Poems: Francois Villon and one from Occitan- Translated by A Z Foreman Poems Found in Translation

And where are the snows of yesteryear ( in Boston, that's where)

Poems Found in Translation: “François Villon: Ballad of Ladies of Yore (From Middle French)” plus 1 more

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François Villon: Ballad of Ladies of Yore (From Middle French) Posted: 06 Aug 2015 04:18 AM PDT In translating this widely-translated poem I have tried to bring to light a different side of it, to convey some of the obscene undertones present in Villon's word choices throughout the poem. Plus a second version in the manner of a remake. Just 'cause. Ballad of the Ladies of Yore By François Villon Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in Middle French So, tell me where on lands or seas Has Flora gone, the Roman belle, And Thais and Archipiades, Great twins of beauty as stories tell. And Echo who by brook and dell Answered the rising cock come dawn, And wove a more than mortal spell? Well, where could last year’s snows have gone? And where is learned Heloise For whom Pete Abelard once fell So hard he came to Saint Denis’ Where his cut was a eunuch's cell? And where’s that dowager quaintrelle Who bagged her plaything Buridan  Then sent him down the Seine to Hell? Well, where could last year’s snows have gone? That lily quean whose tune could tease Sires even Sirens couldn't swell? Broad Bertha, Alice, Beatrice And Erenburg who banged Maine's bell? Great Joanne of Arc with her great yell When England torched her at Rouen? Where are they, Virginal Queen, pray tell? Well, where could last year’s snows have gone? Prince, ask no longer where they dwell. For as the days and years draw on, I’ve this and naught but this to tell: Well, where could last year’s snows have gone? Another Version: Ballad of The Good Ol' Dames. O Tell me to what continent Did fettered Sally Hemmings go? Black Carrie whom White Thurmond spent, And mister Kennedy’s Monroe? Blonde Nikky Brown (who perished so An actor could go acting on) Whose penetrator we all know? And where have all the flowers gone? Poor Sylvia too malcontent For Hughes to tie into a bow, Who, when the last of lovers went, Bent over for the oven’s glow? Saintly Millay whose mouth could blow Minds to bed, bath and Babylon But made her husband eat her crow? And where have all the flowers gone? That Lois for whom awkward Kent Had super prowess? Where’s that Lo Whom Humbert had and Humbert bent? That tart who ended Romeo? That pasty namesake of the Snow Who led those seven midgets on? Where, Quean of Virgins, did they go? And where have all the flowers gone? Dear Senator or CEO Dreaming of them today: dream on. Take this for answer if not no: Well, where have all the flowers gone? The Original: Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis Dictes moy où, n’en quel pays,
 Est Flora, la belle Romaine Archipiada, ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine; Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine Dessus rivière ou sus estan, Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine? Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ! Où est la très sage Heloïs,
 Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne Pierre Esbaillart à Sainct-Denys? Pour son amour eut cest essoyne.
 Semblablement, où est la royne
 Qui commanda que Buridan Fust jetté en ung sac en Seine? Mais où sont les neiges d’antan! La royne Blanche comme ung lys, Qui chantoit à voix de sereine; Berthe au grand pied, Bietris, Allys; Harembourges, qui tint le Mayne, Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine, Qu’Anglois bruslèrent à Rouen; Où sont-ilz, Vierge souveraine? …
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ! Prince, n’enquerrez de sepmaine
 Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
 Qu’à ce refrain ne vous remaine: Mais où sont les neiges d’anten?

Joan Bodon: Hunting the Chimera (From Occitan) Posted: 06 Aug 2015 05:35 PM PDT This poem starts out with what seem to be nationalist clichés, but these are subverted as the text unexpectedly shifts gears into something quite different toward the end.  Hunting the Chimera By Joan Bodon Translated by A.Z. Foreman Oh the war I fought is lost My color is a mournful white If they take away my land They'll smear my grief in their delight.  As I see those northern lice Glutted with glory all through France In the great winds of history What can we say, we Occitans? To give protection to our language Of a poor eighty-year-old few... There is nobody who remembers. They rob us of our children too.  Banging heads against a door... Lunatics in the hospital... A nice strong rinse, and for a helmet The holy grail upon your skull.... When you're hunting the Chimera Nothing beats electroshock Like the wrong the world has done I spit blood and fire and rock.  The Original: La caça de la Quimèra Ai perduda la miá guèrra Blanc de dòl es ma color Se me ganhan la miá tèrra Mascaran la miá dolor. Pesolhs confles de lor glòria Quand vesi los francimands Dins lo vent grand de l’istòria Que direm los Occitans? Per aparar nòstra lenga De vielhs de quatre vints ans… Pas degun que se sovenga E nos rauban los enfants. Còps de caps per una pòrta... Los falords a l’espital.... Una chucada pro fòrta.... Per casco lo Sant Grasal. La caça de la Quimèra: Res non val l’electròchòc Coma lo mal de la tèrra, Escupissi sang e fuòc…

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