Ausiàs March: "Voyage of Love or Death" Poem XLVI (From Catalan)

Poem XLVI: Voyage of Love or Death
By Ausiàs March (1400 – 1459)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The powers of sail and wind will work my will, 
Setting a chancy course across the sea.
Ponente and Mistral rise to rebel.
Levante and Sirocco fight for me   
Backed by their allies Midi and Gregal
Beseeching the North Mountain Wind to turn
Its storms aside in their support, so all
Five winds may blow the way of my return.

The sea will seethe like boiling casserole,
Change colors, taking on unnatural form,
Showing its ill will at full blast to all
That stray on it one second in that storm. 
The fish will panic all throughout the sea
And seek out secret shelter in the deep,
Till from the sea that gave them life they flee 
To death on dry land with a desperate leap.

The pilgrim passengers aboard my boat
Will call on God, pledge votive gifts in tears,
And in their fear let every secret out
That never fell on a confessor's ears. 
Through all those dangers, you'll not leave my mind. 
Before the God that joined us two I swear
Nothing shall weaken this resolve of mine,
And you'll be with me always, everywhere.

I fear death - lest it break my heart from yours,
For death can cancel love out with its still,
Though I doubt even death's great severing force
Could overcome my loving strength of will. 
I wish I could believe your love for me
Would not leave me forgotten when I die,
And though while we two live this could not be
One thought makes all life's pleasure out a lie:

That on the day I died, your love as well
Would die, and be transformed to hate that night.
While I, cast from this world, would feel full Hell
Never again to hold you in my sight. 
Oh God, why aren't there bounds to love? For there 
I'd stand alone at their extremity

To face a future without hope or fear
Knowing the cut-off of your love for me.

I am the most extreme of all in love
Save those who've breathed in love their life's last breath.
The anguish of my heart I cannot prove
Without the good faith agony of death. 
For good or ill at love's command I wait
Though Fortune still withholds my fate from me.
She'll find the gates unbarred, and me awake,
Ready to humbly follow her decree.

Getting what I so wish may cost me dear
Yet this alone consoles the soul in strife:
If it turns out my fate is what I fear
I only ask that God not spare my life. 
For people then will see the outward fact
Of love at work within and need no faith.
Capacity will be revealed in act,
And my words' credit backed by deed of death. 

Envoi:
Love! I who feel you don't know you at all,
And so can only win the loser's prize.  
No one who knows you is within your thrall. 
Your simile: addictive game of dice. 


Notes:

Stanza 1:
It seems to me fairly clear the voyage alluded to is metaphorical and did not actually transpire, though many have sought to identify a real-world course based on the meteorological description here.
The proper names are Mediterranean winds, each traditionally attributed to a different cardinal compass direction. The Mistral blows from the North-West, the Ponente from the West, the Levanter from the East, the Sirocco from the South-East, the Midi from the South, the Gregale from the North-East and the Tramontane (here rendered as "North Mountain Wind") from the North. The winds have various resonances in the tradition.
The Mistral and Ponente would be associated with Provence and the tradition of Occitan lyricism which March was consciously writing against. The Sirocco and Levanter, blowing from the exact opposite direction as the Mistral and Ponente, are harsh winds well-known to mediterranean mariners. The Levanter in particular can reach speeds of up to 200 km/h along the Catalonian coast, occasionally doing severe property damage even in modern times. 
The (normally pleasant) breeze that blows from the beloved lady's land is a theme well developed in Occitan poetry (picked up in Italian by Petrarch among others.) The contrary nature of the winds here evokes the resistance of the beloved. Whereas the medieval Occitan or Stilnovistic Italian poet would draw pleasure and inspiration from the breezes blowing from the land of the lady love, March must subdue the winds blowing from the direction he wishes to travel in, summoning equal elemental powers of his own.  

Stanza 3:
It was a custom for those facing imminent danger to make confessions to one another, in the absence of a priest to hear them. This was particularly common for passengers who found themselves imperiled on the high seas.

Envoi:
The reference to games of dice suggests something morally suspect. Gambling in 15th century Valencia was preached against as a cardinal sin, and many games of chance were symbolically burned in public.


The Original:

"Veles e vents"

Veles e vents han mos desigs complir
faent camins dubtosos per la mar:
mestre i ponent contra d’ells veig armar;
xaloc, llevant, los deuen subvenir,
ab llurs amichs lo grech e lo migjorn,
fent humils prechs al vent tramuntanal
que·n son bufar los sia parcial
e que tots cinch complesquen mon retorn.

Bullirà·l mar com la cassola en forn,
mudant color e l’estat natural,
e mostrarà voler tota res mal
que sobre si atur un punt al jorn.
Grans e pocs peixs a recors correran
e cercaran amagatalls secrets:
fugint al mar, on són nudrits e fets,
per gran remei en terra eixiran.

Los pelegrins tots ensems votaran
e prometran molts dons de cera fets,
la gran paor traurà·l llum los secrets
que al confés descuberts no seran,
e·n lo perill no·m caureu de l’esment,
ans votaré al Déu qui·ns ha lligats
de no minvar més fermes voluntats
e que tots temps me sereu de present.

Jo tem la mort per no ser-vos absent,
perquè amor per mort és anul·lats,
mas jo no creu que mon voler sobrats
pusca esser per tal departiment.
Jo só gelós de vostre escàs voler
que, jo morint, no meta mi·n oblit.
Sol est pensar me tol del món delit,
car, nós vivint, no creu se pusca fer:

aprés ma mort, d’amar perdau poder
e sia tost en ira convertit.
E jo forçat d’aquest món ser eixit,
tot lo meu mal serà vós no veer.
Oh Déu! per què terme no hi ha·n amor,
car prop d’aquell jo·m trobara tot sol?
Vostre voler sabera quant me vol,
tement, fiant de tot l’avenidor!

Jo son aquell pus extrem amador
aprés d’aquell a qui Déu vida tol:
puix jo son viu, mon cor no mostra dol
tant com la mort, per sa extrema dolor.
A bé o mal d’amor jo só dispost,
mas per mon fat fortuna cas no·m porta:
tot esvetlat, ab desbarrada porta
me trobarà, faent humil respost.

Jo desig ço que·m porà ser gran cost
i aquest esper de molts mals m’aconhorta;
a mi no plau ma vida ser estorta
d’un cas molt fer, qual prec Déu sia tost.
Lladoncs les gents no·ls calrà donar fe
al que amor fora mi obrarà:
lo seu poder en acte·s mostrarà
e los meus dits ab los fets provaré.

Tornada:
Amor, de vós, jo·n sent més que no·n sé,
de què la part pitjor me·n romandrà,
e de vós sap lo qui sens vós està.
A joc de daus vos acompararé

Ausiàs March: Poem I "Pleasure Hurts" (from Catalan)

Poem I: Pleasure Hurts
By Ausiàs March
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Think of a man delighted in his slumber,
The foolishness of dream where he resides.
Think thus of me: imagination fastens
Onto the past where all my joy abides.
I know that Grief awaits but do not waver
Knowing my certain end lies in her jaws.
The things ahead hold nothing but disaster.
The better things are nothing but what was.

I find myself no lover of the present,
But of the past; adore oblivion;
There in the thought of yesterday I revel
Till grief returns emboldened under dawn.
Think of a man condemned to execution
So long he’s blunted to his bitter lot.
Suppose they feed him rumors of a pardon
Then have him hanged without another thought.

I wish to God my thoughts were like a corpse’s,
Existence an eternity of sleep,
Wretched the man who holds his mind at swordpoint
For how it keeps reminding him to weep.
And when he begs it for a bit of pleasure
It’s like a mother when her child in tow,
Shunning all milk, howls to be nursed on poison.
She doesn’t have the sense to answer No.

The purest of all pain I’d rather suffer
Than try to blend a bit of pleasure too
Into the ills that rob the brain of reason,
And ache for all the goodness that I knew.
Dear Lord! Delight transmuted into sorrow
Doubles the torment after rest too brief,
Like someone sick who sees too a rich morsel,
Eats it and turns his dinner into grief.

It’s like a hermit long beyond being lonely,
Long drained of care for folk, who’s ceased to sigh
For his companions in the silly city,
And now suppose that one of them drops by,
Recalls with him the times they spent in leisure:
Back to the past the present moments roam.
But, soon alone, he grumbles in annoyance.
Joy as it leaves tells grief to come on home.

Beauty of Prudence: when love starts to age
It's chumbled by the worm of being away
Unless you turn a constant heart against it
And deafer ears to what the jealous say.



The Original:

Poema I

Axi com cell qui ’n lo somni·s delita
e son delit de foll pensament ve,
ne pren a mi, que·l temps passat me te
l’imaginar, qu’altre be no y habita,
sentint estar en aguayt ma dolor,
sabent de cert qu’en ses mans he de jaure.
Temps de venir en negun be·m pot caure;
aquell passat en mi es lo millor.

Del temps present no·m trobe amador,
mas del passat, qu’es no-res e finit;
d’aquest pensar me sojorn e·m delit,
mas quan lo pert, s’esforça ma dolor,
si com aquell qui es jutgat a mort
he de lonch temps la sab e s’aconorta,
e creure·l fan que li sera estorta
e·l fan morir sens un punt de recort.

Plagues a Deu que mon pensar fos mort,
e que passas ma vida en durment!
Malament viu qui te lo pensament
per enamich, fent li d’enuyts report;
e com lo vol d’algun plaer servir
li·n pren axi com dona ’b son infant,
que si veri li demana plorant
ha ten poch seny que no·l sab contradir.

Ffora millor ma dolor sofferir
que no mesclar pocha part de plaher
entre ’quells mals, qui·m giten de saber
com del passat plaher me cove ’xir.
Las! Mon delit dolor se converteix;
doble·s l’affany apres d’un poch repos,
si co·l malalt qui per un plasent mos
tot son menjar en dolor se nodreix.

Com l’ermita, qui ’nyorament no·l creix
d’aquells amichs que teni’en lo mon,
essent lonch temps qu’en lo poblat no fon,
per fortuyt cars hun d’ells li apareix,
qui los passats plahers li renovella,
si que·l passat present li fa tornar;
mas com se·n part, l’es forçat congoxar:
lo be, com fuig, ab grans crits mal apella.

Plena de seny, quant amor es molt vella,
absença es lo verme que la guasta,
si fermetat durament no contrasta,
e creura poch, si l’envejos consella.

Ausiàs March: Poem XXVIII "Dark Night of the Heart" (From Catalan)

Poem XXVIII: Dark Night of the Heart
By Ausiàs March
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Day's terrified to lose her last bright features,
Seeing the night spread darkness overhead.
Small creatures dare not close their eyes for slumber.
The sick and weak ail even more in bed. 
Then evil men can freely do their worst,

They'd love a year of dark in which to crime.
Not I who am tormented as no other
Yet do no harm. I long for day to clime.   

I do no harm, and yet do worse than murder
A thousand guiltless men for ruthless fun:
I summon all my powers for self-betrayal
And do not count on clemency from dawn.
No, every night I blast my brain concocting
Treasonous plots planned out for all day long.
No fear of death or dungeon life deter me
From visiting against myself such wrong. 

Beauty of Prudence: I know it's my doing, 
Twisting the noose of love so tight round me. 
Here I go straight and right away to meet
My end, unless your mercy set me free. 


The Original:

Poema XXVIII

Lo jorn ha por de perdre sa claror
quan ve la nit que espandeix ses tenebres.
Pocs animals no cloen les palpebres
e los malalts creixen de llur dolor.
Los malfactors volgren tot l'any duràs
perquè llurs mals haguessen cobriment.
Mas jo, qui visc menys de par en turment
e sens mal fer, volgra que tost passàs.

E d'altra part faç pus que si matas
mil hòmens justs menys d'alguna mercè,
car tots mos ginys jo solt per trair-me.
E no cuideu que-l jorn me n'excusàs.
Ans, en la nit treball rompent ma pensa
perquè en lo jorn lo traïment cometa.
Por de morir o de fer vida estreta
no-m tol esforç per donar-me ofensa.

Plena de seny, mon enteniment pensa
com aptament lo llaç d'amor se meta.
Sens aturar, pas tenint via dreta,
Vaig a la fi si mercè no-m defensa.