389 Raimbaut d'Aurenga

Raimbaut of Orange (c. 1147 – 1173) or, in his native Old Occitan, Raimbaut d'Aurenga, was the lord of Orange and Aumelas. His properties included the towns of Frontignan and Mireval. He was the only son of William of Aumelas and of Tiburge, daughter of Raimbaut, count of Orange. After the early death of Raimbaut's father, his guardians were his uncle William VII of Montpellier and his elder sister Tibors.
He was a major troubadour, having contributed to the creation of trobar ric, or articulate style, in troubadour poetry. About forty of his works survive, displaying a gusto for rare rhymes and intricate poetic form.
His death in 1173 is mourned in a planh (lament) by Giraut de Bornelh, and also in the only surviving poem of the trobairitz Azalais de Porcairagues, who was the lover of Raimbaut's cousin Gui Guerrejat. It seems possible that Azalais's poem was composed in an earlier form while Raimbaut was still alive, because in his poem A mon vers dirai chanso he appears to contribute to the poetical debate begun by Guilhem de Saint-Leidier and taken up by Azalais as to whether a lady is dishonoured by taking a lover who is richer than herself (later there is a partimenon the topic between Dalfi d'Alvernha and Perdigon, and then a tensó between Giraut de Bornelh and king Alfonso II of Aragon). Aimo Sakari argues that Azalais is the mysterious joglar ("jongleur") addressed in several poems by Raimbaut.

Pattison, Walter T. The Life and Works of the Troubadour Raimbaut d'Orange. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1952. LCCN 52-5321.

389, ? Ar resplan la flors enversa

Gerard Zuchetto; Troubadours de XII et XIII siecle; vol 1 track 1 ****
There is no music for this song,ut Gerard used an old melody for the occasion

Troubadours Art Ensemble; La Troba volume 2; disc 1, track 1 (a rather disturbing recording!)

Sung (!?) by Gerard Zuchetto) very different version!! And he has used this for an introduction to a concert many times.
)See video of Troubadour Ensemble in Stanford in one of my posts)

Ar resplan la flors enversa Pels trencans rancs e pels tertres Quals flors? Neus, gels e conglapis Que cotz e destrenh e trenca; Don vey morz quils, critz, brays, siscles En fuelhs, en rams e en giscles. Mas mi ten vert e jauzen Joys Er quan vei secx los dolens croys. Quar enaissi m'o enverse Que bel plan mi semblon tertre, E tenc per flor lo conglapi, E·l cautz m'es vis que·l freit trenque, E·l tro mi son chant e siscle, E paro·m fulhat li giscle. Aissi·m sui ferm lassatz en joy Que re non vey que·m sia croy. Mas una gen fad' enversa (com s'erom noirit en tertres) Qu·em fan pro piegs que conglapis; Qu·us quecs ab sa lenga trenca E·n parla bas et ab siscles; E no i val bastos ni giscles, Ni menassas; –ans lur es joys Quan fan so don hom los clam croys. Quar en baizan no·us enverse No m'o tolon pla ni tertre, Dona, ni gel ni conglapi, Mais non-poder trop en trenque. Dona, per cuy chant e siscle, Vostre belh huelh mi son giscle, Que·m castion si·l cor ab joy Qu'ieu no·us aus aver talant croy. Anat ai com cauz' enversa Sercan rancx e vals e tertres, Marritz cum selh que conglapis Cocha e mazelh' e trenca: Que no·m conquis chans ni siscles Plus que flohs clercx conquer giscles. Mas ar – Dieu lau – m'alberga Joys Malgrat dels fals lauzengiers croys. Mos vers an – qu'aissi l'enverse, Que no·l tenhon bosc ni tertre – Lai on om non sen conglapi, Ni a freitz poder que y trenque. A midons lo chant e·l siscle Clar, qu'el cor l'en intro·l giscle, Selh que sap gen chantar ab joy Que no tanh a chantador croy. Doussa dona, Amors et Joys Nos ajosten malgrat dels croys. Jocglar, granren ai meynhs de joy! Quar no·us vey, en fas semblan croy.

Now the flora shines, perverse, through the jagged cliffs and through the hills. Which flora? Snow, ice and frost, which stings and hurts and cuts; wherefore I can't hear anymore calls, cries, tweets and whistles among leafage, branches and twigs. But I am kept green and merry by Joy now that I see wither the felons and the bad. For now I so reverse [things] that fair plains look to me like a hill and I mistake flowers for frost and, through cold, heat appears to me to cut and the thunder I believe to sing and whistle and leafage seem to me to cover the twig. I am so firmly bound in joy that, to me, nothing looks bad. But a crowd grown perverse, as if it were brought up among the hills plagues me far more than the frost: for each one of their tongues cuts and speaks softly, as in whistles; and it doesn't avail [hitting them] with staves and twigs, nor do threats; for they call joy doing what makes people call them bad. I cannot by kept by cold nor by frost, nor by plain or hill, from kissing you, reverse, lady for whom I sing and whistle, but by powerlessness too much am I cut  [down]; your beautiful eyes are the twig that punishes my heart so much with joy that, towards you,  my intentions don't dare be bad. I have gone about like a perverse thing, searching crags and dales and hills, as distressed as one whom frost bites and batters and cuts: but I am not won by songs and whistles more than a foolish student is won by twigs. But now – god be praised – I am harboured by Joy in spite of the slanderers, captious and bad. Let my verse go – for I reverse it so  that it can't be stopped by wood or hill – there where one doesn't feel the frost, nor cold has power enough to cut. May someone tersely sing and whistle it to my lady, and may it sprout [a new] twig in her heart; let him be one  who can sing nobly and with joy for it doesn't befit a singer who is bad. Sweet lady, Love and Joy match us in spite of the bad. Joglar, I have much less joy: since I don't see you, I look bad. Translation http://www.trobar.org/

389, 36   Pos tals sabers mi sortz e'm creis

Troubadours Art Ensemble; La Troba volume 2; disc 1, track 2 (Singing Gerard le Vot) ****

Pois tals saber mi sortz e·m creis Que trobar sai – et ieu o dic! – Mal estara si non pareis Et er mi blasmat si m'en gic; Car so qu'om van'ab la lenga Taing ben que en pes lo tenga, Car non pot aver pejor dec Qui ditz so que no s'avenga. Er ai gaug car sebram dels freis E remanon sol li abric; Li auzellet – et es lor leis Qe negus de chantar no·is gic – Us quecs s'alegr'en sa lenga Pel novel temps que·il sovenga; E dels arbres qu'eron tuit sec Lo foils pels branquils s'arenga. E qui anc jorn d'amar si feis Non taing q'era s'en desrazic C'ab lo novel temps que s'espreis Deu quecs aver son cor plus ric; E qui non sap ab la lenga Dir so que·il coven, aprenga Consi ab novel joi s'esplec: C'aisi vol Pretz que·s captenga. Estat ai fis amics adreis D'una que·m enganav'ab tric, E car anc s'amors mi destreis, Tos temps n'aurai mon cor enic; Qu'aras non voill qu'ab sa lenga Auir lo digz que·m destrenga Per so qu'autre ab lieis s'abrec Et eu caz so q'aicel prenga. Ab leis remanga·l malaveis E·l engans et ab son amic; Que tals joys m'a pres e m'azeis Dont ja non creirai fals prezic: Anz voill c'om mi tail la lenga S'ieu ja de leis crei lausenga Ni de s'amor mi desazec, S'ie·n sabia perdr'Aurenga. Ben taing qu'eu sia fis vas leis Car anc mais tant en aut non cric. Que Nostre Seigner, el mezeis, Ab pauc de far non i faillic; C'apenas saup ab la lenga Dir "aital vuoill que devenga"; Qu'a la beutat q'en leis assec Non volc c'autra s'i espenga. Domna, no·us sai dir loncs plaideis, Mas far de mi podetz mendic O plus ric que anc no fon reis; Del tot sui en vostre castic! Sol vos digatz ab la lenga Consi voletz que·m captenga; Qu'eu ai cor qu'enasi estec, E que ja d'autra no·m fenga! Domna, no·us quier ab la lenga Mas qu'en baisan vos estrenga En tal luoc on ab vos m'azec, E que d'ams mos bratz vos senga. Levet, fai auzir ta lengua En cuy beutatz se depenga; C'aia tal vers selha qu'ieu dec Per so que de mi·l sovenga.

Since such a skill springs and grows in me, that I can write poetry – and I do claim so! – it will look bad if it doesn't show and I shall be blamed if I give it up; since that which one boasts with his tongue should weigh heavily on his mind, since there is no worse fault than claiming something that doesn't happen. Now I enjoy that we part from the cold and that the shelters remain unused; little birds – their laws impose that no one get away with no singing – each one rejoices in its own language because of Spring, which it recalls; and the branches of the trees, which were all dry, are lined with foliage. And whoever took to loving ought not to uproot himself from it now for, with the awakening of Spring, each should have his heart enriched; and he who doesn't know how to express with his tongue what behoves him, let him learn how to achieve his aim with novel joy: for Worth wants one to bear himself so. I have been the faithful and true lover of a woman who deceived and tricked me and since I was tethered by my love for her, I shall always be resentful; but I don't want to hear from her mouth words  that would tether me because I know  that another enjoys her favour and I hunt what he captures. Let spite and deceit remain  with her and with her lover; since such joy has taken and inflamed me that I shall never believe anything false about it: rather, I'd have my tongue cut before I believe slander about her nor would I renounce her love, even if I knew that I'd lose Orange because of it. It behoves me to be faithful to her since I have never waxed so high. Because even the lord himself almost took fault with her, for he could barely utter "thus I wish her to become" For he doesn't want another woman to aspire to the beauty he put in her. Lady, I can't weave a long plea, but you can make of me a beggar or someone richer than ever a king was; I am entirely in your power! Just say, out of your mouth, how you want me to behave; for my heart has always been this way, and may I never fall for another woman! Lady, I don't ask for anything out of my mouth but to hug you, in kissing, in a place such that I may join you and encircle you with both my arms. Levet, have your voice, in which beauty should be portrayed; Let the one I mention have such a song that she may remember me. Translation http://www.trobar.org/