Brian Blanchfield

On Provenance

The very first Troubadour poet, en provençal,

is represented first in the anthology

I bought used in the bookstore closest 

to the airbase by a poem in which he wishes

to ride his two horses at once. Then would his

cavalage be enviable, then would he be

better mounted than any man living. Cavalage:

that’s Paul Blackburn translating, who

brought farthest fore in the Fifties, or so

I read once in a book it was hoped I would

blurb, bisexuality. It’s a quandary, the poet

speaking like all his poems, singing like all

the troubadours collected here, to the boys,

fellow countrymen who’d understand. One was of

mountain stock, sure-footed, well-composed

but quote so savage she forbids currying

unquote; the other bred by a lord, beautiful,

inclined to welcome the bridle and come to him.

The poet was both count and duke, and his

granddaughter Elinor was to be, by first

marriage, queen of France, and by second

queen of England. I nearly bought two others

beside it, on Catullus, the Neoplatonists—

what kind of medievalist’s estate was given

over here, who hung about the boneyard.

On the way I noticed The Bashful Bandit

was being effaced, first gay bar in Tucson,

someone told me, and turned into a barbecue.

The notes are where all the action is.