Tenson - Troubabours

I usually know roughly which direction I’m going in when I write my blog. This is an exception. I’ve really had to dig deep and I’ve spent lots of time getting carried away with Dante and his contemporaries, and had to drag myself back to the theme of ‘tenson’. After a couple of false starts, an almost abandonment and a rewrite, this is where the challenge, and it became very challenging took me. Forgive me if I’ve fallen off topic too much.

From Encylopaedia Britannica:

“tenson. (Old Provencal: ‘dispute’ or ‘quarrel’) also called tenso or tenzon, a lyric poem of dispute or personal abuse composed by Provencal troubadours in which two opponents speak alternate stanzas, lines, or groups of lines usually identical in structure. In some cases these debates were imaginary, and both sides of the issue were composed by the same person. The tenson was a specific form of debate, a kind of medieval poetic contest. The form later spread to Italy, where it became popular among the poets of the dolce stil nuovo, including Dante. Compare partimen.”

Searching into this sent me on a fascinating journey back to The Classics and to people I’d never heard of or forgotten about. I chose the following as an example, Cercamon and Guilhalmi from the 12^th century.

Cercamon

« Car vei finir a tot dia [L'amor], lo joy e·l deport, E no·m socor la clerzia, Non puesc mudar no·m cofort Co fay, can conois sa mort, Lo signes, que bray e cria E·n mou son sonet per fort, Que·l cove fenir sa via, E plus no·i a de conort. » – « Maïstre, si Dieus me valha, Ben dizetz so que cove; Mas ja d'aisso no vos calha Car li clerc no vos fan be; Car lo bos temps ve, so cre, Que auretz aital guazalha Que vos dara palafre O renda que mais vos valha, Car lo coms de Peitieus ve. » – « Guilhalmi, non pretz mealha So que·m dizes, per ma fe; Mais volria una calha Estreg tener en mon se No faria un polhe Qu'estes en autrui sarralha, C'atendes la lor merce: Car soven, so cug, badalha Qui s'aten a l'autrui be. » – « Maïstre, gran benanansa Podetz aver si softretz. » – « Guilhalmi, vostra vanansa Non crei, si com vos dizetz. » – « Maistre, car no·m crezetz? Gran be vos venra de Fransa Si atendre lo voletz. » – « Guilhalmi, tal esperansa Vos don Dieus com vos m'ufretz. » – « Maïstre, n'ajatz coratge D'efan ni d'ome leugier. » – « Guilhalmi, sobre bon guatge Vos creyria volontier. » – « Maïstre, man bon destrier An li ome de paratge Per sufertar al derrier. » – « Guilhalmi, fort e salvatge ............................... » – « Maïstre, josca la brosta Vos pareisa·l teit novel. » – « Guilhalmi, ben pauc vos costa Lo mieus ostals del castel. » – « Maïstre, conte novel Aurem nos a Pantacosta Que·us pagara ben e bel. » – « Guilhalmi, fols qui·eus escota: Vos pagatz d'autrui borcel. «

– Since I see, every day, love, joy and pleasure end, and the clergy doesn't help me, I don't know where to turn, aside from comforting myself as does, when it knows of its death, the swan, who laments and cries and forcefully emits sounds when it's time for its life to end and it doesn't have hope anymore. – Mentor, may god help me, you certainly say fitting things; still, let it not bother you that the clergy doesn't do you any good; for a favourable time comes, I believe, in which you'll have an associate such as will give you a steed or an income worth even more to you, for the count of Poitiers is coming. – Guilhalmi, I don't care a thread for what you say, by my troth; I'd rather have a quail held tightly in my breast than an entire aviary which someone else keeps locked while I wait for mercy: for often, I find, one yawns while waiting for someone else's goods. – Mentor, you can have a great good, if you are patient. – Guilhalmi, I don't believe the vain words you say. – Mentor, why don't you believe me? A great good will come to you from France, if you care to wait for it. – Guilhalmi, may god give you a hope such as the one you offer me. – Mentor, don't have the heart of a child or of a fickle man. – Guilhalmi, with a good pawn I would gladly believe you. – Mentor, prominent men have many a good steed for being patient to the end – Guilhalmi, strong and wild ............................... – Mentor, near the foliage may your new roof appear – Guilhalmi, hosting me in the castle costs you very little. – Mentor, at Lent we'll have a new count who will pay you nice and good. – Guilhalmi, he's fool who listens to you: you pay out of other people's purse.

 

Looking for something modern, I found this short quarrelsome poem by D/H. Lawrence. I like his wit. It made me laugh.

Intimates

Don’t you care for my love? She said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
Please approach the supreme authority direct!-
So I handed her the mirror.
And she would have broken it over my head,
But she caught sight of her own reflection
And that held her spellbound for two seconds
While I fled.

                          D.H.Lawrence (1885-1930)

Now then, shall I return to Dante et al, or is my brain scrambled enough for now? I think I’ve found another world that I’ve previously encountered very briefly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sestina - The Secret

After dealing with the bindweed on the buddleia and nursing the contents of my over-full planters towards flowering, it has been lovely to sit out in the sunshine enjoying what passes for a garden. This sitting out time has been spent wisely, refreshing my memory on the discipline of the Sestina poetic form. Years have passed since my last (forced) encounter and you’d be correct to think that this is not my favourite. Anyway, rising to the challenge, I managed to get the rusty workings of my brain pointing in the right direction for long enough to compose something. I don’t know where the subject came from apart from the dark side of my imagination, iambic pentameter a bit hit and miss, but I hope it meets the criteria.

“A sestina is a poem written using a very specific, complex form. The form is French, and the poem includes six stanzas of six lines each, followed by a three line stanza at the end. Each stanza repeats the end words of the first stanza, not in the same order but in a strict formation.” See illustration.

Here is my sestina.

The Secret

After the passing of so many years
She still thought she would know him anywhere.
Decades ago, she wrote him a letter
But did not send it, instead tore it up
And decided it was best for their child
To remain unknown to him, a secret.

What started as a burdening secret
Became less important over the years.
Happy and healthy, this beautiful child
Was delightful company anywhere,
Cheerful and bright and always on the up,
Sometimes, she wished she had sent the letter.

All the details contained in that letter,
The reasons for having such a secret
And how important it was to keep up
For all the childhood and growing up years,
To guarantee acceptance anywhere,
And offer the best of all to this child.

A talented and inquisitive child,
Doing everything right to the letter.
A child going places, not anywhere.
Adult, needing answers to the secret
Of where a father might hide all these years,
Deserves to know the truth, so bring it up.

Then hours of searching and looking up.
So many questions you’re asking, dear child,
Travelling back over so many years,
This grown-up child composes a letter.
Confronted, she shares the truth, her secret,
Oh child, your father could be anywhere.

She always thought she’d know him, anywhere.
The mem’ry of him made her smile light up.
He would hate her for keeping this secret,
Denying him the chance to share their child.
Long ago, he had sent her a letter:
‘Return to Sender’, not lived here for years.

A secret lover, anywhere, now found.
After all the years, a chance to make up
Now he’s received a letter from his child.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Whether you embrace freedom or not, stay safe. Pam x

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Which is best .... East or West?

Having spent the first 10 years of my life in a village just outside York, I suppose that it's my 'spiritual' home. I love it over there because .... well, just because. And fond memories I suppose. I've lived in Blackpool since 1987 and although it will always have a special place in my heart (for good and bad reasons) it's just not the same. So for me,it has to be East I'm afraid.

It made me wonder how many people I knew, who although they live in Blackpool now, originally came from further afield, and whereabouts they came from? If you're reading this, please comment in the section below and state where you are now as opposed to where you hail from originally. I find it fascinating. No, I'm not odd, I promise. I just think that it's interesting how we all (more or less) seem to migrate. I for instance have family scattered all over the country and even over in Canada. What about you?

As it was such a lovely day when I was composing the offering of a poem below, it came out with a 'nature' feel. Even though it is on the theme of 'Direction'.


Following the Sun:

I look to the East and welcome a new morn
as the sky lightens from darkest inky blue,
heralding the Sun in majestic ascension,
over land swaddled in nights embrace and coolest dew.

As nature awakens it shakes off the chill,
becomes bustling with jobs to be done,
from flowers and bees to the man on the street,
all of creation playing their part bar none.

And as the day draws on we turn and look to the West,
bade farewell to the Sun as it sets.
Beautiful oranges and golds, reds and purples to behold,
our precursory quilt as dusk paints silhouettes.

So as we settle down to our slumber and rest,
dreaming while the Moon follows that same right of way.
As our planet doth turn, we sleep and yet yearn
for Helios blessing at the next break of day.


Thanks for reading!  ;-) x

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Back to the future - that's one direction

Back to the future – that’s one direction

Yesterday’s shock announcement that a ‘sequel’, written by Harper Lee before she wrote the phenomenon that is ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ will be published in July, soon had the trolls and begrudgers in twitter overdrive. It was said, variously, that Ms Lee, at 88, is senile and incapable of making a decision on publication; that she is profoundly deaf and unable to follow what is going on around her; that there exists documentary proof that Ms Lee never wrote another novel and we should be sceptical about any sequel’s authenticity; that an unscrupulous publisher has taken advantage of the fact that Ms Lee’s protector over many decades, her beloved sister, Alice, died last November. Etc., etc., etc. And this all within a few hours of the announcement of the publication of ‘Go Set a Watchman’.

The official version of events is that Ms Lee wrote ‘Go Set a Watchman’, which follows the life of the adult Scout Finch, first. Her editor at the time advised her to write instead a novel from the perspective of Scout as a child. This was duly produced and published, to great and unwavering acclaim, as ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. The manuscript of ‘Go Set a Watchman’ was subsequently lost and has only now been found all these years later at a lawyer’s office, attached to an early typescript of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. Ms Lee herself is said to have approved its publication, believing that it is ‘a pretty decent effort’.

I do not know the truth of the matter. All I know is that I will be beating a path to the nearest bookseller in July.  

From the sublime to the ridiculous - here is my own attempt at a short sequel, this time to Kathryn Stockett’s novel, ‘The Help’, which is set in 1960s Mississippi. It tells the ongoing story of the central character, Skeeter, after she moves to New York. I confirm that it is my own work, I am of relatively sound mind, have all my own teeth and have the mental capacity to sanction its publication!

Skeeter in New York

The beauty of moving to New York City from Jackson, Mississippi is that there is more between them than the 1,200 miles that divides them. They are two different ends of the universe. The contrast between the small-town introversion of Miss Myrna’s column in the Jackson Journal ,or the Junior League of Jackson Newsletter and say, Norman Mailer’s latest irreverent take on American life in Harpers Magazine. The world between Miss LaVole’s husband-snaring styles in Jackson and the stylish, modish fashion of Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Saks, Barneys and all the others in New York. The gulf between my parents’ sprawling farmhouse, claustrophobic in its familiarity and intrusion and my tiny second floor apartment in a Brooklyn brownstone on E34th Street, New York City, where there is no-one to question my every movement and thought. I’m sorry, Mother, but that’s what you did and would do still if I had not made the break. The difference between the small town, inward-looking mentality of Jackson and the cosmopolitan, easy impersonality of big city life.

In Jackson latterly I had no life to speak of at all. None of my friends was speaking to me. Stuart had left me in disgust and perplexity at my being someone he didn’t know at all. I had burned all my boats in the aftermath of the publishing of Help, a book I wrote in secret collaboration with Aibileen, Minny and a number of other coloured maids who fair blew the lid off life taking care of white families and  who are good enough to bring up their children but not to use their bathrooms.

In New York City, no-one knows of this. I have my own apartment containing all my important things. I have a desk that houses my typewriter. I have a bookcase of my own, where reposes in pride of place a box wrapped in white paper, tied with light blue ribbon. The box contains a copy of Help, the one signed by over five hundred Church members and sent over by Reverend Johnson. This is more precious to me than anything else I own and I will never be parted from it.

I have a job – a real job – at Harpers Magazine. My office is on Broadway, downtown Manhattan and I take the subway there every morning at 8.15, like a regular New Yorker. My work is as an assistant copy writer, which means that I help edit pieces commissioned or submitted on a chance by aspiring writers and make sure that they are in Harpers housestyle and not defamatory. I am surrounded by writers and writing, which is just the way I like it. Harpers and I are just made for each other!

I phone Mother and Daddy every week, on a Sunday evening. That way, I can feel that I don’t neglect or forget them, but also I can limit Mother’s endless questions about what I’m doing , what men I’m meeting, what I’m eating and wearing to a half an hour, once a week. Daddy is just happy that I’m happy. I phone Aibileen every Saturday morning when I know she won’t be trying to meet her deadline for the Miss Myrna column for the Jackson Journal. She is putting her heart and soul into her weekly column, I know, priding herself on giving the best possible cleaning advice to those who ask for it.

Here in New York, the world feels new and  - well, exciting. I feel close to the developing spirit of questioning the old order and can even make a contribution. I went with Aileen, my boss at Harpers, to a convention of the African-American Civil Rights Movement and was electrified by the speakers calling for what are basic human rights. I feel that we must enact the Civil Rights Bill that President Johnson is trying so hard to force through, to honour the memory of President Kennedy and also for the sake of Aibileen, Minny and all people of colour.

I am also going in August with Aileen and a couple of other people to Shea Stadium to see a new British group called the Beatles, who sound real lively.

‘Go find your life’ Aibeleen had said to me, when I was agonising over whether to take the job at Harpers. I sure am!

Thanks for reading,

Sheilagh

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