The Poetry of Taliesin

Taliesin (6th century) came a legendary figure of whom many stories are told and to whom many poems are ascribed—(almost) all of it fiction. It is believed by some scholars, however, that some of the poetry that mentions 6th century events or figures are likely the work of a real figure of that name who existed.

Rheged was a kingdom in the north of Great Britain, a Brittonic-speaking region in terms of post-Roman and Early Medieval Eras. One of its kings was Urien, mentioned in the Historia Brittonum and in several poems praising him. (Urien's grandson was St. Mungo.) A poem by Taliesin praising Urien at the Battle of Catraeth—and believed to be original—is offered here.

It is called "The Battle of Gwenystrad" [source].

The men of Catraeth arose with the dawn,
About the Guledig, of work a profitable merchant.
This Urien, without mockery is his regret.
He sustains the sovereignty and its demands.
Warlike, the grandeur of a perfect prince of baptism.
The men of Prydain hurtful in battle array,
At Gwenystrad, continuously offerers of battle.
Protected neither the field nor woods
The people with shelter when tribulation comes.
Like the wave loud roaring over the beach,
I saw valiant men in battle array,
And after the morning, battle-mangled flesh.
I saw a tumult of three limits slain,
A shout active in front was heard.
In defending Gwenystrad was seen
A mound and slanting ground obstructing.
In the pass of the ford I saw men gory-tinted,
Dropping their arms before the pallid miserable ones.
They join in peace as they were losers.
Hand on the cross they wail on the gravel bank of Garanwynyon.
The tribes revel over the rising wave.
The billows protect the hair of their captures.
I saw men of splendid progress
With blood that clotted on the garments,
Toiling energetically and incessantly in battle.
The covering battle, where there was no flight, when contrived.
The ruler of Reged, I am astonished at what was dared.
I saw a brow covered with rage on Urien,
When he furiously attacked his foes at the white stone
Of Galystem. His rage was a blade;
The bucklered men were sustained in need.
May a desire of battle come on Eurwyn.

And until I fail in old age,
In the sore necessity of death,
May I not be smiling,
If I praise not Urien.

This page tries to locate the battle geographically. 

Taliesin's existence is mentioned as one of five chief British poets in the Hitoria Brittonum. Although I've referenced the Historia several times, I haven't spent time explaining the pros and cons of this early source. Let's start talking about that tomorrow.

Chief of Bards

The 9th-century Historia Brittonum mentions five especially renowned British poets, one of whom is Taliesin. In the 12th century he was considered the author of a great number of romantic legends. The Middle Welsh manuscript called the Book of Taliesin from the 14th century has 56 poems. Scholars think 11 of them may date back to the 6th century, and may actually have been written by the figure known to history as Taliesin.

We know little of his life (of course), but the odes to King Urien Rheged, who died c.550, give us a time frame for an early bard. There are poems to other rulers of that era, suggesting that Taliesin may have performed for at least three kings. His life, however, contains (again, of course) many stories that cross over into fantasy and legend. His double-birth is the most profound of these.

According to a 16th-century account, the Hanes Taliesin (Welsh: "Tale of Taliesin"), his given name was Gwion Bach, and he was a servant to Ceridwen, an enchantress married to a noble in the time of King Arthur. She wanted her ugly son to gain respect, and so created a potion of inspiration so that he would become a famous bard. The potion needed stirring for a year and a day, and that task was given to Gwion Bach. At the completion of the stirring, three drops from the cauldron landed on Gwion's thumb.

Because it was hot, Gwion immediately put his thumb in his mouth, and received the inspiration and wisdom intended for Ceridwen's son. Knowing Ceridwen would be furious, he fled. She pursued, so he turned himself into a hare. Ceridwen turned herself into a greyhound to catch him, so he became a fish and leapt into the river. She became an otter, so he turned himself into a bird to fly away. She turned herself into a hawk, so he fled into a barn and turned himself into a single grain to hide. She became a hen and ate the grain.

The result was that she became pregnant. Realizing that she would give birth to Gwion, she resolved to kill the child, but he was so beautiful at birth that she could not bring herself to do it. She instead put him in a basket and threw him into the river.

The baby and basket got caught in a weir set up to catch salmon by Elffin, son of a lord, who raised the child and named him Taliesin. (The illustration above is an 1897 work by F.H.Townsend.) Taliesin grew up possessing the wisdom and talent derived from the potion ingested by his previous self.

That is the origin story of the legendary Taliesin. Tomorrow we'll look at the poetry that might actually be ascribed to the real Taliesin.

Faking Medieval Literature

During the Celtic Revival, a Welsh stonemason named Edward Williams (1747 - 1826) took an interest in collecting old manuscripts and began writing his own poetry. After moving to London, he joined a Welsh literary society, but later returned to Wales and farming (at which he was unsuccessful). In the 1780s, he decided to help "revive" early Welsh literature by forging it, and he adopted the name Iolo Morganwg. His collection was later published in 26 volumes as the Iolo Manuscripts by his son, Taliesin, whom he named after an early medieval bard.

To be fair, not everything in the Iolo Manuscipts was a forgery. He wanted to prove, however, that a lot of Welsh culture—particularly druidism—survived the Roman Conquest of Britain, and his evidence was manuscripts that he claimed to have uncovered himself. His first foray into re-educating a modern world on his finds was by publishing a collection of poetry by a known 14th-century creator of love poetry and erotica, Dafydd ap Gwilym (c.1315 - c.1350). He included hitherto unknown poems of Dafydd which were Edward's first published forgeries.

This collection was very successful, and Edward moved back to London in 1791 where he founded Gorsedd (Welsh for "throne"), a community of Welsh writers and poets. (The site of its founding is commemorated by the plaque shown above.) This society had ranks:

• Ovates, who wear green robes (novices)
• Bards, who wear blue robes (seasoned members)
• Druids, who wear white robes (the highest rank)

Wales has an annual music and poetry competition, the Eisteddfod. In 1884, the Transactions of the Royal National Eisteddfod of Wales made remarks on Edward's published work:

The records thus furnished, take us back to a time of Prydain ab Aedd Mawr, who is said to have lived about a thousand years before the Christian era, and who established the Gorsedd as an institution to perpetuate the works of the poets and musicians.

Of course, Edward's records were made up, but they supported the idea of a Celtic Revival and mis-educated people for generations. Gorsedd also made much of Stonehenge and other circles of standing stones. Occurrences of Eisteddfods often created circles of standing stones to mark the event, but these days a set of artificial stones is used and set up wherever the Eisteddfod takes place, only to be put away until the following year.

But what of the druids? Do we really know anything about them, especially since they left no written records? Let's delve into them next time.

The Poet Hilarius

In yesterday's post on Eve of Wilton I mentioned that much of what we learn about her comes from the writing of Hilary the Englishman. He studied under Peter Abelard c. 1125 in the Champagne area of France. He also seems to have traveled around, at least to Angers in Anjou because of a poem entitled "To a Boy of Anjou."

A single manuscript of verses exists in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. Hilary wrote three rhyming miracle plays in mixed Latin and French. One, "The Play of the Image of St Nicholas," tells of a Muslim invasion that slaughters everyone they find but cannot harm a single man praying before an image of St. Nicholas.

Most of the poems included in the manuscript are addressed to young boys, possibly erstwhile pupils of Hilary. In "To a Boy of Anjou," Hilary begins:

Beautiful and singular boy,

Kindly inspect, I implore you,

These writings which are sent by your admirer;

Look at them, read them, and profit by what you read.

Prostrate at your knees,

On bended knee, with clasped hands,

As one of your suppliants,

I spare neither tears nor prayers.

I am afraid to speak face to face;

Speech escapes me, I am held speechless,

So I admit my sickness in writing,

Confident that I shall merit healing.

Enough, wretch! I barely bore it

When I tried to hide my love;

Now that I can no longer dissemble,

I finally extend my hands, bound together.

As a patient I demand a doctor,

Holding out my hands in supplication.

You alone have the only medication;

Therefore save me, your clerk.

Since they all profess the beauty of their subjects and his longing for them, Hilary became popular in modern scholarly LGBT circles.

William of Tyre mentioned a Hilary at Orléans c.1150 with whom William was reading Classical literature. This Hilary often gets offered as a possible additional appearance of Hilary the Englishman. This seems unlikely, because what little we know of this other Hilary is that he was connected to northern Italy and wrote in Latin and Italian. I've made one mention of William of Tyre before, but there is a lot more to say about the man who was an archbishop, a chronicler, and a European born in Jerusalem. See you next time.

The Battle of Brunanburh

We saw yesterday how in 937 an alliance of former enemies came together to attack King Æthelstan, who had in the past proven superior in battle to some of them individually. The final battle of that conflict was decisive, but not in the way the attackers expected.

The antagonists were Olaf Guthfrithson, King of Dublin, Constantine II, King of Scotland, and Owain, King of Strathclyde. Olaf sailed from Dublin in August, and the battle must have taken place before winter, but we don't know exactly when. Nor do we know exactly where Brunanburh was. We know the name "Brunanburh" from the Old English poem about the battle that is found in four of the nine surviving copies of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

The poem, our source of information about the battle, begins by praising Æthelstan and his brother, Edmund:

King Athelstan, the lord of warriors,

Patron of heroes, and his brother too,

Prince Edmund, won themselves eternal glory

In battle with the edges of their swords

Round Brunanburh; they broke the wall of shields,

The sons of Edward with their well-forged swords

Slashed at the linden-shields; such was their nature

From boyhood that in battle they had often

Fought for their land, its treasures and its homes,

Against all enemies. Their foes fell dead,

The Scottish soldiers and the pirate host

Were doomed to perish; and with blood of men

The field was darkened from the time the sun

Rose at the break of day, the glorious star,

God the Eternal Lord's bright candle passed 

Across the land, until this noble creature

Sank to its resting-place. [source]

As the poem says, the battle lasted all day. The invaders broke ranks and fled, and Æthelstan's men pursued them. Olaf sailed back to Dublin and Constantine fled northward to Scotland, but the fate of Owen of Strathclyde is not mentioned.

The battle is corroborated in the Annals of Ulster, recording that several thousands of Norsemen were killed, including five kings and seven earls who accompanied Olaf. Constantine's son was killed. English losses were not zero: the Annals of Clonmacnoise list Æthelstan's cousins among the deceased. Over three dozen medieval texts— Anglo-Saxon, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Norman, and Norse—mention the battle. The Annales Cambriae simply lists "war at Brune" as its sole 937 entry, but others offer detail that coincides with the Anglo-Saxon poem.

Historians refer to the Battle of Brunanburh and its decisive victory over invaders as the moment when all of the smaller kingdoms in England came together and established their unity as "England." Æthelstan is considered by some to be the first king of a united England. Unfortunately, he did not have long to enjoy this status. I'll explain tomorrow.

Great and Holy Wednesday

Yesterday's post mentioned how Kassia the Blessed was the only female poet whose verse was used in the Byzantine liturgy. It is recited on Great and Holy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Easter, and commemorates the Bargain of Judas. The story behind it is found in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and John.

The story in the Gospels is that, on the Wednesday before Passover, Jesus was in the house of Simon the Leper. Before dinner, a woman named Mary anoints Jesus' head and feet with spikenard, an expensive oil derived from a plant in the honeysuckle family. The apostles feel that the oil should have been sold and the money distributed among the poor. The Gospel of John says that Judas wanted to sell the oil and keep the money for himself. It is after this event that Judas decides to go to the Sanhedrin and make a deal that he will deliver Jesus into their hands in exchange for money.

Roman Catholicism calls this day Holy Wednesday in the lead up to Easter. In Ireland it was referred to as Spy (meaning an "ambush") Wednesday. Where does the poetry of Kassia fit in the Byzantine liturgy? Towards the end of matins (a morning prayer service), the Hymn of Kassiani speaks from the viewpoint of the woman, Mary, who washes and anoints Jesus:

O Lord God, the woman who had fallen into many sins, having perceived Thy divinity received the rank of ointment-bearer, offering Thee spices before Thy burial wailing and crying: "Woe is me, for the love of adultery and sin hath given me a dark and lightless night; accept the fountains of my tears O Thou Who drawest the waters of the sea by the clouds incline Thou to the sigh of my heart O Thou Who didst bend the heavens by Thine inapprehensible condescension; I will kiss Thy pure feet and I will wipe them with my tresses. I will kiss Thy feet Whose tread when it fell on the ears of Eve in Paradise dismayed her so that she did hide herself because of fear. Who then shall examine the multitude of my sin and the depth of Thy judgment? Wherefore, O my Saviour and the Deliverer of my soul turn not away from Thy handmaiden O Thou of boundless mercy."

The italicized line is the one supposedly added by the Emperor Theophilos (in an anecdote explained in yesterday's post).

The figure of Judas Iscariot fascinated the Middle Ages. Since he kills himself shortly after betraying Jesus, there are no tales as there are with the other apostles about traveling, converting people, and performing miracles. The Middle Ages did not let him go from their imaginations, however, and his life story was not only expanded, but continued, even to the point where medieval people met him! Let's take a look at what Judas Iscariot meant to medieval legend, starting tomorrow.

Christine and Joan

One of the last written works by Christine de Pizan was the poem Ditié de Jehanne d'Arc ("The Tale of Joan of Arc"), published mere weeks after the coronation of Charles VII (17 July 1429). Two complete manuscripts of the poem have survived. This is the only work about Joan of Arc that was written in her lifetime. Christine never mentions here or anywhere the capture of Joan by the English, and it is assumed that Christine's death took place in 1430, preceding Joan's capture in May of that year.

Her opening prologue of a dozen stanzas offer us a bit of autobiography as well as her emotions about the end of the war, showing us a tremendous surge in national pride and optimism over the end of the war and the restoration of the original monarchy:

I.
I, Christine, who have wept for eleven years in a walled
abbey where I have lived ever since Charles (how strange
this is!) the King’s son–dare I say it?–fled in haste
from Paris, I who have lived enclosed there on account of
the treachery, now, for the first time, begin to laugh;

III.
In 1429 the sun began to shine again. It brings back the
good, new season which had not really been seen for a
long time–and because of that many people had lived
out their lives in sorrow; I myself am one of them. But I
no longer grieve over anything, now that I can see what I desire.

The following 49 stanzas tell us the story of the civil war, the first of which immediately credits the efforts of Joan of Arc:

XIII.
And you Charles, King of France, seventh of that noble
name, Who have been involved in such a great war before
things turned out at all well for you, now, thanks be to
God, see your honour exalted by the Maid Who has laid
low your enemies beneath your standard (and this is new!)

Joan's contribution to the war is considered a sign of divine intervention, as the young Maid of Orleans single-handedly renewed the fighting spirit of the French.

Christine concludes the poem with the understanding that not everyone sees the end of the war the same way as she:

LXI.
This poem was completed by Christine in the above
mentioned year, 1429, on the last day of July. But I
believe that some people will bc displeased by its
contents, for a person whose head is bowed and whose
eyes are heavy [can not] look at the light.

Christine's works were kept alive in small pockets of literary interest since her death. In 1949, French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir wrote that Christine's 1399 L'Épistre au Dieu d'amours ("Epistle to the God of Love") was "the first time we see a woman take up her pen in defence of her sex." The later 20th century saw increased interest in her as the first feminist writer.

We, however, will use her last work to veer off into politics of the French civil war and the appearance of Joan of Arc. See you tomorrow.

The Romance of the Rose, Part 2

The title of this blog post is almost "literal" in the sense that the Roman de la Rose was written in two parts: one by Guillaume de Loris in the first half of the 13th century and the second by the poet Jean de Meun in the second half. Jean saw nothing wrong with taking what Guillaume had written and adding to it—in fact, adding four times the number of lines as the original—but also changing its themes to those of personal interest to him.

Jean added new allegorical figures such as Nature and Genius, and continued the conversation about the nature of Love and its affect on the narrator. More than that, however, was a cynical approach to other topics, mocking many of the people and conventions of his society.

He attacks the priesthood, monastic orders, and the papacy, considering the Church's fairly recently push to outlaw clerical marriage. He attacked the mendicant orders: they had begun to push into the universities, becoming teachers and threatening the seniority of the secular clergy. He also mocks the nobility and the pretensions of royalty in a pre-echo of the 14th century's peasant's cry of "When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"

He also took the opportunity to express cynical views on women and marriage. He offered his list of women's vices and how men could avoid their traps. Although this may have been entertaining to some readers, as the work became popular it was attacked by many writers of the 14th century, such as by Jean Gerson, Christine de Pizan, and Pierre d'Ailly.

One of its aspects that may have helped its duplication and distribution is that the (second) author had a broad knowledge of current scientific and literary knowledge. He packs into the total work a lot of references to classical authors and historical events. In fact, it is a reference to a specific event that helps place the composition: the execution of Conradin by Charles of Anjou in 1268, so the poem was completed after that date and before Jean's death in 1305.

Despite the hostility it received from some quarters, it was enormously popular. Chaucer made a translation called The Romaunt of the Rose, which he mentions in his poem The Legend of Good Women, but the extant version of The Romaunt of the Rose that we have may not have been produced by Chaucer, since parts of it differ stylistically from Chaucer's other works.

Back to the hostility, however, and a contemporary of Chaucer: Christine de Pizan is considered one of the earliest feminist writers, and we should talk about her more. We'll start that conversation next time.

The Romance of the Rose, Part 1

Let's talk about the most popular secular literary work in the Middle Ages. More manuscripts have survived of the Roman de la Rose than just about any other non-religious work. It has a few other notable aspects. One is its length: 21,782 lines! The other is that it is an unintended collaboration by two men who never met.

Guillaume de Lorris (c.1200 - c.1240) was a French scholar and poet who wrote 4,058 lines of a romantic poem called the Roman de la Rose c.1230. That is all we know about him; we would know even less if not for Jean de Meun. Jean de Meun (c.1240 - c.1305) was a Parisian writer who picked up Guillaume's work and added 17,724 lines. The only reason we know the name "Guillaume de Lorris" is that Jean de Meun names him as the man who started the poem that de Meun continued.

"Continued" should not be construed to mean "carried on in the same vein as the original." Guillaume's section takes place in a walled garden, a stereotypical locus amoenus ("pleasant place") for medieval lovers. The narrator describes a dream he had as a young man, finding the garden with carvings on the outside of the wall of women representing vices such as Cruelty, Covetousness, and Avarice.

When I the age of twenty had attained –
The age when Love controls a young man’s heart –
As I was wont, one night I went to bed
And soundly slept. But there came a dream
Which much delighted me, it was so sweet...

Inside the garden, however, he finds a different situation. A beautiful woman named Idleness introduces him to a young man named Pleasure, who in turn introduces the narrator to Love, Joy, Courtesy, and Pleasant Looks. After spending some time with them, the narrator goes for a walk, unaware that he is being stalked by Love. He comes to a pool in which he glimpses a beautiful rose. Just then, Love shoots him with five arrows— Beauty, Simplicity, Courtesy, Company, and Fair Seeming—and then demands the narrator become a servant to Love.

The narrator's goal then is to pursue the rose (which represents a lady as well as female sexuality). Reason appears and tells the narrator to abandon his quest for the rose. Friend comforts the narrator, who goes back to kiss the rose, but Jealousy builds a castle around the rose to keep the narrator away.

It doesn't seem likely that that is where Guillaume meant his poem to end, but that is all we have from him. When Jean de Meun came across it and decided to add more, he changed the tone a bit (he also might have edited the original, so we cannot be certain we know exactly what Guillaume wrote). Tomorrow I'll tell you how he changed the direction and used it to criticize more than just the act of falling in love.

The Parliament of Fowls

Chaucer's Parlement of Foules had a very different purpose from the Conference of Birds by Attar of Nishapur that I discussed yesterday. Whereas Attar intended to educate the reader on the Sufi path to enlightenment in this world, Chaucer wanted largely to entertain, although one can argue that there is a theme of love and free will.

The narrator starts by lamenting that he does not know love himself. One day, while reading a book about a prophetic dream (Cicero's "Dream of Scipio"), he falls asleep and has his own dream in which the Roman general Scipio appears and leads him up through the celestial spheres to the temple of Venus, decorated with images of doomed lovers.

Passing through, they come to a garden where he sees Cupid making arrows, as well as several other allegorical figures connected to the quest for love (Pleasure, Adornment, Lust, Courtesy, Cunning). Here the personification of Nature is holding a parliament in which birds will choose their mates. Three male eagles try to make their cases for who should mate with the sole female eagle.

There is no conclusive winner in this debate. The other birds are getting restless, waiting for the eagles to finish, and want to lave. The turtledove tells them to wait and let the eagles' debate play out. Nature decides to speed things up by selecting a judge.

The male falcon is selected to judge the eagles' situation, and suggests (in chivalric-tournament style) a battle between the three. The goose speaks up and suggests that maybe the female eagle should be given the choice herself. The female eagle says she cannot make a decision, and would like another year to think about it. Nature agrees, and tells the males to stay faithful while waiting.

After this, all the other birds pair off and began to chatter and sing. The noise wakes up the narrator, who resumes reading.

The poem is 700 lines, but one line has been quoted in more scholarly (and mundane) periodicals than any other, and that is line 309-10:

For this was on Seynt Valentynes day,

Whan every foul cometh ther to [choose] his [mate],

...and again, starting at line 319:

This noble emperesse, ful of grace,

Bad every foul to take his owne place,

As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere,

Seynt Valentynes day, to [stand] there.

This is the earliest known reference to St. Valentine's Day being connected to the idea of love or choosing a mate. It may simply be that 14 February was warm enough that birds started being more active and building nests. There was a Medieval Warm Period when average temperatures were higher than they were after 1400, so mid-February might not be too great a stretch for spring activity.

Whatever the reason in Chaucer's mind, it gives us a reason to turn to St. Valentine, and get at the heart (pun intended) of this legend.

The Conference of the Birds

Probably the best-known work of the Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur is Manṭiq-uṭ-Ṭayr, called in English the Conference of the Birds. In it, birds from all over the world hold a conference to decide which of them should rule all the others. They turn to the wisest of the birds, the hoopoe, for advice. The hoopoe says they should go and ask the Simurgh. The Simurgh (pictured here) was a legendary bird of Persian mythology, like the phoenix. Attar makes its name a pun, because the phrase sī murğ means "thirty birds" in Persian. You'll see why this is significant.

The hoopoe tells the birds that to each the Simurgh they must cross seven valleys:

1. Valley of the Quest, where the Wayfarer begins by casting aside all dogma, belief, and unbelief.

2. Valley of Love, where reason is abandoned for the sake of love.

3. Valley of Knowledge, where worldly knowledge becomes utterly useless.

4. Valley of Detachment, where all desires and attachments to the world are given up. Here, what is assumed to be “reality” vanishes.

5. Valley of Unity, where the Wayfarer realizes that everything is connected and that the Beloved is beyond everything, including harmony, multiplicity, and eternity.

6. Valley of Wonderment, where, entranced by the beauty of the Beloved, the Wayfarer becomes perplexed and, steeped in awe, finds that he has never known or understood anything.

7. Valley of Poverty and Annihilation, where the self disappears into the universe and the Wayfarer becomes timeless, existing in both the past and the future.

The birds quail*, because they cannot imagine going through these valleys. Attar, of course, is trying to take his readers through the necessary stages of asceticism and purification that are the hallmarks of Sufism.

Some of the birds die of fright at the hoopoe's announcement. The rest start the journey anyway, but many don't make it due to hunger and thirst, or heat, or wild animals. Some just give up.

Finally, only 30 birds reach the Simurgh, to discover that they are the Simurgh, and that traversing the seven valleys has caused them to achieve success and become the pinnacle that they sought.

Although Attar wants the story to be entertaining, it became famous because of the symbolism that leads the reader through the stages to achieve enlightenment.

It would be difficult for a medievalist reading about this to not think about another poem in which all birds gather together, although their purpose for being together would be appalling to Attar. Next time we'll talk about Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls and the first recorded reference to a holiday that generates $10 billion in sales each year.

*Yes, that's an avian pun.

Pharmacist Turned Poet

Although little is known of his personal life, and he was not famous in his own lifetime, the Sufi poet known as Attar of Nishapur (c.1145 – c.1221) is commemorated in a National Day of Attar Nishapuri on 14 April. From rare contemporary comments and later mythologizing, here is what we think we know about him personally.

His full name was Abū Ḥāmid bin Abū Bakr Ibrāhīm. Born to a chemist, he was highly educated and became a pharmacist ("Attar" means "apothecary"), in which profession he attended to numerous patients. His patients would confide their troubles in him, which affected him deeply. Abandoning his profession, he traveled widely, meeting many people but especially Sufi philosophers, finally returning to his home town of Nishapur where he promoted Sufism, a religious practice found within Islam which is characterized by a focus on Islamic purification, spirituality, ritualism, and asceticism.

(By the way, Nishapur produced another famous Persian poet I have talked about in this blog, who died not many years prior to Attar's birth: Omar Khayyam.)

Attar wrote lyrical poems representing Islamic mysticism, biographies of famous Muslim mystics, and a few philosophical works. Although mentioned by contemporaries, he was not well-known in his lifetime, but some of his works survived so that they could be promoted in the 15th century. It is possible that he was "discovered" because of a comment by Rumi:

"Attar was the spirit,

Sanai his eyes twain,

And in time thereafter,

Came we in their train."

In another poem, Rumi wrote:

Attar travelled through all the seven cities of love

While I am only at the bend of the first alley.

The ideas infused in Attar's poetry reflect Sufi ideas: the soul is bound to the body and awaits its release to return to the source of spirit. This reunion can be attained in this life through purification and asceticism. He draws on many older works and history to explain his ideas.

In April 1221, Mongols invaded and slaughtered many in Nishapur, including the 78-year-old Attar. A mausoleum in Nishapur was built in the 16th century (pictured above is the mausoleum after a 1940 renovation).

His most famous poem is called (in English) The Conference of the Birds. I'd like to share it with you tomorrow.

The Persian Connection

Yesterday's post, "This Too Shall Pass," tells about a particular poem from the Exeter Book with the theme that sorrowful occurrences eventually pass away, so things get better. The saying "This too shall pass" is familiar to English speakers.

On 30 September, 1859, Abraham Lincoln used this expression while addressing the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society when he said:

It is said [redacted] once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away." How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!

Seems straightforward, and yet it's now time to reveal the [redacted] portion. The words I left out are "an Eastern monarch." Huh? Why not the Western European source of the Exeter Book? One of the earliest translations into Modern English of passages from the Exeter Book was in 1842, the Codex Exoniensis by Benjamin Thorpe. Deor was included, but it seems clear that Lincoln (although widely read) did not get his theme from this work on Old English poetry.

It is likely that he got it from a more popular author, Edward FitzGerald. Known more as the author of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, FitzGerald had published a retelling of an old Persian fable, Solomon's Seal, in which a sultan requests of Solomon a motto for a signet that would be useful in both adversity and prosperity, and Solomon offers "This also shall pass away." The story also appears in Jewish folklore, where sometimes Solomon is the king who requests a motto.

Lincoln may have got it from Blackwood's Magazine (1817 - 1980), a British periodical that was also distributed in the United States and featured American authors. An early English appearance of this tale appeared in Blackwood's in 1848.

Ultimately, the saying's origin has been traced to Persian Sufi poets such as Rumi, Sanai, and Attar of Nishapur. In fact, Attar (c.1145 – c.1221) may be the earliest source, and we'll check him out tomorrow.

Giovanni Boccaccio

Giovanni Boccaccio (1313 - 1375) was eight years old when Dante died, but he revered the man and wrote a biography about him. He even gave a series of lectures in Florence on Dante's works—a first for a non-Classical Era writer. He was more than just a fan of another, however, becoming a treasured poet in hid own right.

Like Dante, Bocaccio wrote in Tuscan vernacular rather than Latin, and he wrote in prose, telling stories that captured the imagination and inspired others, including Geoffrey Chaucer.

Boccaccio grew up in Florence. His father worked for the banking/trading company of the Bardi; Giovanni worked there for a brief time, deciding that it was not a profession to his liking. His father came head of a branch in Naples, taking the family there, and Giovanni persuaded his father to let him study law at what is now the University of Naples (where Thomas Aquinas had been 100 years earlier). Six years of studying canon law taught him that he liked that profession no more than he liked banking.

Two good things came from his time in Naples. One was his love for Fiametta. That was not her name; simply what he called her in his writings. If she existed, she was really Maria d'Aquino, illegitimate daughter of King Robert the Wise of Naples, whom he saw and with whom he fell in love. He wrote a novel about her, and mentions her in many other writings.

The other good thing from his time in Naples was that he began writing. He produced works such as Il Filostrato, about star-crossed lovers during the Trojan War (which became a source for Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde and Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida), and Teseida, nominally about Theseus but dominated by the rivalry of two young knights over a woman (and the source of Chaucer's "The Knight's Tale" in The Canterbury Tales).

He also wrote the first Italian prose novel, Il Filocolo, the story (well-known in Europe) of Florio and Biancifiore, two lovers from different stations in life. Fiametta appears as the "queen" of a "noble brigade" who pose questions to each other about love.

Perhaps his best-known work is the Decameron ("Ten Days"), in which a group of young men and women flee who flee Florence during the Black Death to the hills outside, where they spend ten days telling stories. More on that tomorrow.

The First Troubadour

William IX, Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony (1071 - 1127), also Count of Poitiers, had a shaky start in life. He was the son of Duke William VIII of Aquitaine and his third wife, Hildegarde of Burgundy; but the duke's earlier marriages and divorces (and the very close relatedness of the parents) caused the Church to declare the young William illegitimate. William senior had to make a pilgrimage to Rome for approval from Pope Alexander II (who wasn't always so obliging in marital questions).

Our subject was also a Crusade leader, but not of a Crusade that gets talked about, or even included in the numbering system: it is simply called the "Crusade of 1101."

He invited Pope Urban II—who had called for the Crusade in November 1095—to his court for Christmas of that year, during which Urban urged William to take up the Cross. William was more interested, however, in whether his rival, Count Raymond IV of Toulouse, would go on Crusade, leaving Toulouse unguarded (he did). William's wife, Philippa of Toulouse, was Raymond's niece, and William thought she could make a claim to the territory. The pair did capture Toulouse in 1098, and were subsequently threatened with excommunication.

What William is most known for now, however, is his career as the first known troubadour. There are 11 songs attributed to him. A 13th century vida says of him:

The Count of Poitiers was one of the most courtly men in the world and one of the greatest deceivers of women. He was a fine knight at arms, liberal in his womanizing, and a fine composer and singer of songs. He traveled much through the world, seducing women.

He did in one song admit to deceiving two women. Several of his songs show an attitude toward women in the courtly love tradition, however, in that the subject is called midons, "master":

Every joy must abase itself,
and every might obey
in the presence of Midons, for the sweetness of her welcome,
for her beautiful and gentle look;
and a man who wins to the joy of her love
will live a hundred years.
The joy of her can make the sick man well again,
her wrath can make a well man die,

Orderic Vitalis tells us that he wrote and performed "witty measures" of his adventures on Crusade, but the only Crusade in which he participated, as mentioned, was the Crusade of 1101. I'll tell you what happened with that tomorrow.

The Troubadour Styles

Troubadours originally referred to their songs as vers, but over time developed a set of several different specific types of composition. The vers was a love song that later took on the term canso. The newer identifiable genres include:

Alba (called an aube in German love songs or Aubade in French): a "dawn song"; the lament that dawn approaches and the man must depart before the lady's husband discovers them).

Comiat: a song renouncing the lover.

Canso de crozada: a song encouraging the Crusades.

Desdansa: a dance for sad occasions.

Devinalh: a riddle or cryptogram.

Gap: a boasting song.

Maldit: a complaint of a lady's behavior.

Planh: a lament on the death of an important figure (evolved from the Latin planctus, a lament).

Serena: a song expressing impatience, waiting for night to fall so one could join their lover.

Tenso: a debate between two poets.

Viadeira: a traveller's complaint.

Let's look at the man thought of as the original troubadour next time.

The Female Troubadour

The word "troubadour" was masculine, and the feminine form was "trobairitz" (both singular and plural). The term was rarely used, and was first seen in a 13th century Occitan romance, Flamenca. Trobairitz wrote and performed for Occitan noble courts from 1170 to about 1260—significant because up until then known female composers only produced sacred music.

Almost all information we have about them comes from their own biographical lyrics. We know of only 20 or so female poets. They were outnumbered by troubadours by 20 to 1, and their surviving works are about 1% of the total musical works from the 12th and 13th centuries. In fact, of the works of trobairitz that have survived, we have perhaps only a single work from each, except for two women.

The Comtessa Beatriz de Dia (pictured here from a 13th century codex; Dia was a town in southern France) was born c.1140 and died c.1212. She left us 5 works—four cansos and one tenson—one of which is the only trobairitz work with musical notation. (In the case of troubadours, about 10% have musical notation intact.)

The other trobairitz who left us more than one composition was Castelloza, the wife of Lord Turc of Meyronne (in southwestern France). She wrote several cansos about Arman de Brion, whose status was higher than hers. She describes the pain of betrayal:

My handsome noble-natured dear,
I’ve loved you since the day you pleased me.
How great a fool I am is clear.
For you held back, while such love seized me
That I not once have turned away.
Though you repay my good with ill
I’ll stand my ground and love you still,
For love so has me in its sway
That I now doubt my life can offer. [source]

Cansos and tenson were only a few of the types of songs composed by the troubadours and trobairitz. There were also alba, devinalh, gap, planh, ensenhamen, and many others. I'll give you a list next time, in case you want to try your hand at some different styles of song.

What Makes a Troubadour?

In the years 1100 - 1350, a type of musical performer arose called a troubadour. They did not call themselves troubadours; that term was first used in 1575 to refer to court poets of the 12th and 13th centuries. They almost always referred to themselves as chantaire, "singer." The term "troubadour" is assumed to come from Occitan trobador, from trobaire, "composer," which may be from Late Latin tropare, "to compose, to invent a poem."

The earliest known troubadour whose work has survived was Duke William IX of Aquitaine (grandfather of Eleanor of Aquitaine). He may not have been the first troubadour: it is possible that his political prominence helped him appear to be the start of a tradition, but he may instead have been just one example of an already thriving cultural event. The chronicler Orderic Vitalis records that William composed songs about his experience on the First Crusade. Order also gives us a first-hand account of William performing "many times ... with rhythmic verses and witty measures."

The troubadour phenomenon rose and fell. The 12th century began with few examples of activity, but the final decades saw a burst of output: almost half of the almost 2500 pieces (from a total of about 450 known names) that have survived come from the years 1180 - 1220. Beginning in western Aquitaine, it spread to eastern Aquitaine, then down to Toulouse and Provence. In the early 1200s it reached Italy and Spain.

Duke William was probably the highest-ranking member of society who could be designated a troubadour. Most described themselves as "poor knights," although there was Jaufre Rudel, prince of Blaye in southwestern France.

The troubadours had an "enemy" in the jongleur. The jongleur was not the juggler that the word has become, but was actually a minstrel. The difference is that the minstrel plays songs he has heard from others, although there may be an element of dancing and acrobatics. The troubadour is a poet-composer, a much higher calling requiring skill. Troubadours often wrote attacks on jongleurs. There were, however, many troubadours who also entertained in the manner of the jongleur.

The word troubadour is masculine; a female troubadour is a trobairitz. It would make sense to look at the phenomenon of the female composer in the troubadour tradition next.

Peire d'Alvernhe, Poet and satirist

I mentioned that, for all our talk of courtly love in the Middle Ages, the only use of the actual phrase was in a single Provençal poem. The author of that poem was Peire d'Alvernhe, a troubadour born about 1130. He produced 21-24 poems (authorship can be difficult to determine) by 1170. He was known well-enough that Dante names him in the Divine Comedy.

An anonymous biographer tells us he was handsome and charming and wise, and that he spent time in Spain at the court of Alfonso VII of Castile and his son Sancho III. The biographer calls his poems the greatest poems ever except for the slightly later Giraut de Borneill. A contemporary of Peire's, Bernart Marti, wrote a poem in which he accuses Peire of entering a religious life but abandoning Holy Orders.

Not only did he abandon the religious life, he also abandoned the concept that brought us to this blog entry. The reference to courtly love is in a poem in which he praises love of the Holy Ghost over that of cortez amors de bon aire, "well-spirited courtly love." In this preference of spiritual over carnal love he (and others) followed the influence of one of the earliest troubadours whose name we can put to his poetry, Marcabru (active 1130 - 1150).

Of all Peire's poems, modern scholars have spent the most time and effort discussing a particular one: Chantarai d'aquest trobadors ("Song of wandering troubadours"), a sirventes or "service song" used by troubadours to address a particular subject for educational purposes. In this poem he describes a dozen known troubadours, criticizing their looks and their poetry before proclaiming himself their superior. Although critical, it is seen as a good-natured parody, and he ends by telling the listener that it was composed "while laughing and playing."

On the other hand, if the twelve other troubadours were not present to laugh along with their descriptions, would an audience be familiar enough with the others to understand that it was all in fun? On the other other hand, it does give us (as few pieces of medieval literature do) give us information about specific poets we might not otherwise have, allowing us opportunities to identify authorship for some of the troubadours' works.

Peire d'Alvernhe, Bernart Marti, Marcabru, Giraut de Borneill—we have many names of troubadours, but what did they have in common? What made a "troubadour" rather than just a poet? Let's talk about the troubadour life tomorrow.

Courtly Love

"Courtly love" is the phrase used to describe a set of "rules" expressed in medieval literature about the relationship of a man (usually a knight) with a woman (usually a noblewoman). First appearing in continental French stories, it became (for some) a way to conduct oneself in a relationship, especially one outside of marriage.

First, a few facts. The phrase "courtly love," the English translation of the French amour courtois, was not routinely used until the late 19th century (introduced by a French philologist). (To be fair, the phrase cortez amors appears in a single Provençal poem in the 12th century.) C.S.Lewis in The Allegory of Love defined it as "love of a highly specialized sort, whose characteristics may be enumerated as Humility, Courtesy, Adultery, and the Religion of Love."

Also, the focus of the practice was not so much about the behavior of the knight as the privilege of the woman. Eleanor of Aquitaine is credited with bringing the courtly love ideals from her home to England when she married Henry II. Eleanor's daughter Marie, Countess of Champagne (by Eleanor's first husband, Louis VII), spread it to the court of Champagne. Troubadours popularized the ideas in their poems and songs.

Courtly love was expressed as a form of feudalism, where the man acts as a vassal of the lady. Addressing her in poetry as his "lord" served two purposes: it showed his willingness to serve, and it hid the lady's name. Courtly love was often a secret love, because it was adulterous: the lover pined for the love of a highborn lady who was often married to his real feudal lord. This "forbidden love" did not stop him from expressing g the utmost courtesy and humility toward her.

Many noble marriages were political arrangements rather than loving unions, and given the daily lives of many noble couples, who hardly spent time together, there were opportunities to see the lady without her husband present, although the presence of ladies-in-waiting precluded consummating physical love.

Andreas Capellanus in the late 12th century wrote De amore ("Concerning Love"), also known as De arte honeste amandi ("The Art of Loving Virtuously"). In it he lists several rules that became entwined with the courtly love idea:

1. Marriage is no real excuse for not loving.
6. Boys do not love until they arrive at the age of maturity.
8. No one should be deprived of love without the very best of reasons.
13. When made public love rarely endures.
14. The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.
20. A man in love is always apprehensive.
30. A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thought of his beloved.

Was this a real practice in anyone's life? Did real people engage in these "poetic" affairs (sexuality rarely comes into the subject of courtly love)? Hard to say, although it seems entwined with some of the very real chivalric ideals that were expected behavior on the part of the knight.

That single instance of cortez amors I mentioned was by a poet named Peire d'Alvernhe, who was prolific enough in his time and obscure enough in ours that he is a perfect subject for this blog...next time.