How Bertran de Born Pleases Me


This was supposed to be a soliloquy

about Bertran de Born, a troubadour from

the 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 and brains greasing clubheads.

Continue reading “How Bertran de Born Pleases Me”