Love Before First Sight

This piece is part pastiche, part translation, and part original composition. It is intended to produce an impression on the English language reader of the beauty of the love poetry of the troubadours. This movement flourished in the south of France, between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, in a language called Old Provençal or Old Occitane. Both poetry and prose will be used to render this.

TO MAKE IS TO FIND: the Craft

A "Troubadour" means a "Finder:"

of verses/ of poetic ideas/ of rhyme and rhythm schemes;

stemming from the verb

"trobar" in Old Provençal.

He can perform the role of "jogleur" and as such

juggles, or performs the bassa dansa

and other such entertainments, embracing

Arabian musical influence and

Celtic Lore.

Always seeking after hand-outs from Patrons,

playing to their tastes and passions,

just to have a bit of a bite to eat

[plz//: feed the jogleur!]

The Jogleur is the performer of verses and melodies composed by the Troubadour,

who transmits verses

on a sheet of parchment

or else by word of mouth

molded into melody.

The poem/song below was actually worked upon by at least two poet-musicians, the basis of the stanzas and melody written in the 1200's, stanzas were added and the music was further elaborated in the 1300's, showing a perfect fusion of the "Classic" and "Decadent" periods of Old Provençal poetry and music.

Giraut de Borneil and others: Non puesc sofrir.

LOVE FROM AFAR: The Legend of Jaufre Rudel

Jaufre Rudel was a renowned gentleman, Prince of Blaye, castellan in league with his cousin, the Count of Angouleme, in developing the cult of lyric poetry in the vernacular language. And this was a new thing; it was in the "Archaic" period of Troubadour verse, when it was just getting going. I mean, people were writing what could have been good poetry in bad church Latin, to awful effect.

All that was about to change, with Jaufre Rudel, Cercamon, Macabrun, and Guillaume IX of Aquitaine. Rivals. In fact, even though Jaufre was Prince of Blaye, he was dispossessed of his lands most cruelly by the warring actions of rival troubadour prince, Guillaume Duke of Aquitaine (grandfather of the famed queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, generous patroness of the troubadours and jogleurs herself).

Jaufre had to wander hopelessly almost helplessly until taken in by the Viscount of Ventadour, not for his titles, but for his skills in poetry.

He fell madly in love with the Countess Hodierne of Tripoli, without having seen her once: so great was her beauty and allure in the eyes of the pilgrims who had seen her first-hand, coming on their way from the ancient city of Antioch. Her wisdom was also much praised by them, and they told of how she was sought throughout the land for her advice.

Jaufre composed verses for her, set to fine melodies, but with awkward wording, his only gift from afar to his long-distance love. Fin'amor is a kind of courtesy and courtly love, perhaps only possible at a distance. Some say his impassioned devotion was not based in mere hearsay, but on a portrait that he possessed of the Countess, and that looking for so long at this picture of her, he could almost believe it was real.

Lanquan li jorn son lonc, en may,

[when the days are long, in may,]

M'es belhs dous chans d'auzelhs de lonh;

[the sweet song of the birds brings beauty to me;]

E quan mi suy partitz de lay,

[but when I have turned away from them,]

Remembra.m d'un amor de lonh;

[I remember me of a love from afar;]

Vau de talan embronx e clis,

[I go, with will darkened and bowed-down]

Si que chans ni flors d'abespis

[so that neither song nor whitethorn flower]

No.m valon plus qu'iverns gelatz.

[are worth more to me than frozen winter.]

Although his "cansos" or love-songs brought him fame far and wide, he longed to embark on his own pilgrimage to see her beauty and hear her wisdom himself. Out of this wish, he enlisted in a foolhardy crusade which would bring him through the city of Tripoli; and thus he set sail. He fell horribly ill, however, during a stormy and foreboding voyage; the ship dropped anchor in the port of Tripoli, and he was then brought to an inn. He felt the hour of his death approaching.

When it was made known to the Countess Hodierne what had befallen the poet who had written her from afar so many cansos, she went to him in the inn where he was bedridden. Coming to him, she took him in her arms, her long hair draped about his feverish brow.

He knew that it was She, so long awaited--and in reality, no longer a phantom of a dream in his songs. He immediately recovered his sense of sight and hearing, praising God for having preserved and sustained his life up until this moment, when he could finally see Her. It was thus with a contented sigh, that he gave up the ghost enfolded in her embrace.

The Countess had him buried in great honor, mourning him like a husband. The long-distance love he had penned from afar had spoiled her as to any other love or marriage, always either politically motivated or bodily-appropriative: only Jaufre's love had been unspoiled, and now he was gone.

Legend tells, the Countess Hodierne of Tripoli finally threw herself from a lofty parapet, ending a life in loss of the love she never knew she'd had until she'd lost it.

Other chroniclers say that she lived on, consecrating her energies and the wealth of her domains to the support of Troubadours, Jogleurs, and their mission to validate lyric poetry in the vernacular. I, personally, like that ending far better.

IN HONOR OF JAUFRE RUDEL

*

o love from far-off land

for you all my heart aches

and I can find no remedy

if not in your call

with the hard

bow-shot

of sweet love

within an orchard

or curtained chamber

beside

desired companion

*

when the days are long in may

birdsong from afar

brings beauty to me\

when the nightingale in the foliage

gives its love

and seeks and takes it

and moves by song

jubilant and joyous/

often gazing at its mate

my own song

is stimulated

to fly forth transmitted on parchment

to my Lady in far-off lands

by my friends from afar

*

when the days are short in February

the snowflakes seem to be inverted flowers

may no man marvel at me

that I love her who will never see me

knowing well I never had joy of her

and she will never have joy of me//:

she has never told me truth

but never lied to me

*

they do not know how to sing

who say no sound\

nor do they know how it goes with rhyme

if they don't get the reason/

but my own song begins

in such a way

that the more you hear it

the more it's worth

*

this song is good

for I never failed in it

and all that's in it is well in place://

without parchment brief

I send off these verses

which we sing

in plain romance tongue

may they who learn this song

not take it from me

to break it

or pull it into pieces

so thus it can be heard by

my friends in far-off lands

*

The are six extant poems written by the troubadour Jaufre Rudel, two of which have melodies which have survived. You can find all six cansos here, in the original and in English translation:

http://trobar.org/troubadours/jaufre_rudel/

More:

And: