Free Poets Translate Poets: A Hudson Review Anthology by Paula Deitz

AM
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    Groaning, they overdo the amorous rage
    Th
    at has them pent like fi nches in a cage,
    And go about playacting, wan and pale—
    But I endite this plainly on my page:
    Who most complain are not those who most ail .
    Listen to this one’s oaths, to that one’s claim
    Th
    at he’s the slave of Love and not his page!
    Whoever saw these gawkers without shame
    Telling such tales to women as they gauge
    Will best deceive them—if that man were sage,
    He would correct these lovers without fail.
    Confi ne such overacting to the stage:
    Who most complain are not those who most ail .
    To mend such lovers surely is God’s aim,
    For much harm comes from men who will engage
    Women with pleas for favors, who defame
    Th
    eir honesty, who beg them to assuage
    Th
    ose passions which they feigningly allege;
    For my ballade (when asked) will tell this tale:
    No matter noble birth or lineage,
    Who most complain are not those who most ail .
    Charles Martin and Johanna Keller, 1999
    C h r i s t i n e de Pi s a n 47
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    F r e n c h
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    Fr a nçois Villon (1431–63)
    From the Testament
    Th
    e Old Woman Regretting the Time of Her Youth,
    Lament of the Beautiful Helmet Maker
    I thought I heard an old woman,
    Th
    e beautiful Helmet Maker,
    Grieving for her youth that’s gone,
    Speaking of it in this manner:
    “Ha! Felonious age, destroyer,
    Why did you beat me down this way?
    Who’s to stop me suff ering further,
    Ending it with a stroke today?
    Th
    e power I held over men
    You took, my beauty at its height.
    Clerks, leading merchants, clergymen,
    Would have given all for a night
    With such beauty, though they might
    Regret it later. And would today
    If they saw me as I am, a sight
    To make a beggar turn away.
    Many a man I would refuse—
    It wasn’t quite so bright of me—
    For a smart boy whom I chose,
    Fed well, and dressed in fi nery.
    I cheated on him but, believe me,
    I loved him, though he drove me mad.
    He knocked me around a bit roughly,
    And loved me only for what I had.
    He could drag me through the mud,
    Tread on me . . . I loved him more.
    Had he maimed me, I still would.
    F r a nç oi s V i l l on 51
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    When he told me to kiss him, the sore
    Ribs and curses went out the door.
    Th
    e glutton, full of wickedness,
    Embraced me. And a lot of good
    Th
    at’s done me. Shame and sinfulness.
    It’s thirty years that he’s been dead,
    And I remain with my gray hair.
    When I think of the times I had,
    And what I am now! When I stare
    At my naked body, and compare
    Its dried up, shriveled ugliness
    With what it used to be, I swear
    I’m fi lled with such great bitterness!
    Where has the smooth forehead gone,
    Blond hair, arched eyebrows, wide-spaced eyes,
    Th
    e playful look that nets the pigeon
    However timorous he is, or wise
    He thinks he is? To itemize:
    A straight nose, neither big nor small,
    Th
    e ears too, just the perfect size,
    And crimson lips, to cap it all.
    Pretty shoulders, long and slender
    Arms; beautiful hands and wrists,
    Th
    at my fate seemed to intend for
    Heated tourneys in the lists
    Of passion . . . small, tilting breasts,
    Rounded thighs, wide loins, and then
    Th
    e vulva in its little nest
    In the middle of the garden.
    Wrinkled forehead and gray hair,
    Sunken eyebrows, and the eyes
    52 F r e n c h
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    Whose laughter drove men to despair,
    Clouding . . . again to itemize.
    Th
    e nose that was a perfect size,
    Hooked. Two hairy ears hang