Whan that Aprille Week

A verie joyous "Whan that Aprille Week" to all of yow, my rederes, from yower forwaked and fortravailled blogger. Ich haue been y-laboring for National Adaptacioun of Guido della Colonna's Historia Destructionis Troiae Moneth (NaAdGuiCollHistDestTroMo) and ich am proud to saye that ich haue y-carved an entyre boke of the double wo of Troylus and Criseyde from the raw matter of the historiale accountes. It hath ben a good way to kepe from thinkinge upon the gret wo and distourbance that hath risen up yn parlement.

In the maner of poostes from two yeeres now, ich do aske yow to use thys fyne daye of Aprille to reden of my werkes. Ich do copye myn owene letter patent from bifor:

...ich praye yow permitten me oon smal moment of sentimente.

On this week cometh the first daye of Aprille. Bifor Aprille was the cruellest moneth (whatever that meneth!), it was a moneth of coloures and cries, and pilgrymages. Yt was, I sholde saye, myn favourite moneth.

Ich am nat oon to tooten myne owen horne, but this week ich wolde asken yow to declaymen my tales. To yowrselves, to yowr frendes, or simplye in the marketplace or churchyarde. For charitees sake, ye coulde declaymen them to beggares, leperes, or humorlesse rogues who studien engineerynge. Wherever ye proclaymen them thogh, do yt so in loude voyse and cleere, for yt is only fooles who think a poeme lith on the page aloone.

Yf thou knowst nat this maner of Englyssh, be nat ashamed. Yf thou kanst reden thys blogge, thou kanst reden myn Englisshe. Talke to yt slowlie, as if it were an olde relative whom thou lovest verie muche, and yt shal talke back to thee.

I, Galfridus Chaucer, do invite all my rederes to poost yower contribuciouns as comments to this poost - ye maye make videoes for ye-tube of redynges of myn werkes or of adaptaciouns, ye maye poost linkes to mp3s, or to events, or to peyntures or animaciouns or what-evir ye wolde present to the othir rederes of myn blog to celebrate this joyous moneth. Thos who teche or studye myn werkes may leve testamentz of experiences in yower class roomes, or explain why or whan ye first began to studien myn writinges. May it plese yow to linke, quote, cite and pass this on!

Lament for Sir William

My gentil rederes, yif it be nat oon thynge, it is an oothir. For a while, ich was bisy with werke building an "fortified compound" for Kynge Richard. It semeth parliament was merciles this yeere. That did ete up much of my tyme ovir the seson of Yule.

And now of late, ich haue been soore depressid to heere of the deeth of myn freend Sir William, yclept Ulrich of Liechtenstein for a certayn tyme, with whom ich did travel in Fraunce about XXXX poundes ago. Ich haue sat in my room going thurgh oold joustinge programes and thinkinge of thos jours d'alcyone.

Thogh my pen is but a sely thing, bettir fit for ditees and smal jokes and puns, yet ich koud nat but trye to write sum few lynes of rym for the memorie of my good freend, the which ich share heere. Ich knowe that newes of his deeth hath long ben known, and many wyse folk have seyd thinges of hym, yet tak this rym-doggerel for my part.

A COMPLEYNTE ON THE DETH OF SIR WILLIAM THATCHER, SUMTYME YCLEPED ULRICH VON LIECHTENSTEIN

Yif al the woe and teeres and hevinesse
And eek the sorwe, compleynte and wamentynge
That man hath heard in thes yeeres of distresse
Togedir were y-put, too light a thynge
It sholde be for this yonge knightes mournynge.
Withouten hym this world can no wey plese,
Fulfild it is of shadwe and disese.

In sorwe and teeres and eek in hevinesse
Stand Roland, Wat, and Kate, his compaigyne,
(And eek mynself, the forger of noblesse):
Sir Deeth wyth falshede and wyth sorcerye
Hath slayn thys knight who never feered to dye,
Of honor nat of lyf took Ulrich kepe.
A see of teeres nys nat ynogh to wepe.

Proud Deth, yower trophie is our hevinesse,
Your heraud may ful loude yel and crie,
For thou hast slayn the flour of hardinesse:
Sir Ulrich knewe the herte of chivalrie
And evir daunce he coud to melodye;
A silent yere he spent oones in a toun
In Itaylye to understonde a roun.

This feble world fulfild of hevinesse
Offreth us nat but wo, o welaway!
No thyng it hath may us give restfulnesse
For yisterday was noblere and moore gay
Than thys clipt peni that we hold today.
On Ulrich spende yower XII last silver teeres
Syn now departid aren hys golden yeeres.

He chaungid hys sterres, ros out of lowlinesse,
Bicam the man that fyrst did make me thinke
Our dedes nat our birth bring gentilesse –
And when ich was depe in the dice and drinke
He bought my pants ayein, it is no nay
May hevenes blisse repay that charité!
For blessed on erthe are al who had the chaunce
To walk the gardyn of his turbulaunce.

Chaucer the Holy-Wood Scabbe

Yf ye wonder, lordinges and ladyes, wher Galfridus Chaucer hath been synce September, the answer is: in a verray purgatorie of busynesse. It pleseth me litel to labour as clerk of the kinges werkes, and yet labor ich muste, for Philippa forever addeth to our hous yn Kent and litel Lowys is beginning to speke of applyinge to Universitee next yeere (the whiche surpriseth me gretely – paraventure it is the ale of Oxford that lureth hym, not the bookes).

My lord Kyng Richard is a man of muchel ymaginacioun and many needes. Ich had thoghte that beinge clerk of the kinges werkes wolde involve sum smal calculaciouns of repaires to palaces and castles, or perchaunce sum litel arrangement of walls to be buylt and an odd tournament heere and there. By Seynt Barbara, not in eny way! Kyng Richard and hys fauorites Robert de Vere, Justice Tresilian, Bishop Neville, Nicholas Brembre and Michael de la Pole (the which clepen themselves the “brat packe”) alwey asken me to arrange sum project of construccion that semeth a thing of fayerye. Fountayns of red and whit wyn in Hull? Chekke. An reenactement of the battel of Hastinges wyth dogges and cattes in armour? Chekke. A monster trukke rallye the which involveth a trukke that transformeth yn to a dinosaur? Chekke. Makinge a giant elephaunt walk the stretes of Londoun? Chekke. A Carolingian Renaissance fayre? Chekke (thogh that was prety esy, for it was miniscule). Mesemeth yf thes counsellors to the kyng do not get their spendinge and extravagaunce under control, sum thyng bad myght happen.

But thys weekend my lord the Kyng and the brat packe haue gone to the Malvern hilles for sum maner of mystique ritual in which thei shal "fynde themselves." And so wyth a litel fre tyme, ich haue returnid hoom to relax and watch sum television. No thyng wolde plese me moore than to sit yn myn slothful-knave chayre wyth a caipirinha and catch up on sum muste-see tv. Or so thoghte I.

Yet allas, allas, the Lex Murphiae holdeth alwey trewe. In that gret and magique land ycleped Holy-Wood, from which cometh many a joieful showe of televisioun, the poetes and scrybes haue putte down their pennes in protest of the avarice of large corporaciouns. Al the gret tales and comedyes and shewes of talk haue y-ground to an halt and are no thyng but reruns.

Ich do thynk that the writers of Holy-Wood are goode folk and trewe and sholde continue their protest, but Philippa hath toold me that thys coud be an greet opportunitee for myn owene writinge (for alwey ich am scribling sum poem or anothir or having some idea). So ich am going ayeinst myn owene conscience to propose sum shewes of televisioun. Peraventure the mightie corporaciouns and compaignynes of produccion wil choose me to be an writere of televisioun ones see my wondirful conceptes heere on thys poost of blog. (It peyneth me soore to be an scabbe and an protest-lyne crosser, but my sone wisheth to goon to Oxford and my wyf desireth a patio. Forgive me, o ye merveillous writers of Holly-Wood: Chaucer nedeth a newe payre of shoes!)

Ich haue purchasid sun-glasses for my meetinges and ich haue practiced swich importante phrases as “Wayt for it...wayt for it...” and eek “This will blowen yower mind...” and eek “Ich wolde absolutely love to heare what revisions the sponsor hath suggestid for my script.” Myn experience at court shal serve me wel.

Heere, withouten further delaye, O Executives of Entertaynment, are myn proposales for shewes.

The Televisioun Lyne Up of Galfridus Chaucer, Clerke of the Kinges Werkes:

Sectes in the Borough: This hot and explicit showe wil handle religious dissent yn a more free and open way than evere bifor. Carrie Baxter is an underground writer of Lollard tractes in Norwich and the oonly thynge she loveth moore than questioning the validitie of the institucional church is her III best freendes: sexie Samantha, who seduceth many a preeste, intellectuale Charlotte, who speketh out ayeinst women being unable to preche, and Miranda Kempe, who receiveth visiouns from God. Thei meet every week to rede of the Bible in Ynglisshe and talke smacke about pilgrymage sites. Carrie is alwey resistinge the temptaciouns to submit to the orthodoxie of the Church, personifyed by Archbishop Thomas Arundel, whom she clepeth “Mr. Big.” (Paraventure for a cabel network, by cause main-streme audiences aren not redi for frank depicciouns of heretical practice?)

The Gower Report: Thogh Johannes Gower ys an horrible wankere, yet hys churlish maners and hys gret pryde and surquidrie aren ful amusinge to watch. Yn this showe, Johannes Gower wolde speke to the audience of hys writinges and hys gret feare of beares. He may weare hys robe of a man of lawe wyth its striped sleeves and shal stand in front of peyntures of hymself.

Flight of the Lombardes: In this syde-splittinge comedic satyre, two yonge Lombard marchauntz, named Brentano and Germano, comen to Londoun to make their fortune wyth trading and finaunce. Thei aren also makeres of songes, ditees, roundels, and ballades, the which thei singe as commentarie to their aventures in love and businesse in a mildly self-deprecatinge maner. Their gretest ballade ys cleped “Tyme of Busynesse,” and gooth sum thing like this:

”Ywis, it is tyme of Busynesse. Aw yeah.
How knowe I this, askest thou?
For yt ys Wednesday,
a day not forbidden for tradinge and bargaininge by the lawe of Holy Churche.

Yea, for al is right, condicciouns are perfect
for Busynesse,
for thou hast sheeldes thou wishest to selle in exchaunge
for merchaundise thou hast bought in Flaundres.
And ich haue soore nede of thy merchaundise.
Aw yea. And ich am yn my red hose, the which aren cleped
Busynesse hose.
Doinge exchaunge and bargainynge.
Doinge exchaunge and bargainynge for two.
Doinge exchaunge and bargainynge for two
Florins profit. For two florins profit is better
than the profit of one shilling. I schal put it on thy taille.”

Hawk the Bountie Hunter: Thys showe shal deele yn the materes of kinges and gret affayres of state, and thus shal be ycleped a roialtee showe. Ich shal arrange for many cameras of televisioun to followe the gret mercenarie Johannes Hawkwood, who hath risen from lowe birthe to serve as a puissant man at armes in Italye and hath y-weddid the fayre dogther of Bernabo Visconti.

The Privy Seel Offyce: Thys offyce of clerkes and scrybes produceth manye documentz and eek muchel laughter. An hilarious ensemble cast of quirkie folk shewe the dailye japeries and jolitee of roial bureaucracie. The privy seel offyce is run by Michael Scot, who doth gret deedes of magique and yet kan nat conjure good fortune for hymself. Yonge clerk Tristram Canterbury soore loveth the receptioniste Ysolde Beesley, but sche ys to be marryed to an oothir man. Yet Tristrames loue sickenesse preventeth hym not from makinge an ape of the haughtie clerke Gareth de Schrute, who oftymes findeth hys quill and ink put ynto a jello mold. Both Tristram and Ysolde mocke Gareth, callinge hym “Beaumains.” (Ywrit in collaboracioun wyth Mayster Thomas Occleve)

Doctor Hwaet: Thys showe doth chronicle the aventures of a solitarye one who must wander the wayes of water on the rime-cold waves, mindful of miseries, yn a large device ycleped the TOWAERDES (the which ys a grete magique ship disguised as a burial mound) that alloweth hym to travel in tymes to come and also yn the places that ben past and the far landes of fantaysye. Alwey he sercheth out and protecteth a poem ycleped Beowulf the whiche he saveth from a fyre and also turneth yn to several filmes in order that the beautee of Angeline Joly may drawe newe rederes to thys tale. “That ys fanTASTick,” he saith yn the rare tymes whan he ys of good chiere. He fighteth many enemyes, includinge the Cybermonks, the Daneleks, and folk who thinke that “Geats” is pronouncid “geetz.”

falsnesse and the fals feendes who telle suche

Benedicitee, good readers alle!  I am out hyntyng with General Toe, famed general of Cathay, but I muste alerte yow, good readeres alle, to a hurtful and peynfulle falsnesse, of the whych thyng I have been ytold.

The mooste fals and churlische Marco Polo, thatte jerke, hath a posse.  And thys posse doth proclaim the falsnesse of Marco Polo's supposed travels in a presentacioun of some kynde.  But yt ys nat soth, that Marco Polo crossed the saltee see as have I!  Marco Polo could nat swym across the Grand Canale, much the lesse come hither to Cathay!

Sothliche, I met Marco Polo at a taverene yclept Harries in Venice, long ago.  Marco Polo--thatte wrecche!--was a washere of dishes and stemwarre at Harries, and after I had ydronke much Tuscan wyne that Marco ystole myne manuscriptes and claimed them as hys owne!  O Marco Polo, I schal myself avenge upon yow when I retourn from the wynter home of the good General Toe!

Until then, good readeres, boy-cott the fals posse of Marco Polo!  They claimeth that they would speke of theyre lies at the "Medieval Clubbe of Newe York," but thys proveth their unconnyng: there beeth nat no Newe York, and they be nat in the myddle of no thynge or tyme but rather they dryve me to the ende of my wittes!

Sir John in Cathay!

Benedicitee, good readeres alle!  Sir John Mandeville heere, havying crossed the see once moore on the kynges privee businesse and arrived at the court of the Greet Khan in Cathay!  Thus I begge yowre pardoun for my longe silence; I was passyng over the sees and the sandy wastes into Cathay.

But ooh, gentiles, lat me telle yow of the wondres of Cathay!  The Greet Khan hath accepted me ynto hys servyce on be-halfe of Kynge Richard, and I have y-seene many and diverse wonderes in the monthes I have y-spent in hys service.

*I have y-seen a greet merveyl, a machyne that pryntes pages, the whych can be fashioned ynto bookes!

*Cathay hath muchel paper, the whych mateere they fashion from the pulpe of reedes and trees.

*Myne newe freende, the most noble General Toe, hath yshewen me a thyng called gun-powdere, the whych animates artillerie, the whych thynges General Toe uses to hunt the wild chikkenes of Manchuria, the which fowles hys cookes make ynto a most riche and choice nourischment.

General Toe hath invyted me to joyne hym in the wildes of Manchuria in the dayes aheed.  I have been learning about gun-powdere and preparing to go ynto the hunt for the wild chikkenes.  As always, I schal keep yow apprised of my aventures!

Somer is y-going out.

My deere rederes, it hath been a longe somer, and ful of muchel labour. Kyng Richard hath been avoidyng his roial uncles and many gret lordes of his realm, for thei wolde parte hym from hys advysours and hys courte (the which hath sum thing to do wyth the parliament last fall that many call the "Wondirful Parliament” but that Kyng Richard calleth the “Merdeful”). And sithen ich am the clerke of the kinges werkes, ich haue had to do al of the administracioun, and followen the court and set up all maner of water-slydes and tournamentz and moon-bounces. And thus hys majestee hath visited mony straunge strondes and fer places. First he and hys court did goon to...

By seynt Thomas, I kan writen namoore of thys. Myn herte ys redy to burste out of myn chest, so gret is the angre and the bittre sorwe that ys in my soule...

STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY!

By the blood and nayles and bones of Our Lord, how swyving dare any man to make japeryes of Britney de Speres? Considereth, ye churles, how many sorwes hath y-flocked Britney-ward. Her aunt hath perisshed, and eek she hath tasted the wo that is in mariage, and she hath two swyving enfauntes for the which she must care. Ywis, her hosbond she founde to be nat but an dronklewe man, and a foule adulterer, and nowe the custodie of the children is in the proces of the courtes of the realme.

All of yower care is for the rederes of gossip and the silver that ye shal win when ye speke of her adversitee. YWIS, SHE IS A FLESHLICH CREATURE LIKE THOU OR ME, YE CHURLES!

Ye aren too blinde to see that Britney filleth yower pockets. Forsooth, Britney bringeth food to yower tables, and ye acquite her this by writinge a parcel of merde concerninge her lyf!

She hath nat daunced yn a court yn yeeres. She hath cleped her newest ballad “Yive moore unto me” by cause that it signifieth your avarice and your sclaundre of her, for all ye churles desiren is MOORE MOORE MOORE MOORE MOORE.

STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY!

Ye shoulde be thankful that Fortuna hath smiled on yow ynough that Britney hath perfourmed for you harlotes.

STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY!

Johannes Gower hath talked of professionalism and seyd that if Britney was an trewe professional she wolde have plesed the court no mattir what. Concerninge the mattir of professionalism, Mayster Gower, whan hath it been a thing of professionalism to openli sclaundre a soule that endureth grete paines and sorrowes?

STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY!

O benedicite! O Weylawey!

STOP YOUR SCLAUNDRES OF BRITNEY ANON. For ich speke of the treuthe. If eny of yow hath a problem with Britney, thou kanst do battle with me, Geoffrey Chaucer.

For al beth not wel with her right now.

Leave her al oon.

Je vous en prie.

Boke II

O mightye dung!!! Whan laste wrote me of the tale on how thynges fell witte nobles atte Tower, soddenly I discerned, that betwixt Constaunze and me there weren XI: Ich, Constaunze, Henry, Thomas Tweye, Joane, and Kateline. WHERE IN GODDES NAME BE MY SONNE JOHNE??? I mote have losten him atte Tower and seen hit nat! Goddes dignitee, how should I have losten myn eldest sonne with Johne and ne woten for a weke!? I shoulde loke, but I be nat in Londoun ynow, I am yjournee with a band of lewd folke who toke pitee to bring me North in her carte. O gentil rederes! – be ye gode and charitable men, kepen vigilaunt for my sonne, Johne Beaufort!
He is X yeres elde, with faire countenaunce as doth his name telle, paillid as the moone and hayre golden as the sunne, with a mightye a stomach for wine as you shall evere see of a X yere elde.

O, how agful me feleth! I toorned my childerenes overe to folkes I knowe but lite, but for Johne whom I gesse I did nat! Then I fleyed the Tower, and renne thurgh the villaines and rebeles to seken my suster at Aldgate. Ich, a noble woman conveyed al one in swych perile, I neded skriek “I be in troth but a servaunt!” and cast aboute my jeweles in the route to maken distracte of the folke. By Aldgate I was baren of jeweles, pinnes, and neare stryppened myself to my schrit forto misleden hem, but that might have merely maden an othir attencioun I woulde nat, so resisted.
I founde my susteres roumes and wenten the doore, beted and skrieked as some deville megesseth. Out renne Philippe, with a sword of Geffreyes, and swangen hit at me! Certes, were she ne woman with crappe aim, I should be deed ynow! Once that she knewe me she toke me within, and made a wall before the doore with setes and tables and bokes, and Gefrey gan tellen hir nat to usen the bokes in swych wise, and she toold him to shutten his lippes and watche the windwe. He guarded oone, Thomas, hir sonne, an othir, and litel Lewis was armed with manye daggres in the neightest roum with his mower litel suster Agnis. Philippe and me coked mete for hem alle, so should hem haven no nede forto goon from hir appointementes. I spoke of my miserye, and Philippe quod that hit was alle for that the churles and villains haten my Johne, for thinken hem that he be riche from takinge taxes and nat from cautious investement and because lady Blanches fathir, may she and he be in pes, was swiving riche and my Johne got hit alles whan she was deed.
I wayted with Philippe for II dayes, until we herde that Kinge Richard had gone to the rebeles and had these wordes:

CHIEF REBELE: Wele, King, seest thou here alle thyse menne?
KING RICHARD: Aye... ummm, forwhy?
CHIEF REBELE: For that I haven hem alle undre myn own commaunt, and haven hem alle given holy troth to doon any thinge I saye for hem.
KING RICHARD: Thatte is cool we gessen, huh huh huh.

Then Gode be praised, chere Wil Walworth renne out and quelled the rebele chief. Then Richard daunced aboute and sayed to the villains:

KING RICHARD: We are king! So you shoult doon whatever we saye, and go wey.
WIL WALWORTH: Yis, there be an armee of reenforcementes ycomming shortlye.

And syn thyse were pesaunts estupides who revolted because some tailor or tile-makkir toold hem, they all wente.
But there was ne jollitye for me none. Al I could was how my hoome in Londoun in gone, and my childeren are lost and stelen, and my Johne is farre away in Scotteland and might knowe nothinnge of hit any!

And so I sayed, “I shall finde my Johne!” and Philippe sayed, “Yis, go away from her, I will nat have villain to burnen the home ydoun,” so she gave to me some money and a hately gown forto kepe me sobtle, and so I am ynow, ywandre.