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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-century
Occitan song whose speaker is an unhappily married woman. I used the
texts in Songs of the Women Troubadours
(eds Bruckner, Shephard, White) to make these adaptations. They
carry 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 generally
interested in poetry written in synthetic language or idiolect, but I cannot
pretend that I had any systematic method in writing these. There are
precedents for the analogy between Occitan and Scots – for example,
Dorothy L. Sayers translates Sordel’s dialogue into a rather kailyard Scots in
her version of the Purgatorio –
but since like all analogies it is problematic, and I am not a Scots speaker, I
decided 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 to
know a disproportionate number of people who are both early modern literature
and blues geeks. These are loose translations, carrying the broad
sense of Pernette de Guillet and Villon’s originals. The idiom of
the Villon translation is a synthetic blues idiom, meant to suggest the koine
that has emerged as the result of the commercialisation and globalisation of
the music. “Lock” is a version of Paul Celan’s ‘Die Schleuse’, made with the
help of Michael Hamburger’s and (especially) John Felsteiner’s translations. It
attempts to suggest, with neologism, some of the grammatical complexity of
Celan’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 from
certain that I’m improving on the blank page here. from,
Erscotz (i) after the Comtessa de Dia (fl.1175) I’m
fashin 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 an
anonymous 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) after
Francois 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 have
you. 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 to
our Redeemer, who live forever. You & he one blood, his the power almighty, yourn the body he dwell
inside. That flesh body he done sacrifice that we won’t burn po misrable
sinners. & a believer I’ll live & die. Lock after Paul Celan (1920-70) Up and over all
this your travail :
no firmament ……… A mouth which thousandsharded
it lost – lost me a word that had stopped
with me [S—r] Manyglots lost me a word that had
searched me [K—h] Through the clough needs
must pour a word back
intover the siltstream & out away
across to wreck [J—r] | ||