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The Troubadour Remembers

A troubadour wayfaring town to town,
Hamlet to homestead, dale to grassy down,
While he his vagabond mandora strummed,
Now with the bass, now with the treble hummed,
Until the dancing echoes of the air,
Cast on the seas of carefreeness and care,
Lured from the depths where memories belong
A once half-heard, now half-remembered song,
Breathing, “Love is a mended sensual swing.
The eyot’s rill flows which only froze in Spring.
In mist, high on a highland windowsill
Two lovers kissed and—” and the world stood still
While spiralling the windmills of his mind
Tried from the wheeling grains more lines to grind.
“Did birds sing songs in all the greenwood ways
’Neath the clear moon in merry rondelays?
No, that was somewhere else. I’ll try again.
Thou wast three times a lady. Although when
Those three occasions were I can’t recall,
She was a lady thrice or not at all.”
But his heart finds the more his passions stoke
Erato’s lovely flame, the more the smoke
Gets in his eyes and brain but, to complete
His aria, a postlude long and sweet
And delicate meanders from the strings
To tidy up his muses’ ramblings,
While zephyrs bear away this verbal salad,
The limp, green leaves of what was once a ballad.

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Morrison Handley-Schachler is a retired Chartered Public Finance Accountant and Lecturer in Accounting. He has a doctorate in Ancient History and has published articles on ancient Persian history, accounting history, financial crime, auditing and financial risk management. He lives in South Queensferry, on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland.

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8 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    This is worthy of a Medieval balladeer with hearty refrains strummed and sung in perfect rhyme and rhythm with the possible bawdy allusion. The phrase, “Two lovers kissed and—” and the world stood still,” is so close to the phrase from the song from a few decades ago, “Love’s a Many Splendored Thing,” that goes “two lovers kissed, and world stood still.” I really liked your well-crafted poem.

    Reply
    • Morrison Handley-Schachler

      Many thanks, Roy. I also enjoyed writing it. Glad you enjoyed reading it as well.

      Reply
  2. Brian Yapko

    This poem is a real charmer, Morrison, which, for me, evokes those “ballads, songs and snatches” mentioned in G&S’s “A Wandering Minstrel, I.” You very cleverly incorporate misremembered lyrics (“Love is a mended sensual swing” I believe is a misremembered “Love is a many splendored thing…”) But your troubadour tries again and we get sly allusions to “Three Times a Lady”, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and more. And I love the final rhyme of “salad” and “ballad.” This poem is a delightful piece so very well done!

    Reply
    • Morrison Handley-Schachler

      Thanks, Brian. Your comments are much appreciated. I loved coming up with misheard and misremembered lyrics and for “Love is a many-splendoured thing,” I hope I managed to produce something that would be not-quite-not-gibberish. I’m afraid my troubadour is not quite as skilled as Gilbert and Sullivan’s Nanki-Poo but he does his best. Glad to see that you also spotted some of the other allusions.

      Reply
  3. Joseph S. Salemi

    This is a brilliant confection of references to past songs, put together with consummate skill. And the tone — a mix of the romantic, the comic, the sensual, and the languorous, and with the final dismissive note of a joke!

    I love the rich language, the perfect rhymes, and the expertly handled serial enjambment. This is the kind of verbal craftsmanship we are trying to resuscitate here at the SCP.

    Reply
    • Morrison Handley-Schachler

      Thank you, Joseph. I am glad you enjoyed it. The combination of tones was very much what I was aiming for, especially the sensual lapsing into the comic as the troubadour confusion overwhelms his artistry.

      Reply
  4. Jeremiah Johnson

    Love the salad metaphor at the end!

    And, on another note, your poem somehow reminded me of Fragonard’s “The Swing”

    Reply
    • Morrison Handley-Schachler

      Thanks, Jeremiah. I couldn’t resist the salad metaphor. Neither Fragonard’s brilliant painting nor the more restrained Swing by Goya was actually in my mind at the time but it certainly seems an apt image. A swing seemed a suitable metaphor which I could almost imagine someone thinking he heard instead of the original words.

      Reply

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