. & a believer I’ll live & die. Lock after Paul Celan (1920-70) Up and over allthis your travail :no firmament ……… A mouth which thousandshardedit lost – lost me a word that had stoppedwith me [S—r] Manyglots lost me a word that hadsearched me [K—h] Through the clough needsmust pour a word backintover the siltstream & out awayacross to wreck [J—r] | ||