How Bertran de Born Pleases Me

 

This was supposed to be a soliloquy

about Bertran de Born, a troubadour from

twelfth century Limousin. I wanted to start

with his line about springtime pleasing him.

I wanted you to hear de Born like he was

Richard III or Coriolanus begrudging an aside,

bloviating on all the pornographies of war—

beautiful buckram, helmets and hauberks,

waving gonfalons, brains greasing clubheads.

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