Arnaut Daniel (1150-1210) is a 12th century Occitan troubadour who Dante called “the best craftsman,” Petrarch called a “grand master of love,” and Ezra Pound called “the greatest poet to have ever lived.” Daniel invented the sestina, a verse form of six six-line stanzas, unrhymed but with complex repetition and internal echoes. In his sestinas he mastered the trobar clus, a lyrical style using the vernacular slang of the day as much for the sound of the words as for its meaning. Although surviving details of his life are scarce, he is thought to have been a nobleman born in the southwestern French commune of Ribérac, who travelled throughout Provence singing love songs from court to court. Of Daniel’s Occitan canzoni, there exist English translations with literal definitions of his many neologisms, and there exist modernized translations that use contemporary slang to parallel his. However, these poems were meant above all to be sung, to have the cadence of his subject. When Daniel writes of birds, it sounds like birdsong; when he writes of gossipers, he does so through distracted interruptions. The effect, made through irregular internal rhymes and delicately arranged stanzas, is a jazzy phonetic rhythm which has the sound of everyday spoken word. These translations aim to carry that music into the English while remaining true to Daniel’s meaning.
[L’aura amara]
L’aura amara Faals bruoills brancutz Clarzir Quel doutz espaissa ab fuoills, Els letz Becs Dels auzels ramencs Ten balps e mutz, Pars E non-pars; Per qu’eu m’esfortz De far e dir Plazers A mains per liei Que m’a virat bas d’aut, Don tem morir Sils sfans no m’asoma.
Tant fo clara Ma prima lutz D’eslir Lieis don crel cors los huoills, Non pretz Necs Mans dos aigonencs; D’autra s’esdutz Rars Mos preiars, Pero deportz M’es adauzir Volers Bos motz ses grei De liei don tant m’azaut Qu’al sieu servir Sui del pe tro c’al coma.
Amors, gara, Sui ben vengutz C’auzir Tem far sim desacuoills Tels detz Pecs Que t’es mieillss quet trencs; Qu’ieu soi fis drutz Cars E non vars, Mal cors ferms fortz Mi fai cobrir Mainz vers; C’ab tot lo nei M’agr’ops us bais al chaut Cor refrezir, Que noi val autra goma.
Si m’ampara Cill cuim trabutz D’aizir Si qu’es de pretz capduoills, Dels quetz Precs C’ai dedinz a rencs, L’er fort rendutz Clars Mos pensars; Qu’eu fora mortz, Mas fam sofrir L’espers Queill prec quem brei, C’aissom ten let e baut; Que d’als jauzir Nom val jois une poma.
Doussa car’, a Totz aips volgutz, Sofrir M’er per vos mainz orguoills, Car etz Decs De totz mos fadencs, Don ai mainz brutz Pars E gabars; De vos nom tortz Nim fai partir Avers, C’anc non amei Ren tan ab meins d’ufaut, Anz vos desir Plus que Dieus cill de Doma. Erat para, Chans e condutz, Formir Al rei qui t’er escuoills; Car pretz, Secs Sai, lai es doblencs, E mantengutz Dars E manjars; De joi lat portz, Son anel mir, Sil ders, C’anc non estei Jorn d’Aragon quel saut Noi volgues ir, Mas sai m’a’n clamat Roma.
Faitz es l’acortz Qu’el cor remir Totz sers Lieis cui domnei Ses parsonier Arnaut; Qu’en autr’albir N’es fort m’ententa soma.
[Bitter air]
Bitter air strips wood off branches. Sweet air scatters leaves. All the while, beaks’ warbling stammer— two by two then one. For you, higher than this loveliness I sing uneven, grieving.
Clear light— she spoils all other becks. Her spurns seize me foot to hair, my heart wells through my eye.
I’m spent. You speak so vile, love, that you’d better cut it— I’m true— I’d deny it— but I don’t lie, my hot heart just hides itself with no flesh to brace it.
If these dead begs would draw her in, they’d live— or I’d die but then my love would die. I beg you, kill it.
Sweet face, all airs, my pride’s in aching for this. Deadness ends with you— nothing ever seized me more. I need you more than people under ceilings need God.
Now prepare, song,to rise like air— Heaven, blind before you, doubles when I sing of you. Not a day from Aragon, you, but here, people, their bitter din: Stay.
Set verse is done. I’ll sing in every air: She loves Arnaut— Her ring!— Another dream can’t brace me.
[En breu brizara’l temps braus]
En breu brizara’l temps braus e’l biza, e’l brus e’l blancx qui s’entresenhoin trastuig de sobre claus ram de fuelha: qu’ar no’i chant’auzel ni puila, m’ensenh Amors qu’ieu fassa donc chan que non er segons ni tertz, ans prim d’afrancar cor agre.
Amors es de pretz la claus e de proeza us estancx don naisson tut li bon frug, s’es qui leialmen los ciuelha, que un delis gels ni niula, mentre que’s noiris el bon tronc: mas si’l romp trefas niu culvertz, peris tro leial lo sagre.
Falhirs emendatz eslaus; e ieu senti’m n’ams los flancz que mais n’ai d’amor ses cug que tals qu’en parl’e’s n’orguelha, que piegz me fa’l cor de frula; mentr’ela’m fes semblant embronc, mais volgr’ieu trair pen’els desertz on anc non ac d’auzels agre.
Bona doctrina e suaus e cors clars, suptils e francx manda’m er al ferm condug de leis don plus vuelh que’m cuelha, quar, si’m fo fera escriula, era jauzen breuja’m temps lonc, qu’il mn’es plus fina e ieu lieis sertz que Talant e Meleagre.
Tan dopti que per non-aaus devenc soven ners e blancx; si m’a’l sen Desirs forsdug non sap lo cors trep o’s duelha; mas Jois qui d’esper m’afiula m’encolpa quar no la somonc, per que sui del prec tan espertz non ai d’als talan neis magre.
Pensar de liei m’es repaus, e tragua’m ambs los huelhs crancx s’a lieis vezer no’ls estug; e’l cor non creatz qu’en tuelha, quar oraars ni jocx ni viula no’m pot de lieis un travers jonc partir... qu’ai dig? Dieu, tu m’o mertz o’m peris el pelac agre.
Arnautz vol sos chans sia ufertz lai on dous motz mou en agre.
[This grim season]
This grim season will split soon, and the gale and gloom- stained leaf- stripped branches. Since the birds don’t even cry, I’ll sing to ease this sourness.
Love is worth and nerve, the fruit of it— if swelling, squelched by its own weight.
Glory is guilt cleared. I lived, her lover, but others’ gossip sapped me. Her smirking was a desert with vultures on me.
Sweet words, a bald heart set me to her. She was cold. She cut me. But I’m hers, the killing proves it— like Atalanta and Meleager.
I, undone black-white. Desire has my head— I don’t know if I grieve or adore her. Wanting, crushed in the wanting. My will’s hell: Her and nothing else.
If I see her, let cancer gnaw my eyes before I see anyone else. But even that prayer wouldn’t rid her. What have I said? God, help me or ruin me.
Let this song tender, at least, a sweet word from all this bitterness.
[Canso do’ill mot son plan e prim]
Canso do’ill mot son plan e prim fas pus era botono’ill vim, e l’aussor sim son de color de maintha flor, e verdeia fuelha, e’ill chan e’ill bralh sono a l’ombralh dels auzels per la bruelha.
Pels bruelhs aug lo chan e’l regrim e per qu’om no m’en fassa crim obri e lim motz de valor ab aart d’Amor don non ai cor que’m tuelha; ans, si be’m falh, la sec a tralh, on plus vas me s’orguelha.
Re no val orguelh d’amador qu’ades trabuca son senhor del luec aussor bas el terralh per tal trebalh que de joi desspuelha: dreitz es lacrim e ard’e rim se quel d’amor janguelha.
Bona dona vas cu azor, gess per erguelh no vau allor, mas per paor del devinalh don jois trassalh faauc semblan que no’us vuelha, qu’anc no’ns jauzim de lur noirim: mal m’es que lor o cuelha.
Si ben vauc per tot ab esdalh, mos pessamens lai vos assalh, qu’ieu chan e valh pel joi que’ns fim lai o’ns partim, don soven l’uelh me muelha d’ir e de plor e de dussour, car pro aai d’Amor que’m duelha.
Ar ai fam d’amor don badalh e non sec mezura ni talh; sols m’o engualh qu’anc non auzim del temps Caim amador mens acuelha cor trichador ni bauzador; per que mos jois caapduelha.
Dona qui qu’es destuelha, Arnautz dreg cor lai o’es honor quar vostre pretz capduelha.
[I sing fresh and easy words]
I sing fresh easy words as osiers bud and high hills stain with flowers mossing, greening leaves, bird-cries in echoing groves.
In cool groves I hear that air. I say what I have no heart to end. Love— I hunt what scorns me.
A lover’s pride is worth dust. It drops hills and guts goodness. Whoever love sears— smolder, weep.
Lady, I’ll leave you— I pretend— not from pride but fear of people who fear love. If we don’t obey and quit, to be seen is to be ruined.
I leave you, my heart, leave you, but even this echo melts me. Weeping— But I’ve whined enough. Sweetness.
I sing sighing. These lines are unsteady. You steady me— this killing,this love loyal as Cain’s.
You’re goodness. I leave you. These lines stagger.
Selen Ozturk is a San Francisco-based writer born in Istanbul. Her writing appears or will soon in Evergreen Review, Hobart, Bayou Magazine, San Francisco Chronicle, and SFGATE. She has received support from Bread Loaf, Grub Street, and The Writers Grotto. She holds a philosophy degree from UC Berkeley and works as a journalist.
