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Provença

Chapter 5: NA AUDIART
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About This Book

A compact sequence of lyrics and narrative poems reimagines medieval troubadour and classical voices through a modernist lens. The collection mixes stylized adaptations and persona pieces, ranging from jaunty ballads to mournful elegies, and tests forms such as sestina, sonnet, and canzone. Themes of love, loss, memory, exile, and the craft of song recur amid dense, allusive imagery. Shifts in diction and perspective create a chorus of historical and mythic echoes, prioritizing formal experimentation and vocal variety over linear narrative while inviting attentive, cross-temporal reading.

NA AUDIART

“QUE BE-M VOLS MAL”

Any one who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preëminent lady of Langue d’Oc some trait or some fair semblance: thus of Cembelins her “esgart amoros,” to wit, her love-lit glance, of Aelis her speech free-running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult’s; and even in this fashion of Lady Audiart, “although she would that ill come unto him” he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make “Una dompna soiseubuda” a borrowed lady or, as the Italians translated it, “Una donna ideale.”

THOUGH thou well dost wish me ill,”
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through
Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender
Who shall render,
Audiart, Audiart,
Praises meet unto thy fashion?
Here a word kiss!
Pass I on
Unto Lady “Miels-de-Ben,”
Having praised thy girdle’s scope,
How the stays ply back from it;
I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst ....
Nay, no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl,
Just for the swirl
Thy satins make upon the stair,
’Cause never a flaw was there
Where thy torse and limbs are met:
Though thou hate me, read it set
In rose and gold.[2]
Or when the minstrel, tale half told,
Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
“Audiart, Audiart” ....
Bertrans, master of his lays,
Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well,
Yea, though thou wish me ill,
Audiart, Audiart
Thy loveliness is here writ till,
Audiart,
Oh, till thou come again.[3]
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm
Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul,
Scorning a new, wry’d casement,
Churlish at seemed misplacement,
Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Being so young and fair
As then only in dreams—
Being then young and wry’d,
Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften,
Knowing I know not how
Thou wert once she,
Audiart, Audiart,
For whose fairness one forgave,
Audiart, Audiart
Que be-m vols mal.