Poems Found in Translation: Medieval
Showing posts with label Medieval. Show all posts

Abū Salīk Gurgānī: Life Advice (From Persian)

Life Advice
Abū Salīk Gurgānī
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Better to shed your own blood on the ground
Than shed your self-respect on a court's floor. 
Better to worship idols than a man.
That is my teaching. Heed it and endure. 

The Original:

خونِ خْوَد‌را گَر بِریٰزی بر زَمین بِهْ کِه آبِ روٰیْ ریٰزی دَر کَنار

بُت‌پَرَسْتَنْدَه بِه اَز مَردُم‌پَرَست پَنْد گِیر و کار بَنْد و گوٰش دار

xūn-i xwadrā gar birēzī bar zamīn
bih ki āb-i rōy rēzī dar kanār
butparastanda bih az mardumparast
pand gīr u kār band u gōš dār

Rudaki: "Everything's Right" (From Persian)

"Everything's Right"
By Rōdakī
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
 
Everything's right as it should be. It is
A festive time. So yes: feast with them too.
Why drag out your anxieties and fears?
Destiny's state will do what it must do.
Scheming like some Vizier won't turn out well.
The hands of fate will not be turned askew.
Life's wheel cannot create your substitute.
Your mother will not bear another you.
God will not shut a door on you without
Another hundred opening. Go through.

The Original:

كار همه راست، آنچُنان كه بِبايد        حالتِ شاديست، شاد باشى، شايد

اندُه و انديشه را دراز چه دارى؟        دولتِ تو خود همان كند كه بپايد

راىِ وزيران ترا به كار نَيايد،           هرچه صوابست، بخت خود فرمايد

چرخ نَيار بديلِ تو زِ خلايق         وان كه ترا زاد نيز چون تو نَزايد

ايزد هرگز درى نبندد بر تو          تا صد ديگر به بهترى نگشايد

Omar Khayyam: The Skull of Kay Kawos (From Persian)

The Skull of King Kawos
Omar Khayyam
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I saw a bird perched on the walls of Tōs
Before it lay the skull of King Kāwōs,
And to that skull it cried "Poor king! Poor thing!
Your rolling drums and bells, where now are those?"

The Original:

مرغى ديدم نشسته بر بارهٔ طوس 

در پيش نهاده كلهٔ كى كاووس

با كله همى‌گفت كه افسوس افسوس

كو بانگ جرس‌ها و چه شد نالهٔ كوس

Murɣē dīdam nišasta bar bāra-i tōs
dar pēš nihāda kalla-i kay kāwōs
bā kalla hamē guft ki afsōs afsōs 
kō bāng-i jarashā u či šud nāla-i kōs 

Rudaki: Ode to Nasr bin Ahmad (From Persian)

Ode to Nasr bin Ahmad
By Rudaki
Translated from Persian by A.Z. Foreman

....They knew that the king intended to stay there for that summer also. Then the army's captains and royal nobles went to Abu Abdillah Rudaki, the most honored man in the king's inner circle, who had his ear more than anyone else. They said to him "we will give you five thousand dinars if you can find a way to get the king to move on from here. We are really missing our wives and children, and we're so homesick for Bukhara, it's well-nigh killing us." Rudaki agreed. Since he'd taken the Amir's pulse and understood his state of mind, he realized that prose would not move him, so he opted for verse and composed an ode. When the Amir had taken his morning drink, Rudaki came in and sat down in his place. When the musicians were done, he took up the harp. Playing in Amorosi Minor, he began this poem...
      (From Nizāmī Arūzī's "Four Discourses")

Rolling Moliyan's aromas blow our way
       Memories of friends that love us flow our way.
Where the grit and gravel of the Oxus runs
       Silken soft beneath our feet, we'll go our way.
Thrilled to greet a friend, Jayhun's waves jump their banks
       Half-way up our horses' flanks to show our way.
Here's to you Bukhara and your king. Cheer up!
       He'll return in cheer again. We know our way.
Bright Bukhara is the sky. Our king its moon.
       Soon the moon will move back home to glow our way.
Green Bukhara is a garden. He, its tree,
       He's a cypress bound for home to grow our way.


The Original:


دانستند که سر آن دارد که این تابستان نیز آنجا باشد. پس سران لشکر و مهتران ملک به نزدیک استاد ابو عبدالله الرودکی رفتند و از ندماء پادشاه هیچ کس محتشم‌تر و مقبول القول‌تر از او نبود. گفتند:پنج هزار دینار تو را خدمت کنیم اگر صنعتی بکنی که پادشاه از این خاک حرکت کند که دلهای ما آرزوی ديدن زن و فرزند همی‌برد و جان ما از اشتیاق بخارا همی برآید. رودگی قبول کرد که نبض امیر بگرفته بود و مزاج او بشناخته. دانست که به نثر با او در نگیرد روی به نظم آورد و قصیده‌ای بگفت و به وقتی که امیر صبوح کرده بود درآمد و به جای خویش بنشست و چون مطربان فرو داشتند او چنگ برگرفت و پردهٔ عشاق بنواخت و این قصیده آغاز کرد:

بوى جوى موليان آيذ همى      ياذ يار مهربان آيذ همى
ريگِ آموى و درشتيهاى او        زيرِ پايم پرنيان آيذ همى
آبِ جيحون از نشاطِ روىِ دوست      خنگ مارا تا ميان آيذ همى
اى بخارا شاذ باش و دير زى       ميز زى تو شاذمان آيذ همى
مير ماه است و بخارا آسمان       ماه سوىِ آسمان آيذ همى
مير سرو است و بخارا بوستان       سرو سوىِ بوستان آيذ همى 

Saadi: Golestan 8.12 (From Persian)

From the Golestan: Chapter 8, Section 12
By Saadi of Shiraz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Have no mercy an enemy for his powerlessness. If he were powerful, he would have none on you.

      Faced with a helpless enemy,
      Don't brag that you're a gentleman.
      In every body's bone, there's marrow.
      In every shirt, there is a man.

The Original:

بر عجز دشمن رحمت مکن که اگر قادر شود بر تو نبخشاید.

دشمن چو بینی ناتوان
لاف از بروت خود مزن
مغزیست در هر استخوان
مردیست در هر پیرهن

Hafiz: Ghazal 220 "Aspirations" (From Persian)

Ghazal 220 "Aspirations" 
By Hafiz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Although our city preacher won't 
like hearing it from me, 
  He'll never be a Muslim with 
  this much hypocrisy. 
Learn to get drunk, be a gentleman 
not a dumb animal 
  That cannot drink a drop of wine  
  or be a man at all.  
The essence must be unalloyed 
to make His grace our own, 
  Or from our clay no pearls will come
  nor coral come from stone.  
The Almighty shall fulfill His will. 
Rejoice, my heart! No con 
  Or devilry can turn a demon 
  into a Solomon.  
Mine is the noble art of love.  
I hope against belief  
  This craft won't bring, as others brought,  
  despondency and grief.  
Last night he said "Tomorrow I  
will grant your heart's desire"  
  God let him have no change of heart
  nor let him be a liar.
May God add a good heart to all  
your physical attraction  
  So you'll no longer torment me 
  with harrowing distraction.
Hafiz! Unless a mote of dust  
aspires to mighty height,  
  It is not drawn to the true fount
  from which the sun draws light.


Prose paraphrase:

(1) Though the city preacher won't find it easy to hear these words, as long as he practices sophistry and hypocrisy, he'll never be a real Muslim. (2) Train yourself in dissolute drunkenness, and be a gentleman to others. For not so artful is the beast that does not drink wine, or become human. (3) There must be a pure-gemmed essence in order to be a vessel for holy grace, for without it stone and clay will not become pearl and coral. (4) He of the Greatest Name does his work - be glad O heart, for by no trick or fraud can a devil ever become Solomon. (5) I practice love, and hope that this noble art will not, as other arts have done, cause me chagrin. (6)  Last night he was saying "Tomorrow I will give you your heart's desire." Oh God, contrive to keep him from having compunction about doing so! (7) For my own sake I pray God include in your beauty a good disposition, so that my mind is no longer distraught and discombobulated. (8) So long as the dustmote lacks lofty aspiration and drive, Hafiz, it is not in quest for the source that is the resplendent sun's own dayspring.   

Notes:

Verse 1: The word for hypocrisy, sālūs is identical to one of the words for the Christian trinity (though they are spelled differently in Perso-Arabic script.) Hypocrisy, for Hafiz, is a cardinal sin against the divine, and this may be a punny way of equating it with the dilution of monotheism, as the triune God of Christianity was, and indeed still is, generally seen by Muslims as a sketchy traducement of God's essential oneness. I myself get the sense that such punctilios as the dubious nature of the trinity (as well as all the things that you have to do or think to be a "true" Muslim) might have been precisely the sort of thing a pietistic preacher would rant about from the pulpit. The real sin isn't the Christian's sālūs (trinity) that would offend the preacher, but rather the preacher's own sālūs (hypocrisy) that offends Hafiz. Thus the preacher who might rant about what makes a proper Muslim is himself failing to measure up.          

Verse 3: See Qur'an [55:19-22]

Verse 7:  Many recensions of this poem have husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam xōy-i turā "I seek of God a fine disposition for your character", which does not make overmuch sense as xulq and xōy are more or less synonyms. Khanlārī prefers the variant ending in husn-i turā "to your beauty" which seems much more compelling to me. This version makes it clear that the speaker is asking for the beloved to be as good in heart as he is good to look at, for if so he will satisfy the lover's desire rather than making him yearn tormentedly. It also adds a nice bit of wordplay. For ḥusn-i xulq is also a technical term for "virtue of character" in a religious and ethical sense. Hafiz, though, is enjoining the beloved to keep his word and do something which, however pleasurable, is rather at odds with what the jurist would deem virtuous.       


The Original:


گر چه بر واعظ شهر این سخن آسان نشود تا ریا ورزد و سالوس مسلمان نشود
رندی آموز و کرم کن که نه چندان هنر است حیوانی که ننوشد می و انسان نشود
گوهر پاک بباید که شود قابل فیض ور نه هر سنگ و گلی لوءلوء و مرجان نشود
اسم اعظم بکند کار خود ای دل خوش باش که به تلبیس و حیل دیو سليمان نشود
عشق می‌ورزم و امید که این فن شریف چون هنرهای دگر موجب حرمان نشود
دوش می‌گفت که فردا بدهم کام دلت سببی ساز خدایا که پشیمان نشود
حسن خلقی ز خدا می‌طلبم حسن ترا تا دگر خاطر ما از تو پریشان نشود
ذره را تا نبود همت عالی حافظ
طالب چشمه خورشید درخشان نشود

Romanization:

Gar či bar wā'iz-i šahr īn suxan āsān našawad
Tā riā warzad u sālūs musalmān našawad
Rindī āmōz u karam kun ki na čandān hunarast
Hayawānē ki nanōšad may u insān našawad
Gawhar-i pāk bibāyad, ki šawad qābil-i fayz,
War na har sang u gilē lu'lu' u marjān našawad.
Ism-i a'zam bukunad kār-i xwad ay dil, xwaš bāš
Ki ba talbīs u hayal dēw Sulaymān našawad
'Išq mēwarzam u ummēd ki īn fann-i šarīf
Čūn hunarhā-i digar mawjib-i hirmān našawad
Dōš mēguft ki fardā bidiham kām-i dilat
Sababē sāz Xudāyā ki pašēmān našawad
Husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam husn-i turā
Tā digar xātar-i mā az tu parēšān našawad
Zurrarā tā nabuwad himmat-i 'ālī hāfiz
Tālib-i čašma-i xwaršēd-i duruxšān našawad

Тоҷикӣ:

Гарчи бар воизи шаҳр ин сухан осон нашавад, 
То риё варзаду солус, мусулмон нашавад. 
Риндӣ омӯзу карам кун, ки на чандон ҳунар аст, 
Ҳаявоне, ки нанӯшад маю инсон нашавад. 
Гавҳари пок бибояд, ки шавад қобили файз, 
Варна ҳар сангу гиле лӯълӯву марҷон нашавад. 
Исми аъзам бикунад кори худ, эй дил, хуш бош 
Ки ба талбису ҳиял дев Сулаймон нашавад. 
Ишқ меварзаму уммед, ки ин фанни шариф, 
Чун ҳунарҳои дигар мӯҷиби хирмон нашавад. 
Дӯш мегуфт, ки фардо бидиҳам коми дилат, 
Сабабе соз, Худоё, ки пашемон нашавад. 
Ҳусни хулқе зи Худо металабам ҳусни туро, 
То дигар хотири мо аз ту парешон нашавад. 
Зарраро то набувад ҳиммати олӣ, Ҳофиз, 
Толиби чашмаи хуршеди дурахшон нашавад. 

Pangur Bán (from Old Irish)

The poem translated here is of anonymous authorship, in that the author's name is unknown. But he was an Irish monk operating at or near Reichenau Abbey in what is today Germany in the 9th century. The poem is found in his notebook. The meter of the original is a loose seven-syllable deibide with the featural rhymes typical of Old Irish, in the alternating rinn/ardrinn style in which a stressed syllable is rhymed with an unstressed one. I have rendered it in English with seven-syllable trochaic tetrameter and mostly using full rhymes, which may be a bit sing-songy or clip-cloppy, but seems to fit the tone of the poem rather well. Compare this with my translation of Creide's lament where I used a syllabic approach to vary the rhythm a great deal more, and also used rhymes that — in English — would be judged imperfect but fit the featural criteria for what counts as a rhyme in Irish. 

Pangur Bán 
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Me and Pangur Bán at work:
He the cat, and I the clerk.
He is hunting mice to nip,
I am at my scholarship.

Fame's for fools. I'd rather rest
Studying my book with zest.
Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Plies his child-play all he can.

It's our never-boring tale.
We two, home alone, can't fail
To find everlasting sport
On which to fixate our art.

After berserk battle he
Nets a mouse in victory.
Me, I net a hard, dark line
Till I make its meaning shine.

His bright penetrating eye
Points toward the wall. While I 
Set my far less piercing sight
On a point more recondite.

He exults, getting a raw
Mouse impaled upon his claw.
When a dear yet difficult
Problem yields, I too exult.

That's us, ever at our art.
None bugging his counterpart, 
Each making a craft his own
To rejoice in it alone. 

Crafty Pangur, cat of prey,
Plies his trade by night and day.
I do monk's work, day and night,
Solving, bringing dark to light.


The Original:

Messe ocus Pangur Bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindán;
bíth a menma-sam fri seilgg,
mu menma céin im saincheirdd

Caraim-se fos, ferr cach clú,
oc mu lebrán léir ingnu;
ní foirmtech frimm Pangur bán,
caraid cesin a maccdán.

Ó ru·biam — scél cen scís —
innar tegdais ar n-óendís,
táithiunn — díchríchide clius —
ní fris tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth-húaraib ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna lín-sam;
os mé, du·fuit im lín chéin
dliged n-doraid cu n-dronchéill.

Fúachid-sem fri frega fál
a rosc anglése comlán;
fúachimm chéin fri fégi fis
mu rosc réil, cesu imdis,

Fáelid-sem cu n-déne dul
hi·n-glen luch inna gérchrub;
hi·tucu cheist n-doraid n-dil,
os mé chene am fáelid.

Cía beimmi amin nach ré,
ní·derban cách ar chéle.
Maith la cechtar nár a dán,
subaigthius a óenurán.

Hé fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du·n-gní cach óenláu;
du thabairt doraid du glé
for mu mud céin am messe.

Lament of Créide for Dínertach (From Old Irish)

This poem preserved in the West Munster cycle. According to the prose preface there, Dínertach had come to fi ght for Guaire of Gort in 649 and was killed in battle, and the poem was made by Guaire's daughter Créd who had fallen for him. This does not make overmuch sense, as the poem is more intelligible if it is Guaire's wife who is speaking. The language of the poem, as reconstructed from a later copy, puts it in the late 9th century, hundreds of years after the events that supposedly occasioned it. It gives me the impression of having been originally an independent work that was eventually sutured into a prose narrative.

Créide's Lament for Dínertach (ca. 9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night:
Pangs for time spent after dark
With the man from Roigne's march.

Mad love for an outlander
Who outstripped his every peer
Has stripped my bloom, bleached my cheek,
And will now not let me sleep.

He spoke sweeter than men sing
Save those hymning heaven's king:
My great flame who spoke no bluff,
My sleek, tender-sided love.

As a girl I was modest,
Had no truck with lust or tryst.
Now in my uncertain age
Wantonness plays its charades.

Here I've got every good thing
With Gúaire, cold Aidne's king.
But the mind will out afar
From my folk to Irluachar.

Here they sing round Cell Colmán
In grand Aidne of that man
From past Limerick's grave-track,
The great flame named Dínertach.

Christ! It mutilates my heart
How they killed him in the dark.
These sleep-slaughtering arrows strike
Every hour in cold of night.

The Original:

It é saigte gona súain,
cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair,
serccoí, lia gnása, íar n-dé,
fir a tóeb thíre Roigne.

Rográd fir ala thíre
ro-síacht sech a chomdíne
ruc mo lí (ní lór do dath);
ním-léci do thindabrad.

Binniu laídib a labrad
acht Ríg nime nóebadrad:
án bréo cen bréthir m-braise,
céle tana tóebthaise.

Imsa naídiu robsa náir:
ní bínn fri dúla dodáil;
ó do-lod i n-inderb n-aís
rom-gab mo théte togaís.

Táthum cech maith la Gúaire,
la ríg n-Aidni adúaire;
tocair mo menma óm thúathaib
isin íath i n-Irlúachair.

Canair a i n-íath Aidni áin,
im thóebu Cille Colmáin,
án bréo des Luimnech lechtach
díanid comainm Dínertach. 

Cráidid mo chride cainech,
a Chríst cáid, a ̇foraided:
it é saigte gona súain
cech thrátha i n-aidchi adúair.

Anonymous: Opening of "Charlemagne and Elfguest" (From Middle Dutch)

"Karel ende Elegast", a medieval Romance about Charlemagne going out stealing in the middle of night on God’s orders, and in the process discovering a conspiracy on his life, is among the most famous pieces of Middle Dutch literature. Surprisingly I can't find anyone who has done a verse-translation into English. I guess if you want a thing done right, you gotta do it your own self. I here translate the first 82 lines of it. 

Opening of Charlemagne and Elfguest
Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

There is a real true history
I can tell you. Listen to me:
It happened just as evening fell
While Charlemagne was sleeping well
Along the Rhine at Ingelheim.
The land was all his. At the time 
He was both emperor and king.
Hear what a true yet wondrous thing
Happened Charlemagne back then
(Remembered still by many men)
One night at Palace Ingelheim 
Where he had planned in one day's time
To hold court and wear his crown
So to magnify his renown. 
Now as the king in slumber lay
A holy angel called his way. 
So the king suddenly woke
At these words that angel spoke.
He said "Get up now, noble man.
Get dressed quickly as you can,
Arm yourself. Go out and steal.
God himself bid me reveal
This task to you. He is Lord on high.
Do it, or in dishonor die. 
Unless you ride tonight and thieve,
Evil will befall you. Believe:  
It will be the end of you.
You will die, your life be through
Before this next court finishes.
So now, take good heed of this
And go out stealing. Take your chance. 
Take your shield and take your lance.
Arm yourself. Go, mount your steed
And do not dally. Ride with speed."

This the king heard, open-eared.
It struck him as rather weird. 
There was no one to be seen,
He wondered what that voice might mean.
He assumed he'd dreamt it, and then
Paid it no mind. But once again 
Spoke the heavens' messenger
Angrily to the emperor:
"Get UP Charles. Go out and steal.
 God hath sent me to reveal
This His will. Go out. Ride on.
Do it, or your life is done."

This and nothing more said he.
And the king cried "Mercy me!"
Upset as he had ever been
"What does this freakish happening mean?
Are elf-delusions making me blunder
With figments of this monstrous wonder?
Oh God in heaven, honestly
What need even is there for me
To go out stealing? I am so rich,
There is no man with whom I'd switch,
No man on earth, not king or count,
Whose wealth amounts to my amount,
Unless he is my vassal too
And gives me service as my due.
My land is so massive, there
Is nothing like it anywhere. 
The land is entirely mine
From Cologne upon the Rhine
To as far as Rome which none
Own but the emperor alone.
I am king and my wife queen
From the eastern Danube's stream
To the wild and western sea.
And there's still more that belongs to me:
There's Galicia and Spain
Which I won by battle's reign
When I chased the heathen out
So now it's mine without a doubt. 
Why would I need to thieve at all
Like some pathetic criminal?
Why does God bid this of me?
I would hate to break his decree.
But did he really bid me thieve?
It's a struggle to believe
That the Mighty King of Kings
Wills me the shame of stealing things." 

Audio of me reading the first 76 lines of the original in Middle Dutch:

The Original:

Vraeye historie ende al waer 
mach ic u tellen, hoorter naer. 
Het was op enen avontstonde 
dat Karel slapen begonde 
tEngelem op den Rijn.
Dlant was alle gader sijn.
Hi was keyser ende coninc mede. 
Hoort hier wonder ende waerhede! 
Wat den coninc daer ghevel,
dat weten noch die menige wel. 
tEnghelem al daer hi lach
ende waende op den anderen dach 
crone draghen ende houden hof 

omme te meerner sinen lof.
Daer die coninc lach ende sliep, 
een heilich engel aen hem riep, 
so dat die coninc ontbrac
biden woerden die dengel sprac 
hij seyde: “Staet op, edel man. 
Doet haestelic u cleeder an, 
wapent u ende vaert stelen, 
God die hiet mi u bevelen,
die in hemelrike is here,
of ghi verliest lijf ende eere.
En steeldi in deser nacht niet, 
so is u evel gheschiet.
Ghi sulter omme sterven 
ende uwes levens derven
eer emmermeer scheit dit hof.
Nu verwacht u daer of,
vaert stelen of ghi wilt.
Neemt uwen speere ende uwen schilt, 
wapent u, sit op u paert
haestelic ende niet en spaert.
Dit verhoorde die coninc.
Het docht hem een vreemde dinc, 
want hi daer niemant en sach, 
wat dat roepen bedieden mach.
Hi waendet slapende hebben gehoort 
ende hilt hem niet an dat woert. 
Dengel die van Gode quam,
sprac ten coninc als die was gram: 
“Staet op, Karel, ende vaert stelen, 
God die hiet my u bevelen
ende ontbiedet u te voren,
anders hebdi u lijf verloren.”
Met dien woerde sweech hi.
Ende die coninc riep “Ay mi,” 
als die seere was vereent.
“Wat ist dat dit wonder meent? 
Ist alfs ghedroch dat mi quelt 
endit grote wonder telt?
Ay, hemelsche drochtijn, 
wat node soude mij sijn 
te stelene? Ic ben so rike.
En is man in aertrijcke,
weder coninc noch graven,
die so rijc sijn van haven,
sine moeten mi sijn onderdaen 
ende te minen diensten staen.
Mijn lant is so groot,
men vint nyewers sijns ghenoot.
Dlant is algader mijn
tote Colene opten Rijn 
ende tote Romen voort,
alst den keyser toe behoort.
 Ic ben here, mijn wijf is vrouwe,
oest totter wilder Denouwe
ende west totter wilder see.
Nochtans heb ic goets veel meer:
Galissien en Spandien lant,
dat ic selve wan mitter hant,
ende ic die heydene verdreef,
dat mi dlant alleene bleef.
Wat node soude mi sijn dan 
te stelene ellendich man?
Waer om ontbiedet mi dit God? 
Node brekic sijn ghebot - 
wistic dat hijt mi ontbode.
En mochs niet gheloven node 
dat mi God die lachter onste 
dat ic te stelen begonste.”

Storm on the Great Moor (From Old Irish)

Storm on the Great Moor
(Anonymous: possibly 9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Night falls cold on the Great Moor,
Storming with no small downpour. 
Wind laughs at its whooping flood
Shrieking on shielding wildwood.

Me reading the original Old Irish:
The Original:

Úar ind adaig i móin móir 
feraid dertan ní deróil
dordán fris tib in gaeth glan
geissid ós caille clithar

Dafydd ap Gwilym: The Seagull (From Welsh)

The Seagull
By Dafydd ap Gwilym
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Seagull floating on the seething tideflow,
White as moonlight or wild snow,
Moving in beauty immaculate, 
As a sunbeam-shard or sea-gauntlet,
Lightly skimming  the swell windward,
Swift fish-eating stately bird
Wont to angle at anchor with me
Side by side there, a sea-lily,
Shining letter  in silvered text,
A nun atop the sea-tide's crest. 

Perfect girl-symbol  worth praise in art,
Go for the curves of castle and rampart.
Keep looking, seagull,  till you light on her
Gorgeous as Igraine,   on the grand tower.
Speak my words  in sweet concord.
Let her choose me  and love my word.
If you see her alone  (since success
With so rare a girl  takes real deftness)
Then get some nerve to greet her. Say I,
A well-bred lad, must win her or die. 
I love that girl,  my guard of vigor.
No lover has loved  a lovelier
I'm telling you, men.  Not Taliesin
Nor flattery-lipped lusty Merlin.
Such a man-stopper with copper hair
And superlative form far too proper.

Oh yes, good gull  if you do come
To that most charming cheek  in Christendom,
Unless she answers  my love kindly
That girl will mean the end of me.

Audio of me reading the original Welsh:

The Original:

Yr Wylan

Yr wylan deg ar lanw, dioer,
Unlliw ag eiry neu wenlloer,
Dilwch yw dy degwch di,
Darn fel haul, dyrnfol heli.
Ysgafn ar don eigion wyd,
Esgudfalch edn bysgodfwyd.
Yngo'r aud wrth yr angor
Lawlaw â mi, lili môr.
Llythr unwaith lle'th ariannwyd,
Lleian ym mrig llanw môr wyd.

Cyweirglod bun, cai'r glod bell,
Cyrch ystum caer a chastell.
Edrych a welych, wylan,
Eigr o liw ar y gaer lân.
Dywaid fy ngeiriau dyun,
Dewised fi, dos hyd fun.
Byddai'i hun, beiddia'i hannerch,
Bydd fedrus wrth fwythus ferch
Er budd; dywaid na byddaf,
Fwynwas coeth, fyw onis caf.
Ei charu'r wyf, gwbl nwyf nawdd,
Och wŷr, erioed ni charawdd
Na Merddin wenithfin iach,
Na Thaliesin ei thlysach.
Siprys dyn giprys dan gopr,
Rhagorbryd rhy gyweirbropr.

Och wylan, o chai weled
Grudd y ddyn lanaf o Gred,
Oni chaf fwynaf annerch,
Fy nihenydd fydd y ferch.

Thankful for a Stormy Night (From Old Irish)

This short piece was written by a monk in the margin of an Irish manuscript of Priscian's Institutiones grammaticae. The poem's author welcomes a stormy night free from the risk of attacking Vikings, and supplies us with our earliest attestation of the Irish name for Scandinavia.  

Thankful for a Stormy Night
Anonymous (9th century)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman from Old Irish

Bitter wild winds blow tonight,
Tossing the sea's tress to white.
Good. I don't fear clear seas may
Bring berserkers from Norway.

Audio of me reading the original Old Irish:
The Original:

Is aicher in gáeth in nocht
fu·fúasna fairrge findḟolt;
ní·águr réimm Mora Minn
dond láechraid lainn úa Lothlind

"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

"Summer's Gone"
Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song.   Sad stags moan.
Winter blows,   summer's gone.

High winds lash.    Low, the sun.
Short, its course.   Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern   loses form.
Wildgeese wail   as the norm.

Cold now holds   each bird's wing.
Icy times.   So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib   dordaid dam
snigid gaim   ro·fáith sam

Gáeth ard úar   ísel grían
gair a r-rith   ruirthech rían

Rorúad rath   ro·cleth cruth 
ro·gab gnáth   giugrann guth

Ro·gab úacht   etti én
aigre ré   é mo scél

Dante Alighieri: Purgatorio 26 (From Italian)

Purgatorio 26
Dante Alighieri
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It is around 4 or 5 o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun is on its way down in the west on Dante's right hand side. Dante, Virgil and Statius are walking south along the flaming edge of the seventh rung of Purgatory where penitents are serving time for sexual excess. A group of souls watches Dante and wonders why he casts a shadow over the flames. At one soul's request, the poet explains that he is still alive. Another group of souls, the homosexual penitents, joins the first, and the shade of the Bolognese poet Guido Guinizelli explains the nature of their sins. Dante expresses admiration for Guinizelli, and then — as author — pays the Occitan poet Arnaut Daniel the highest of possible compliments, allowing him to close out the Canto with lines of arrestingly simple verse in Lyric Occitan.

   As we went on in single file about
the edge, time and again my trusty guide
told me "Take care, I'll point the perils out." 
   My shoulder felt the sun strike from the right,
its rays already turning the west sky
from azure to a countenance of white.
   My shadow thrown as shade across the high
flames made the burning red a deeper ruddy,
and I saw several shades as they went by
   take notice. Looking, they began to study
and talk about me. One that I could hear
said "he seems not to have a fictive body"
   Then some of them came up to me, as near
as possible, remaining careful to
stay well within the bounds of burning there
   "You there who walk behind the other two,
(not out of sloth perhaps, but reverence) I 
who burn in fire and thirst want words with you.
   Nor is it just me who needs your reply.
These others here are thirstier for it
than Ethiops for cold drink beneath hot sky. 
   Tell us: how do you cast a shadow yet, 
raise ramparts against sunlight with your skin?
It's like death never snatched you in his net."
   These words from one of them. I would have been     
explaining things already. But the flare
of something else surprised my eyes just then:
    middlemost down that flamey thoroughfare
came other people facing these. Forgetting
what I had meant to say, I stood to stare,
   as I saw shades rushing from each side, meeting
to kiss each other's cheek, not lingering
but satisfied with momentary greeting.
   Ants in their black ranks do this kind of thing:
each nuzzling at the other as if to seek
news of their recent luck and traveling.
   When each had kissed the other's friendly cheek,
before departing that phantasmagora
each shade tried to outscream the other's shriek...
   The newcomers howled "Sodom and Gamorrah"
The rest: "Pasiphaë enters the cow
and bends to let the bullcalf rut and gore her"
   Then as two flocks of cranes divide and go,
(one south to Africa, one to the Riphean Height,
these shying from the sun, those shirking snow)
   the two groups parted. One left, one went right
to us. Then went back, tearful in chagrin,
to crying out the mantra of their blight;
   then those who'd come my way drew close again,
— the shades that first entreated me — their eyes
as eager for my tale as they had been.
   Now having seen their wish presented twice,
I made to answer: "oh souls sure to gain,
whenever it comes, your peace in Paradise,
   my limbs of human life did not remain, 
age-ripe or green, back there. They did not die.
They are on me here, complete with bone and brain. 
   I go through here to stop being blind. On high 
there is a lady who has won me grace
to bear across your world my mortal I. 
   But please — so that you may more quickly taste
what you want most of all, and heaven set
you in its loving, sheltering embrace,
   tell me (and I will make a place for it
in what I write): who are you? Who's that faction 
of people that just now ran opposite?" 
   With no less than a mountain man's reaction
when he comes red-necked to a metropolis
and stares in speechless downtowned stupefaction,
   the shades seemed flabbergasted hearing this.
But when their shock was laid under control
and blunted (as, in great hearts, it soon is)
   the shade spoke who'd addressed me first of all: 
"Blessed are you who from our shores ship keen
experience back, to die a better soul.     
   That other group committed the obscene   
same sex-act for which Caesar won the shame  
in victory of being called a Queen. 
   so they leave crying out 'Sodom' and blame
themselves aloud as you heard. The contrite
self-loathing that they feel sustains the flame. 
   Our sins were rather more hermaphrodite
but since, in disregard of man's law, we  
acted upon on our bestial appetite,
   when we pass them we scream shame-heartedly 
the name of her who in the mockbeast's slime
got on all fours for bestiality. 
   Now you know all about our guilt and crime:
if you want names, I don't know all of them,
and even if I did, there isn't time.  
   I'll rid you of your want for mine. My name
is Guinizelli, brought straight here at once,
as I repented well before death came."
   While King Lycurgus grieved berserk, twin sons
discovered their lost mother and made him see.
Thus was I moved (though not to their response)
   hearing him name his name: father to me
and of my betters who gave the world the dear
and graceful rhymes of love and courtesie.
   Thoughtstruck, I seemed to have no tongue or ear
as we walked on. I simply stared, then stood
a while as flames kept me from coming near.
   When I had stared my fill, more than I should,
I offered, in such terms as win good faith,
to serve him in whatever way I could.
   He said: "The things that I just heard you say
will leave in memory such clear residue
as Lethe can't blur out or wash away.
   But if the words you swore just now are true
then tell me why your speech and your look declare
the kind of love I think I see in you." 
   I said: "It is your verse, graceful and clear
which shall, so long as modern style is sung,
render the very ink that penned it dear"
   "Brother" he said, pointing out one among
the shades ahead "that soul you see there rose
as the best of craftsmen in the mother tongue. 
   He excels all who wrote in verse or prose
of love and loss, though idiots for their part
will still prefer that rhymer from Limoges. 
   Such men turn more to talk than truth and heart,
following familiar fames, set in their praise
with no regard to reasoning or art.
   Thus with Guittone whom they used to raise
above all others, with cry on cry galore,
though truth prevails with most of them these days. 
   Now if almighty privilege affords
you entry to that cloister where the master
and abbot of the college is Our Lord,
   then say on my behalf a Paternoster
or as much of one as we need, who can't be
led to temptation, but delivered faster."  
   And then, as if to yield his place with me
to someone else, he vanished in the flame
as a fish toward the bottom of the sea.
   I drew ahead a bit beside the same
shade he'd shown me, and said my heart and ear
would set a place of honor for his name.
   He answered in the language I hold dear:
"Tan m'abellis vostre cortes deman,
qu'ieu no me puesc ni voill a vos cobrir
   Ieu sui Arnaut, que plor e vau cantan;
cossiros vei la passada folor,
e vei jauzen lo joi qu'esper, denan.
   Ara vos prec, per aquella valor
que vos guida al som de l'escalai 
sovenha vos a temps de ma dolor!"
   Then he was hidden in flames that purify.


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33


36


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42


45


48


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54


57


60


63


66


69


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75


78


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84


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117


120


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126


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132


135


138


141


144


147





Notes:

Line 8:
There is some uncertainty about how the word pur is to be read here. My translation is at this point paraphrastical enough for me not to worry a great deal.

Line 32:
See Romans 16:16

Line 34-36:
See Aeneid IV.402-407

Line 40:
Those who have tried to argue that the sin punished in Inferno XV and XVI is not homosexuality are hard pressed to explain this passage in the Purgatorio. Even more absurd is the attempt by some modern commentators, desperate to see in Dante some kind of moral inspiration for the modern era, to read into this passage a tacit approval of moderate same-sex romantic relationships. It goes without saying that moderation of heterosexual lust is acceptable in Dante's view. It in no way follows that, by placing homosexual and heterosexual penitents in the same part of Purgatory, Dante was expressing the view that homosexual lust is also acceptable in moderation. Some amount of hay has been made of the fact that Dante here portrays homosexual and heterosexual lust as arising from the same source, unlike the Inferno where heterosexual vice is punished in the realm of Incontinence while homosexual behavior is punished as Violence. This probably has nothing to do with "softened views" about homosexuality, so much as the fact that Dante has painted himself into a corner by sticking to the seven capital vices in the layout of Purgatory, unlike Hell where he could maneuver more on the moral grid. The fact is that Dante thinks homosexuality is wrong, and this is not surprising from a vernacular poet writing in 14th century Europe. If any reader needs to find a way to square themselves with this fact, I would suggest that they take a leaf from Dante's book when it comes to cultural context. In Dante's Hell, nobody is punished for something they couldn't have been expected to know was wrong. The only people punished for sodomy or suicide are Christians who would have understood these things to be sinful. Greek and Roman polytheists, in whose culture these were acceptable, are not punished for them but are placed alongside the virtuous unbaptized in Limbo a.k.a Pagan Heaven. If Dante can give Sophocles a pass for sodomy, then I don't really mind giving him a pass in return on this.

Line 91:
While the basic meaning of this line is clear, the contorted syntax is puzzling and has occasioned multiple attempts to parse it, with quite different conclusions.

Line 92:
It is worth noting that Dante doesn't bother informing Guido that the other two individuals walking with him are Statius and Vergil. Presumably this would have been of interest to Guinizzelli. But as the focus of the Canto is on (medieval) vernacular poetry, Dante probably had narrative reason to keep the Latin-writing Romans out of it. No other part of the Commedia is as concerned with poetry and poetic merit.

Lines 140-147:
Dante has Arnaut Daniel speak in (slightly Italianized) Old Occitan as a nod to his lyric predecessor. It is the only extended passage of a language other than Italian in the Commedia. (And even the Latin passages are mostly scriptural quotation.) There is no other language — not even French — in which a quotation in Occitan would have precisely this effect.
What to do in translation?
Most translators, such as Longfellow and Clive James, have rendered Arnaut's speech into the same kind of English as the rest of the Commedia. Some have kept the speech in Occitan. Others have found more creative solutions. Dorothy L. Sayers has him speak pastiche Scots. John Ciardi has him speak mock-Spenserian English. Anthony Esolen makes the offensively ironic move of trying to have Arnaut speak French rather than Occitan, revealing how little he knows of either language.

One possibility is to use medieval English:

I drew ahead a bit beside that same
shade he'd shown me, and said my heart would lay 
a grateful place of honor for his name,
and of his own free will he turned to say: 

"Me pleseth so yowr courteys requeringe 
that I ne can nor wol behiden me. 
I am Arnault who sorwe and whilom singe. 
I soorè see my past follious houre,
And joying see my bidden joys cominge
Anow I preye of yow by that valoure
which gydeth to the steirès cop yowr wey: 
Remembre yow bytime of my doloure"


Then he was hidden in fires that purify.

Ultimately I decided to leave the passage in Old Occitan and simply alter it slightly for rhyme's sake. In both cases I altered items (the infinitive cobrire and the form escalina) which were Italianate insertions probably justified by rhyme considerations to begin with. (Escalina appears to be a coinage original to Dante. The form escalai is a coinage original to me.) Here is a verse translation that can also be read in its place:

He answered in the language I hold dear: 
Your courtly question is so gladdening
that I cannot, will not, stay hidden here.
   I am Arnaut who go in tears and sing
in pain I see the folly of my prime 
and rejoice seeing the joy that time will bring. 
   I beg you by the power that helps you climb
to the summit of that flight of stairs on high:
remember how I suffer in good time. 



The Original:

   Mentre che sì per l'orlo, uno innanzi altro,
ce n'andavamo, e spesso il buon maestro
diceami: «Guarda: giovi ch'io ti scaltro»;
   feriami il sole in su l'omero destro,
che già, raggiando, tutto l'occidente
mutava in bianco aspetto di cilestro;
   e io facea con l'ombra più rovente
parer la fiamma; e pur a tanto indizio
vidi molt' ombre, andando, poner mente.
   Questa fu la cagion che diede inizio
loro a parlar di me; e cominciarsi
a dir: «Colui non par corpo fittizio»;
   poi verso me, quanto potëan farsi,
certi si fero, sempre con riguardo
di non uscir dove non fosser arsi.
   «O tu che vai, non per esser più tardo,
ma forse reverente, a li altri dopo,
rispondi a me che 'n sete e 'n foco ardo.
   Né solo a me la tua risposta è uopo;
ché tutti questi n'hanno maggior sete
che d'acqua fredda Indo o Etïopo.
   Dinne com' è che fai di te parete
al sol, pur come tu non fossi ancora
di morte intrato dentro da la rete».
   Sì mi parlava un d'essi; e io mi fora
già manifesto, s'io non fossi atteso
ad altra novità ch'apparve allora;
   ché per lo mezzo del cammino acceso
venne gente col viso incontro a questa,
la qual mi fece a rimirar sospeso.
   Lì veggio d'ogne parte farsi presta
ciascun' ombra e basciarsi una con una
sanza restar, contente a brieve festa;
   così per entro loro schiera bruna
s'ammusa l'una con l'altra formica,
forse a spïar lor via e lor fortuna.
   Tosto che parton l'accoglienza amica,
prima che 'l primo passo lì trascorra,
sopragridar ciascuna s'affatica:
   la nova gente: «Soddoma e Gomorra»;
e l'altra: «Ne la vacca entra Pasife,
perché 'l torello a sua lussuria corra».
   Poi, come grue ch'a le montagne Rife
volasser parte, e parte inver' l'arene,
queste del gel, quelle del sole schife,
   l'una gente sen va, l'altra sen vene;
e tornan, lagrimando, a' primi canti
e al gridar che più lor si convene;
   e raccostansi a me, come davanti,
essi medesmi che m'avean pregato,
attenti ad ascoltar ne' lor sembianti.
   Io, che due volte avea visto lor grato,
incominciai: «O anime sicure
d'aver, quando che sia, di pace stato,
   non son rimase acerbe né mature
le membra mie di là, ma son qui meco
col sangue suo e con le sue giunture.
   Quinci sù vo per non esser più cieco;
donna è di sopra che m'acquista grazia,
per che 'l mortal per vostro mondo reco.
   Ma se la vostra maggior voglia sazia
tosto divegna, sì che 'l ciel v'alberghi
ch'è pien d'amore e più ampio si spazia,
   ditemi, acciò ch'ancor carte ne verghi,
chi siete voi, e chi è quella turba
che se ne va di retro a' vostri terghi».
   Non altrimenti stupido si turba
lo montanaro, e rimirando ammuta,
quando rozzo e salvatico s'inurba,
   che ciascun' ombra fece in sua paruta;
ma poi che furon di stupore scarche,
lo qual ne li alti cuor tosto s'attuta,
   «Beato te, che de le nostre marche»,
ricominciò colei che pria m'inchiese,
«per morir meglio, esperïenza imbarche!
   La gente che non vien con noi, offese
di ciò per che già Cesar, trïunfando,
"Regina" contra sé chiamar s'intese:
   però si parton "Soddoma" gridando,
rimproverando a sé com' hai udito,
e aiutan l'arsura vergognando.
   Nostro peccato fu ermafrodito;
ma perché non servammo umana legge,
seguendo come bestie l'appetito,
   in obbrobrio di noi, per noi si legge,
quando partinci, il nome di colei
che s'imbestiò ne le 'mbestiate schegge.
   Or sai nostri atti e di che fummo rei:
se forse a nome vuo' saper chi semo,
tempo non è di dire, e non saprei.
   Farotti ben di me volere scemo:
son Guido Guinizzelli, e già mi purgo
per ben dolermi prima ch'a lo stremo».
   Quali ne la tristizia di Ligurgo
si fer due figli a riveder la madre,
tal mi fec' io, ma non a tanto insurgo,
   quand' io odo nomar sé stesso il padre
mio e de li altri miei miglior che mai
rime d'amore usar dolci e leggiadre;
   e sanza udire e dir pensoso andai
lunga fïata rimirando lui,
né, per lo foco, in là più m'appressai.
   Poi che di riguardar pasciuto fui,
tutto m'offersi pronto al suo servigio
con l'affermar che fa credere altrui.
   Ed elli a me: «Tu lasci tal vestigio,
per quel ch'i' odo, in me, e tanto chiaro,
che Letè nol può tòrre né far bigio.
   Ma se le tue parole or ver giuraro,
dimmi che è cagion per che dimostri
nel dire e nel guardar d'avermi caro».
   E io a lui: «Li dolci detti vostri,
che, quanto durerà l'uso moderno,
faranno cari ancora i loro incostri».
   «O frate», disse, «questi ch'io ti cerno
col dito», e additò un spirto innanzi,
«fu miglior fabbro del parlar materno.
   Versi d'amore e prose di romanzi
soverchiò tutti; e lascia dir li stolti
che quel di Lemosì credon ch'avanzi.
   A voce più ch'al ver drizzan li volti,
e così ferman sua oppinïone
prima ch'arte o ragion per lor s'ascolti.
   Così fer molti antichi di Guittone,
di grido in grido pur lui dando pregio,
fin che l'ha vinto il ver con più persone.
   Or se tu hai sì ampio privilegio,
che licito ti sia l'andare al chiostro
nel quale è Cristo abate del collegio,
   falli per me un dir d'un paternostro,
quanto bisogna a noi di questo mondo,
dove poter peccar non è più nostro».
   Poi, forse per dar luogo altrui secondo
che presso avea, disparve per lo foco,
come per l'acqua il pesce andando al fondo.
   Io mi fei al mostrato innanzi un poco,
e dissi ch'al suo nome il mio disire
apparecchiava grazïoso loco.
   El cominciò liberamente a dire:
«Tan m'abellis vostre cortes deman,
qu'ieu no me puesc ni voill a vos cobrire.
   Ieu sui Arnaut, que plor e vau cantan;
consiros vei la passada folor,
e vei jausen lo joi qu'esper, denan.
   Ara vos prec, per aquella valor
que vos guida al som de l'escalina,
sovenha vos a temps de ma dolor!».
   Poi s'ascose nel foco che li affina.

Shmuel ben Hoshaˁna: "On Resurrection" (From Hebrew)

The payṭan Shmu'el ben Hoshaˁna (known also as Hashlishi "the Third", the ultimate rank he attained at the Yeshiva) was one of the central figures of the Eretz Israel Yeshiva in Jerusalem in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, and a prolific author of Hebrew liturgical poetry. The Yotzer is a sequence of poems which adorn the benedictions associated with the morning reading of the Shemaˁ.

This brief piyyūṭ is an ahava, the fourth in such a sequence, introducing the second benediction before the Shemaˁ, dealing with God's love for Israel. (Whence Israel as the "beloved" of the final verse). Like many ahavot, it includes an alphabetic acrostic. In this case, though, the letters occur in reverse order, evoking the Resurrection's reversal of death at the end of days. It draws on the Bible heavily for its language, and the effect of its language (e.g. for the ending see Hosea 14:5).

My translation is fairly free and interpretative. For example, the Messiah is not directly mentioned in this poem by that title. Rather his coming is mentioned in oblique form "with (the) Nūn of (the verb) Yinnōn" which means more or less something like "when the Messiah's reign begins" or perhaps "when the Messiah is born" depending on which way you swing the mysticism. Yinnōn is an obscure verb occurring only once in the Hebrew Bible (Ps. 72:17). Some (see e.g. B. Sanhedrin 98b) took it to be the Messiah's name, and Yinnōn is frequently used as a byword for the Messiah in piyyūṭīm. The letter nūn wound up especially associated with the Messiah in this connection, in part on account of the fact that n-w-n was taken to be the verb's root.

An Ahava on the Resurrection
Shmuel Ben Hoshaˁna
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

You turn man back to dust,
    but will turn back in kind
        with kindness that we hymn.   
You will bind back his bones,
  extend again his tendons,
       defend and fend for him.
You will fit him with flesh,
     you will screen him with skin
         at the Messiah's dawn.
Then will your beloved
    blossom like the lily,
         cast root like Lebanon.

The original:



דַּכָּא תָּשֵׁב אֱנוֹשׁ וְתָשׁוּב תָּחֹן וְתַחֲנֹן.
גְּרָמִים תְּדַבֵּק, גִּידִים תִּמְתַּח, וְגָנוֹן תִּגְנֹן,
בָּשָׂר תַּעֲלֶה, וְהָעוֹר תַּקְרִים בְּנוּן יִנּוֹן.
אֲהוּבְךָ יִפְרַח כַּשּׁוֹשַׁנָּה, יַךְ שָׁרָשָׁיו כַּלְּבָנוֹן.

Phonetic transcription in Tiberian Hebrew:

dakkʰɔː tʰɔːʃeːv ʔɛnoːʃ vaθɔːʃuːv tʰɔːħoːn vaθaːħanoːn
gaʀɔːmiːm tʰaðabbeːq giːðiːm tʰimtʰaːħ vaʁɔːnoːn tʰiʁnoːn
bɔːsɔːr tʰaːʕalɛː vɔhɔːʕoːʀ tʰaqʀiːm banuːn jinnoːn
ʔahuːvχɔː jifʀaːħ kʰaʃʃoːʃannɔː jaːχ ʃɔːʀɔːʃɔːv kʰallavɔːnoːn

Venerable Bede: Deathsong (From Old English)

Death Song
Attributed to the Venerable Bede
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Before departing  on the compelled journey
Through death's narrows,   none is so clever
That he knows his own end and needn't think
On what judgment he'll get for good or evil,
Consider the soul's sentencing hereafter.


The Original:

(West Sахon)

For þām nīedfere  nǣniġ wyrþeþ
þances snotora,  þonne him þearf sȳ
tō ġehycgenne  ǣr his heonangange
hwæt his gāste  gōdes oþþe yfeles
æfter dēaþe heonon  dēmed weorþe.

(Northumbrian)

Fore þēm nēdfæræ  nǣnig wiorðit
þoncsnotora  þan him þarf sīe
tō ymbhycggannæ  ǣr his hionongǣ,
hwæt his gāstæ  gōdæs æþþa yflæs
æfter dēoþdæge dœ̄mid wiorðæ




Notker Balbulus: Heavenladder (Latin)

To wrench a phrase from Pushkin: what splendid poetry, and what disgusting theology.

Heavenladder
Notker Balbulus (9th Cent)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A ladder rising up to heaven 
 with bane all round it
 
At its base a sharp-eye dragon  
Stands wakeful forever on guard 
  So that no one can climb even
  to the first rung unmaimed
 
From its ascent an Ethiop 
Blocks all with brandished blade 
Threatening destruction 
  While over its top rung
  A young man leans in radiance,
  With a gold bough in his hand
 
This is the ladder which the love of 
Christ made free for women to go 
Stomp down the dragon underfoot 
And march right past the Ethiop's blade 
  Through every sort of bane and torment
  And make it to the heavens' summit
  To take the golden laurel up
  From the emboldening King's hand
 
What good did it do you  
Unholy serpent  
That you managed  
To hoodwink once a single woman  
  Since a virgin has brought forth
  The incarnate
  Lord begotten
  Christ of God the Father  
 
Who pried the pelf away from you 
And pierced your jaw with armlet hooks 
  Making it an open door for
  Eve whose race you yearn to trammel
 
So see you now the virgin maids 
Triumphant over envious you 
  And see as married women bear 
  Sons pleasing unto God
 
You groan and grumble 
Now at widows' 
Loyalty to their dead husbands 
  You who inveigled
  A maid to be
  Disloyal to her Creator
 
Now you see women, in the battle 
Waged against you, becoming generals 
  Women who rally their own sons to
  Courageously vanquish all your torments
 
Even your own vessels,
The whores, are purified by God now 
  Who turns them to burnished
  Temples for Him and Him alone
 
For these graces let us now 
Both the sinners and the just 
Glorify together 
Our Lord as a community  
  Praise Him who strengthens those who stand  
  And reaches His right hand
  To the fallen, so at least 
  After transgression we may rise
Scalam ad caelos subrectam   
 tormentis cinctam 
 
Cuius ima draco servare 
cautus invigilat iugiter 
  Ne quis eius vel primum gradum
  possit insaucius scandere;
 
Cuius ascensus extracto  
Aethiops gladio  
vetat exitium minitans, 
  Cuius supremis innixus
  iuvenis splendidus
  ramum aureolum retinet
 
Hanc ergo scalam ita Christi  
amor feminis fecit perviam 
ut dracone conculcato  
et Aethopis gladio transito 
  Per omne genus tormentōrum
  caeli apicem queant capere
  et de manu confortantis
  regis auream lauream sumere
 
Quid tibi profecit,  
profane serpens,  
quondam unam  
decepisse mulierem, 
  Cum virgo pepererit
  incarnatum
  Dei Patris
  unicum dominum Jesum;
 
Qui praedam tibi tulit et  
armillā maxillam forat, 
  Ut egressus Evae natis
  fiat, quos tenere cupis?
 
Nunc ergo temet virgines 
Vincere cernis invide, 
  Et maritatas parere
  Filios deo placitos,
 
Et viduarum 
maritis fidem 
nunc ingemis integram, 
  Qui creatori
  fidem negare
  persuaseras virgini.
 
Feminas nunc vides in bello 
contra te acto duces existere 
  Quae filios suos instigant
  fortiter tua tormenta vincere.
 
Quin et tua vasa 
meretrices dominus emundat 
  Et haec sibi templum
  Dignatur efficere purgatum.
 
Pro his nunc beneficiis 
in commune dominum 
nos glorificemus 
et peccatores et iusti, 
  Qui et stantes corroborat
  et prolapsis dextram
  porrigit, ut saltem
  post facinora surgamus

Gaucelm Faidit: Lament for King Richard Lionheart (From Occitan)

This lament for King Ricartz Còr de Leó, known in English as Richard Lionheart, was composed in 1199 when Ricartz died of an infected wound during an incident involving a crossbow, a pissed-off teenager, and a field medic who operated like a surgeon cutting for the very first time.

Though born in England, famous in popular memory as King Richard I of England and played on screen by Sean Connery, there is little evidence that King Ricartz spoke English. He might just have learned some from his wetnurse Hodierna, but apart from that it is unlikely he heard it very often growing up. He might have taken steps to learn it for diplomatic and political reasons. Such things were not uncommon in medieval and early modern Europe.

Two songs by Richard himself have survived. One is a sirventés in Occitan. The other, a plea for aid while being held for tremendous ransom, exists in both Occitan and French versions. Unusually, neither version appears to be clearly derived from the other, and it is very possible that Richard composed both. And it is in Occitan that Gaucelm Faidit dirges Ricartz in the poem I translate here.

We have 18 different attestations of this song. Four have the melody preserved. Yet another six instances of the melody are found contrafacted to different lyrics. Unusually for a melody with such robust attestation, the different written versions of the tune resemble one another fairly closely in most respects. The conclusion to be drawn from this is that the poem and its melody went down extremely well with audiences, and stuck in the mind.

The text I give here (in a regularized orthography of my own devising) is based on that of Barachini's edition.

The MMAF database lists 22 modern published recordings of this song, and I have found at least one that is not listed there. I happen to have five of them.

This one here is my favorite to listen to. It is by the group Alla Francesca, and from an album consisting of music connected with the reign of Richard I. It takes its melody from the X manuscript, as most performances do. My instinct was that it is not a very historically accurate one, because there are all sorts of reasons to believe secular song was normally performed by no more than one singer. But this rendition borrows from things we know they did do in church singing. Quoth Tricia Postle of Pneuma Ensemble: "I don't think it's what they did [for troubadour laments], but it's not impossible. It's within the tonal palette that the troubadours would recognize."

This one here by the Early Music Consort of London. This rendering is performance-wise perhaps more "authentic" (though I hate that word.) The pronunciation appears to confuse Old Occitan with French in many respects. I admit this comes across to me as a bit lazy, like the performers couldn't be bothered to look up the basics of Old Occitan pronunciation. Mine would though be an anachronistic judgment. This performance — probably unwittingly — does reflect something often overlooked about the period. Gaucelm's piece was widely performed, and we happen to have hard evidence that it was sometimes performed by singers who were native speakers of Old French varieties. Such singers would have introduced features of their own vernacular into performance, like those nasalized vowels and deaffricated ch-, without any awareness or wariness of doing so. A 12th century Romance-speaker's attitude toward language was very different from ours.

This one here is by the Tre Fontane ensemble, a French medievalist group which focuses particularly on Aquitanian troubadours. It appears to be a free rendering of the basic melodic pattern, which I think borrows elements from manuscripts η, X and M, with lots of flourishes. The performer or arranger seems to have felt free to play around melismatically with the melody. This is quite a medieval way of doing it. (Tricia tells me she wishes more performers did it like this.)

This one here recorded by the Folger Consort is also heavily interpretative in an interesting way.

This one here is by the Kecskes Ensemble, and is rather different in mood from the above, showing just how much interpretative latitude exists. I wonder if this sort of performance reflects something of the mood in which sung dirges were performed at least some of the time, in the sense of being a "sung recitation." As Hendrik Van Der Werf notes: throughout the European Middle Ages and in some areas for long thereafter, the practice of singing or chanting rather than speaking a text went far beyond the realm of poetry, and extended to various mundane announcements by town criers, street vendors, beggars, and the like. Singing a poem, rather than speaking it, was not necessarily an artistic achievement. It may have just been a convenient and traditional way of raising one's voice in public.

My aim in working with Old Occitan material is to produce something that can be sung to the same melody as the Occitan text (in cases where the melody survives, anyway.)

Lament for King Richard Lionheart (1199 AD)
By Gaucelm Faidit
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It is an awful thing: the greatest pain
And purest grief that I have known to sting,
The ache that squeezes me to tears again
Is mine to sing and tell while I can bear it.
The father and the captain of all merit,
Courageous noble Richard, England's king
Is dead. My God, the loss is harrowing. 
The words are strange to say, harsh to the ear.
The heart is hard that takes this with no tear.

The king is dead. It took a thousand years
Before a man like Richard met our view.
Nor shall there ever be a man his peer,
So bold and rich, so giving a commander.
Not even Darius' conqueror Alexander
Gave so much of his wealth to those he knew.
He outstripped Charlemagne, and Arthur too.
He had the world, if I am to be frank,
Hold him in fear and turn to him with thanks.

I marvel how in false and wicked times

A real, wise, courtly man could still remain.
When good words and great works mean less than crimes
Why make the slightest effort to be true now? 
For death with one blow showed what she can do now,
Wrested out of this world its best of men
Took honor, joy and good away again.
Now, seeing nothing can repel her wrath,
We should be less afraid to meet with death. 

Now, fearless king, what now is to become
Of bustling tourneys and the melée sword,
Of princely gifts, rich courts and champions,
Now they are dispossessed of you their master? 
What of those men abandoned to disaster
Who pledged themselves in court to you their lord
And waited on you for a swift reward?
Those who earned wealth and power at your side
Who now may well be pondering suicide?

They get a sordid life of pain and rue
And constant gnashing grief. That is their prize.  
While Saracens and Turks who once feared you  
As they had feared no mother's son before
Will get so puffed with pride and stoked for war
That we may not yet win the Tomb of Christ.
But so God wills. Had He willed otherwise
And you, my lord, lived on, in little time
You should have run them out of Palestine.

Now there's no hope of any prince or liege
Able to win it back from blasphemy. 
But all who come now to take up your siege 
Should think on how you sought esteem from others.
So, while they lived, did your two braveheart brothers
The Young King and the Duke of Brittany.
Whoever it be who succeeds you three
Must have a high heart and rock-firm intent
To see every great exploit to the end.

Tornada:

My lord and king! May God the true forgiver,
True man, true life, true mercy and true Sire
Grant you in death the pardon you require. 
May He forget your failings and your sin
May He remember all you did for Him.





Fòrtz causa es que tot lo maior dan
E·l maior dòl — las — qu'ièu anc mais agues,
E çò dont dei tostemps planher plorant,
M'aven a dir en chantant e retraire.
Car cell qu'èra de valor chaps e paire,
Lo rics valents Ricartz, reis dels Englés,
Es mòrtz. Ai Dièus quals perd e quals dans es
Quant estranhs motz e quant greus az auzir
Ben a dur còr totz om qu'o pòt sofrir.

Mòrtz es lo reis! E son passat mil an
Qu'anc tant proṉs om noṉ fo, ni no·l vi res,
Ni mais non èr nulhs om del sieu semblant,
Tant larcs, tant rics, tant arditz, tals donaire,
Qu'Alixandres, lo reis qui venquèt Daire,
Noṉ cre que tant dones ni tant meses!
Ni anc Carles ni Arturs tant valgues,
Qu'a tot lo mond si fetz, qui·n vòl ver dir,
Als uṉs doptar et als altres grazir.

Meravilh-me del fals sègle truand,
Co·i pòt estar sàvis om ni cortes,
Puòis reṉ no·i val bèll dich ni fach presant,
E doncs per que s'esfòrç' om, pauc, ni gaire
Qu'ara nos a mostrat Mòrtz que pòt faire,
Qu'az uṉ sol còlp a·l melhor del mond pres,
Tota l'honor, totz los gauchs, totz los beṉs!
E pos vezem que res no·i pòt gandir,
Beṉ deurí' om menhs doptar a morir.

Ai valents reis sénher, e que faran
Uòimais armas ni fòrt tornei espes,
Ni ricas cortz ni bèll don alt e grand,
Puòis vos no·i etz, qui n'èratz capdellaire,
Ni que faran li liurat a maltraire,
Cilh que s'èran en vòstre servir mes,
Qu'atendíon que·l gazardoṉs vengues?
Ni que faran cilh, que·is dègran aucir,
Qu'aviatz fach en grand ricor venir?

Longa ira et àvol vid' auran,
E tostemps dòl, qu'enaici lor es pres!
E Sarrasiṉ, Turc, Paian e Persan,
Qu·us doptàvon mais qu'ome nat de maire,
Creisseran tant d'orguòlh en lor afaire,
Que·l Sepúlcres n'èr tròp plus tart conques
Mas Dièus o vòl que, s'el non o volgues,
E vos, sénher, visquessetz, ses falhir,
De Suría los avengr' a fugir.

Uòimais no·i a esperança qu·i an
Reis ni princes que cobrar lo saubes
Però, tuch cilh qu'en luòc de vos seran
Dèvon gardar com fotz de pretz amaire,
Ni qual fòron vòstre dui valent fraire,
Lo Jóveṉs Reis e·l cortés Coms Jaufrés!
Et qui en luòc remandra, de vos tres
Beṉ deu aver fiṉ còr e ferm cossir
De totz boṉs fachs començar e finir.

Tornada

Ai sénher reis! Dièus, qu’es vers perdonaire,
vera vida, vers om, vera mercés,
vos faça cell perdoṉ que cochos es,
si que·l pecat oblida e·l falhir,
e·l membre çò en que saupès servir.

Prose gloss and commentary

Stanza 1 

It is a terrible affair that it befalls me to tell, as singer and recounter, all the greatest harm and greatest grief — alas — that I have ever had, and which makes me continuously lament in tears. For he who was the chief/peak and father of merit, the great and brave Richard, king of the English, is dead. Oh God, what a loss and what harm it is. What strange words, and how harsh to hear of. All who can bear it have hard hearts indeed.

The syntax of the first four lines is not convoluted. It makes good sense. But it is complex and that complexity probably led to the great many manuscript variants which yield a simpler syntax for these lines.

Ric means not just "wealthy" but "of great standing, noble, prestigious." A rics om may be a "rich man" or a "great/powerful man" depending on context. Note the rich pun on Richard's name. (Fun fact: both the adjective and the name are from the Frankish loanword rīki "lordly, wealthy." Cognate to Latin Rēx, Hindi Rājā, German Reich.)

With terms like estranhs motz "strange/foreign words" and greus ad ausir "harsh to hear" Gaucelm uses language commonly associated with hearing an incomprehensible foreign language. The death, in other words, does not compute. It does not make sense. This isn't how it's supposed to be. Heroes aren't supposed to die before they triumph.

Stanza 2

The king is dead, and a thousand years passed when such a valorous man did not exist, nor was seen by any, nor shall there be again any man of his caliber, so gracious, so rich, so bold, so generous. (That) I think not even Alexander, the king who conquered Darius, gave or spent so much, and neither Charlemagne nor King Arthur had such worth(iness). For if truth be told, he made all the world (some) fear him and (others) thank him. (Or: made all the world now fear him and then thank him.)

King Arthur was at this time generally believed to be a historical figure.

Alexander the Great was for medieval writers a paragon of generosity.

The sado-masochistic mixture of fear and gratitude has a double meaning. It expresses a power analogous to that of God who is also feared and thanked. By suggesting that the thanks and fear come from different quarters, it also hints at the brutality with which Richard treated those who opposed him or whom he felt threatened by, matched by the open-handedness with which he rewarded the loyal.

Stanza 3

I am amazed at the faithless and deceptive age/world, how (in it) a wise and courtly man could still be, because good words and praiseworthy deeds don't mean anything to it (the world) anymore, and therefore why should one make a little effort (to that end) or any at all? For now death has made plain what it can do, how with a single blow it took the best of the world, all honor, all joys and all good things! And since we see that nothing can protect against it (death), one really ought to fear dying much less.

Sègle like its latin etymon saeculum may mean both "world" and "age".

Stanza 4

Oh valiant king milord. What will become henceforth of feats of arms, and grueling tight-packed tourneys, and splendid courts and fine gifts great and grand, since you who were their leader are gone. What will they do who placed themselves in your service and expected you to reward them, and are now abandoned to ill-treatment. What will they do whom you had brought to great wealth and power, and who (now) would have reason to kill themselves?

que·is degran aucir lit. "who should kill themselves, who would needs kill themselves." The use of the 2nd conditional form degran implies that the action is hypothetical and remote from fact. i.e. "Those who might have to themselves now." Use of the 2nd conditional with verbs like dever sometimes implies subjective belief also. So one could read the phrase as "those who think they ought to kill themselves now, those who wonder whether they ought to kill themselves."

Stanza 5

Theirs will be an abiding sorrow/anger and a wretched existence, and constant grief, for such is their lot. And the Saracens, Turks, Pagans and Persians who feared you more than they feared any (other) man born of woman, will grow so much more arrogant in their actions, that the Sepulchre will be conquered from them much later. But God wants it so. For if he had not wanted it, and you milord were alive, without fail, they soon would needs have fled Syria.

In his note to line 3 of this stanza in his critical edition, Barachini says
Il verso indica gli avversari degli stati cristiani in Medio Oriente e denota una buona conoscenza dei gruppi (etno-)linguistici di quell’area: i Sarrazi, Saraceni, sono le popolazioni arabe; i Turc sono chiaramente le popolazioni turche di ceppo altaico, in origine mercenari dei califfi abbasidi, ma a quest’epoca già giunte al potere in diverse aree del califfato; i Persan sono le popolazioni iraniche, tra cui vanno annoverati anche i curdi, popolo a cui apparteneva Safadino (il fratello di Saladino), che allora controllava la maggior parte della Terra Santa, della Siria e dell’Egitto; quanto ai Payan, il termine generico vuole probabilmente indicare tutte le genti non cristiane ostili agli stati crociati, assoldate dai sultani (si pensi all’eterogenea provenienza dei Mamelucchi). Il verso va pertanto inteso nel seguente modo: «arabi, turchi, iranici e tutti gli altri miscredenti».
I am not at all convinced of this. 12th and 13th century Europeans could and did use the term Saracen/Sarrazi/Saracenus/etc. to refer to any Muslim, most often Arab but sometimes not. (Notably, they did not use the term in reference to Arab Christians, whom they had ample dealings with in Crusader states.) Apart from this, Barachini seems to assume on Gaucelm's part both a considerable knowledge of the ethnolinguistic makeup of the Muslim occupants of the Levant, and considerable care in accurately referring to them. There is no clear proof that Gaucelm himself had yet been to Outremer until some time after this poem's composition, and in fact all the passage implies is that Gaucelm knew these terms referred in one way or another to the infidel enemy. This is all the reason he would need in order to use the words as he does. The line is a merism: "all of Mahommetan heathenry." But that does not make it a specimen of ethnography.

Because I enjoy irony, it's worth mentioning that in referring to the heathen Muslims this way, Gaucelm is doing much the same thing as the Arabic poet Al-Mutanabbī did two centuries earlier in referring to the heathen Christian army composed of "Byzantines and Russians" vanquished by his patron Abu Hasan the Realm-sword (Sayfu l-Dawla), the Emir of Aleppo. Al-Mutanabbī may not have known and probably did not care about the ethnic makeup of the opposing forces. His aim was to portray Lord Realmsword as facing down soldiers hailing from all over heathen Christendom in an army where their "every tongue and nation was gathered together." As Al-Mutanabbi would tell it, Lord Realmsword was "not just a sovereign vanquishing his peer, but monotheism vanquishing paganism" (lasta malīkan hāziman linaẓīrihī walākinnaka l-tawḥīdu ˁalā l-širki hāzimu). This is, more or less, the same virtue that Gaucelm praises King Lionheart for, not just as a tactician keeping specific enemy powers at bay, but as a bulwark of the faithful against all enemies of God in the Holy Land. It probably also helped that "Byzantines and Russians" (al-rūmu wa-l-rūsu) made for memorable soundplay in Arabic. As, incidentally, do paian e persan in Occitan.

om nat de maire "man born of woman" is a biblical phrase "mortal man."

Stanza 6

Henceforth there is no hope that there will be a king or prince who will be able to win it back. That being so, all those who will be in your place must consider how you were a seeker of esteem, and what your two valiant brothers were like, the Young King and the courtly Count Geoffrey. Whoever will follow on in place of you three must really have a high heart and resolute mind to begin and to complete all great deeds

Another variant of the final line is De far bos fachs e de socors chausir. "to do good deeds and choose to give aid (i.e. in crusading.)
Gaucelm here moves from praise of the dead Richard to broader praise of the House of Plantagenet.

Tornada

Oh lord king, may God the true forgiver, the true life, true man, true compassion, give you that pardon which is so urgently needed. So much may He forget (your) sins and failures, and remember the ways in which you were able to serve Him.

Richard was a popular ruler with the courtly crowds. People generally liked him. Or, at least, respected him. As Gaucelm indicates, he indirectly and directly made a great many men wealthy. He was also, as pundits like to put it today, "a polarizing figure" for some. Gaucelm expresses in this lament a complex of attitudes to cover the broadest swathe of sentiment. Even as he mentions Richard's excellence in war, in crusading, in noble sport, in courtly valor, in magnificent munificence, he also refers obliquely but extremely audibly to the fact that some disliked him and had reason to do so. Richard's readiness to conduct holy war was a great Christian virtue on its own, to be sure. (As uncomfortable as it may make modern Catholics, holy war was conceived of as a kind of exalted pilgrimage.) Relative irreligion could be passed over in silence by chroniclers, but his insistence on taxing churches and bending clerics to his preference was another matter. Such things might have given contemporary chroniclers (including the generally even-handed Ralph de Coggeshall) a bit of extra motivation to highlight unsavory elements of in Richard's character.

"Toxic masculinity" would be the term nowadays for many elements of Richard's personality. Contemporary accounts of his raping women exist, as do accounts of his cruelty, personal viciousness and fragile pride. (Modern historians are in resolute disagreement as to whether his breaking and entering of women was a way of compensating for the fact that women weren't the gender he really preferred to have sex with. Personally I think it's overreading. Aquitanian men of the time seem to have been given to flamboyant emotional openness, demonstrations of affection and physical closeness, including sharing a bed with a male friend. Such things are easily misinterpreted from the outside.) Richard's streak of cruelty had consequences. His impatience and callousness led to the massacre of several thousand Muslim prisoners after the taking of Acre, which provoked Saladin's retaliatory execution of several thousand Christian prisoners. This may be the sort of "failure" envisioned in these concluding lines.

Concluding thoughts:

The poem is replete with words taken from feudal terminology. Words such as proṉ, rics, onor, donaire, pretzvalor, valent, valer were terms of feudal obligation and are used in this poem to express feudal values. They are also used in love lyric to express valorous fidelity, infatuated servility, the worthiness of a lover etc. An important point in reading Old Occitan verse is that the language of feudal relations and obligations bled into the lyric or "poetic" register quite easily. Certainly by the time of this poem's composition, many feudal terms were experienced as "poetic" and exalted.

The feudality of elevated expression went beyond the strictly lexical, and the textual circumstances of this poem offer an excellent example. Manuscript witnesses to the final stanza of this poem attest two distinct versions. One in which the speaker addresses God and asks Him directly to intercede on King Ricartz' behalf, and another (the one given here) in which the speaker addresses King Ricartz and tells him he hopes that God will intercede on his behalf and forgive him. Both God and King are addressed in the respective versions as Sénher. (The use of Señor/Signore/Seigneur in Romance to refer to the Christian God, from a Latin etymon originally meaning "elder, superior" is another witness to this feudality.) The confounding of addressees in the text's transmission nicely illustrates how feudal vocabulary fused with religious sentiment.

This mood is difficult to capture in translation because the ideology that gave meaning to that mental universe is dead. An ideology, unlike doctrine or dogma, must be constantly created and verified in social life in order to make sense. If not, it dies, even if it is embodied in a form that may seem durable. As Barbara and Karen fields write in Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life:
Many Western Christians today still think of kneeling with folded hands as the appropriate posture for prayer, but few now know why; and the few who do know cannot, even if they wish to, mean the same thing by it as was meant by those to whom the posture was part of an ideology still real in everyday social life....The social relations that once gave explicit meaning to that ritual gesture of the vassal's subordination to his lord are now as dead as a dodo, and so, therefore, is the ideological vocabulary -including the posture of prayer- in which those social relations once lived.... [That original self-evident importance of the gesture existed only so long as] everyone in society stood in an explicit and nominally accepted position of inherited subordination to someone else: servant to master, serf to nobleman, vassal to overlord, overlord to king, king to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.