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Dawn's Complaint

An "Alba" is a poem showcasing Lovers' complaint about Dawn in Troubadour Canon

By Rob AngeliPublished 3 years ago • Updated 3 years ago • 1 min read

What is a TROUBADOUR? a finder, a composer of verses. The verb trobar in Old Provencal means to find, to experience that point when the line of poetry fits together, each word together, each line, each stanza. A finder of solutions.

An ALBA is a conventional form in medieval Provencal poetry, especially that of the wandering troubadours, where the Lover or Lovers complain of the approach of sunrise.

One famous poet was named Macabru, nicknamed Pan-Perdut, or French Toast. Legend says he was a foundling.

(Old Provencal sounds something like a mix of French and Spanish.)

Dawn’s (alba magick perdu : PLANH) Complaint

Dawn’s Complaint.

In Natural Setting.

Pastorella go put aside your sheep

to come and dance with me.

Pan-Perdut

son of Marca Bruna

neath such Luna

[díos mio,

tal luna!]

pipsqueak protégé of a trobador

called Cercamon

But ay may! how the dawn hastes faste!

He sang the praises of the men of this world,

and was plaintiff for their sighs

thru lay and clergymen alike,

that was pain-perdu,

lil lost bread so light a feedling

lostling foundling often lust in nursing

peter-pan trovaba pipi

[agreed to terms]

and found pace in pax

aesthetic nudity never grown up

flourishing thru the pact of peace

after much wandering, warring

and haranguing—

Gargantuan the resources,

all the foodstuffs and the bed-stuffs and

his educational funding.

And aye maye! how the dawn hastes faste

and ouch! how the dawn breakes faste!

Pipi Pepe, Dawn’s Complanh is bitching,

Gotta go!

Ades sera l’Alba,

Aye Maye! Alba!

PAN PERDUT where is the patron

who sustains ur verse

YOU

who

much yrself prayzing in yore singing

and blasming the autres trobadorz

Petite-Carotte French Tost,

You’ll hafta make your own breakfast soon—!

but th’alba comes aye maye how faste the dawn hastes!

love poemsartsurreal poetry

About the Creator

Rob Angeli

sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt

There are tears of things, and mortal objects touch the mind.

-Virgil Aeneid I.462

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    Written by Rob Angeli