Peire Vidal

by Peire Vidal, Paul Blackburn (Translator), Basil King (Illustrator)

Translations of the Provencal poetry of Peire Vidal (1175-1205) by Paul Blackburn, with drawings by Basil King

58 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1972

Reviews

[Sam]

“When I look upon her in contemplation my
heart so melts, myself entire forgot,
I stand like a man in ecstasy
before a window where beauty is
resplendent against the sun.
Love beats me with the sticks I cut myself:
one time, in a high and regal room, I
stole a kiss.
My heart remembers it.”
—
“She has me altogether in her puissance,
can make me suffer all she likes,
I’ll not be bitter.
I have so soft a knowledge to do her pleasure
I lose the memory of my own
nor care. No day is
my love for her does not
spring, well up from the heart.”
—
“Bel Castiat, my lord, in your account, put
me down as one who’s sad and over-grave.
The sight of you or Vierna I cannot have
whom I love
from the heart and with a single faith.
A dream.”
—
“No man can ever pass a day in boredom
who has remembrance of her,
for she is the beginning and birth of all joy:
and he who would praise her
no matter how well he speaks of her, he lies!
for this world shall not look on one
better or fairer.

And if there’s anything
I know to say or do, I
merit no praise from it,
for in her is all good
and through her I’ve wit and knowledge of fulfillment,
so am both poet and happy.
And all I make which has in it any fineness
I have from the right delight of her fine body,
even as my heart longs for her in straightness.”
—
“One canso I’ve made murderously,
so much so
I don’t know how I did it.
Evening, morning, day or night
I am not the master of my thought,
less of my heart.”
—
“Lady cure me, don’t
stand and watch me die, a Lazarus,
of this sweet sickness.”
—
“Long I looked for what I did not need, then
I unclenched my hand
and there, that sunlight lay on it
how I do not know.
It came at my bidding lightly and
lightly I took as I desired
but now
the granted and given and grown-in-use
I have lost by blundering, misused,
have not gained it
and my friends laugh.

Ah Senher, dear Castiat,
I die of this villainy!
For my deadly enemy can
wound me with beauty.
Yet I hope for such good recompense,
from pain of love sweet deliverance
and end of guile.
But were it not so great a sin to despair…”
—
“I have no walled castle
and my land’s not worth two gloves,
but I am lover.”

[Harry]

Enjoyable translations