DOMNA, POIS DE MI NO·US
CHAL ...		 LADY, SINCE YOU CARE NOT
AT ALL ...
Bertrans de Born trans. A.S.Kline - (from Provençal)

Domna, pois de mi no·us chal
E partit m'avetz de vos
Senes totas ochaisos,
No sai on m'enquiera,
Que jamais
Non er per mi tan rics jais
Cobratz, e si del semblan
No trob domna a mon talan
Que valha vos qu'ai perduda,
Jamais no volh aver druda.

Pois no·us posc trobar egal,
Que fos tan bela ni pros,
Ni sos rics corps tan joios,
De tan bela tierra
Ni tan gais,
Ni sos rics pretz tan verais,
Irai per tot achaptan
De chascuna un.bel semblan
Per far domna soisseubuda
Tro vos mi siatz renduda.

Frescha color natural
Pren, bels Cembelis, de vos
E·l douz esgart amoros
E fatz gran sobriera
Quar rei lais,
Qu'anc res de be no·us sofrais.
Mi donz n'Aelis deman
Son adreit parlar gaban;
Que·m do a mi donz ajuda,
Pois non er fada ni muda.

De Chales la vescomtal
Volh que·m done ad estros
La gola e·ls mas amdos.
Pois tenc ma chariera,
No·m biais,
Ves Rochachoart m'eslais
Als pels n'Anhes que·m dara·n,
Qu'Iseutz, la domna Tristran,
Qu'en fo per tot mentauguda,
No·ls ac tan bels a saubuda.

N'Audiartz, si be·m vol mal,
Volh que·m do de sas faissos,
Que.lh estai gen liazos,
E quar es entiera,
Qu'anc nos frais
S'amors ni·s vols en biais.
A mon Melhz-de-be deman
Son adreit, nou corps prezan,
De que par a la veguda
La fassa bo tener nuda.

De na Faidida autretal
Volh sas belas dens en dos,
L'acolhir e·l gen respos
Dont es presentiera
Dinz son ais.
Mos Bels-Miralhz volh que·m lais
Sa gaieza e son bel gran,
E quar sap son benestan
Far, dont es reconoguda
E no s'en chamja ni·s muda.

Bels-Senher, eu no·us quier al
Mas que fos tan cobeitos
D'aquesta com sui de vos,
Qu'una lechadiera
Amors nais,
Don mos cors es tan lechais,
Mais volh de vos lo deman
Que autra tener baisan,
Doncs mi donz per que·m refuda,
Pois sap que tan l'ai volguda?

E
Papiols, mon Aziman
M'anaras dir·en chantan
Qu'amors es desconoguda
Sai e d'aut bas chazeguda.

Lady, since you care not at all
For me, and keep me far from you,
And for no good reason too,
The task I find immense
Of seeking another,
Who’ll bring me new joy ever,
And if I have not the making
Of a lady as much to my liking,
Of the worth of she that’s gone,
I shall love no other one.

Since I’ll not find your equal,
Lovely as you, made as nobly,
Nor so joyous, sweet in body,
Lovely to every sense,
Nor so happy
Nor by all repute so worthy
I’ll go seeking everywhere
A feature from each woman fair,
To make a borrowed lady
Till you look again toward me.

Colour fresh and natural
I’ll take, fair Cembelins, from you
And your sweet love-glances too!
And risk the impertinence
Of forgoing there
All else in which you lack no share.
Then of Aelis I’ll demand
Her adroit and charming tongue
Which must surely aid my suit,
That it be not dull or mute.

On Chalais’ Vicomtess I call;
I’d have her give instantly
Her throat and hands to me.
Then take the journey thence,
Without straying,
To Rochechouart speeding
That Agnes her hair might grant me
Since Isolde, Tristan’s lady,
Who was praised in every way
Was less fair than she today.

Audiart, though you wish me ill in all,
I would that you dress her in your fashion,
That she might be well-adorned
And, as you are perfection, hence
Naught shall tear,
Nor love find aught improper.
Of my Lady Better-than-Best, my plea
Is her true fresh noble body
That shows her at first sight
Sweet to see naked if you might.

On the ‘Exile’, too I call
Wishing her white teeth, also
That welcome and conversation, so
Sweet in her presence
And her dwelling.
My ‘Fair-Mirror’ in your giving
Is your gaiety and stature
And what your fine manner
Displays, well-known as ever,
Never to change or waver.

My Lady, all I’d wish befall
Is that I might feel love, in truth,
For her as much as I do for you!
That a passionate intense
Love be sired,
One by my body well-desired,
Yet I’d rather of you demand
A kiss than any other woman,
So why does my love refuse me
When she knows I need her truly?

E
Papiol, straight to my Lover,
Go, for me now, sing to her,
That love’s all disregarded, gone
From the heights, fallen headlong.
Click here 2 for another translation of this poem.
Trans. Copyright © A.S.Kline 2008 







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