Buy Myn Anthologie!

O myn gentil rederes, yt hath ben a ful loonge tyme syn ich haue had a moment to wryte a good long poost for myn blog. Loong agoon ich did retourne fro parliament to myn hous in Kente, to fynde litel Lowys in a staat of gret distres upon the roofe! Ich did thynke that sum yonge ladye had raft his herte in twayne, but it turneth out that his Exboxe CCCLX had, as he seyde, “bricked out.” The which was a thing of tristesse for me als wel, for the thynge was al tobroke and wolde nat playe eny games of video. Whan Philippa and ich had talked hym off of the roof ("the warrantie yet stondeth" she seyde), ich entrid my hous to fynde that Kyng Richard had sent a gret quantitee of thinges for me to wryte for hym, the which had mad a gret pyle lyk unto the towir of Babil. And half-wey thurgh myn first night of werke, Philippa did leve the bath on and the house flooded and we haue had a gret sucessioun of carpet-makeres and carpenteres in and out -- sum dayes, ich thinke ich might as wel be the Clerk of the Kinges Werkes, so much construction do ich oversee alredy in this hous! And thus, my goode felawes, ich haue been wyth werke y-swamped, myn fingres wyth ink y-caked, myn shoon wet, myn litel woolen hat y-dusted with sawe-dust, and quilles on my floore as yf an whole parlement of fowles hath y-murdered ben.

Yet oon idea for a project hath in myn herte taken root. Ywis, ye remembren that ich bought many a book whan in Londoun. And yet, for everich book that Ich did buye, yet myn desir for to rede did growe. Ich went from autobiographie, to self-helpe, to westernes, to poetrye – and rederes, whan ich to poetrie y-cam, ich found that ther was no collecioun of poetrye the which had all the beste poemes yn it. For trewely, al the colleciouns of contemporarye poetrye are but poore thin thinges – even the mighti Northon anthologie hath but litel poesie yn it – ywis, even the lerned anthologie of Doctour Treharne hath but fewe of the poemes that ich have y-heard and y-lovid.

And thus, at the prompting of Philippa, who seeth shillinges undir every mannes foot, ich haue taken up the businesse of sellinge myn owene anthologie of poetry:

GALFRIDUS CHAUCERES ANTHOLOGIE OF POETRIE IN PROPER (MIDDLE) ENGLISH

Ich am in negociaciouns wyth several scrybes and scryveneres to produce thys fyne book. Ye maye look for it at booke-stores neare yow, or contact Hippolyta on-lyne and haue it delivered to yow by warrior-women of the Land of Femenye.

Heere ys what thei call a smal “pre-viewe” of the gret poemes ye shal fynde in myn anthologie. Ye shal see that thys gret book containeth poemes by cherles and kynges, the wel-knowen and the anonymous; poemes of hard livinge and beere and poemes of gret beautee. And nat oon single lyne of that Beowulf thing that is everywhere else. THE CHAUCER ANTHOLOGIE: Poemes that no oothir anthologie of middle englysshe hath evir dreamt of!

THE FORTNIGHTS RUN AWAY LYK DRAUGHT-OXEN BEHINDE THE BARN

by Carolus de Bois-Quasqué

I was goinge somewhere

like chirche

but I got round to Betties

and she had sum ale going

and spices and al that maner merde

and ich seyde to myself

“Swyve this”

Good beere, and sat ther

Cess and Watt, elde buggere Tim Tinkere,

Clarice Cokkeslane – helle, ich hadde a thinge

a couple yeeres ago wyth her

back whan ich was deep yn to the horses.

Had a beere.

Clement and Hikke had sum bull-merde thing up

wyth ther cloke and hood

sum men aren alweys thinkinge money

or mayhap thei wantid to swyve ech oothir.

Moore beere, lyk continuous blood-

And the sonne-set red lyk an appel.

Belly rumblinge lyk a swyving bulle

Up to goon

Pissid on the bar-walle, long ynogh to singe sum opera-

Fell around swyve-all y-blente.

Sum oon carryed me hom-ward

Sleped for dayes yt semed, al blak;

Ich here myn wyfes voys

“Hank, ‘tis Sonday”

and ich seye

“Where is the bolle?

Ich want a drynke.”

THYS IS JUST TO SAYE

by Nostre Trespuissant Kynge Richard II

We haue had y-slayn

the knightes

that were in

Newgate

And which

ye were probablie

wisshyng

vs to pardoun

Forgyveness

nevir!

The lawe of Engelonde is ower will and lieth in ower breest, knave.

KUBLAI KAHN (OR, MARCO POLO LIETH THURGH HYS TEETH)

by Sir John Mandeville

In Xanade a mighti soudan yclept Kublai Khan has ther ymaad a place of leysure neer the watir ycleped Alph the which is heeld hooly by the saracens and is neer to greet cavernes. The walles and toures of that place do mesure an greet span, that is to say x myles, and ther are also many fayre gardyns right plenteous of fruyt. And ther was als wel an crevyce the which ran doun the hill toward trees of cedar, at whos bottom was a well, noble and faire, and at several houres of the daye it wolde yive spoute and russhe with watir. I, Iohn Mandeville, saw this, al thogh ich had nat bathed for mony dayes and thus myn hair did float in a maner and myn eyen did flash for ich had no thyng to eten of ther but honeydew melons and sum horses milk. And al folk did daunce thryce around me in their pagan maner. Weirdoes.

WHAN ADAM DELF

by Anonymous

Whan Adam delf, and Eve span,

Who had to write two bookes to get tenure?

THE DAYE LADYE BLAUNCHE PERISSHYED

by Sir John Clanvowe

Yt is terce in Londoun a Tuesday (or peraventure a Wednesday)

Two dayes bifor the Feest of the Exaltacioun of the Holy Crosse, aye,

Yt is MCCCLXVIII or peraventure MCCCLXIX and ich go to get my bootes shyned

for ich will ryde my palfrey toward Northampton

by vespers and then go right to sup

and ich knowe nat thos folke who shal me feede

Ich walke up the strete, thikke of air, the sunne gynneth shynen

and haue a blancmanger and sum corny ale and buye

an ill-fauored pamflet of NEW BOHEMIAN WRITINGE to seen what the poetes

in Bohemia aren doynge thes dayes

I go on to the exchequer

and Mayster Stondecart (firste name Laurence oones ich herde)

looketh nat at the posicioun of myn accounte stones on the felt for oones in hys lyf

and yn MAYSTER PYNKHURSTES shoppe ich get a litel Machaut

for Geoffrey wyth illuminaciouns by sum Parisian, yet ich do

thynk of Boece de Consolatione, translatid Jean de Meun or

Langlandes newe A-Text Piers or Yvain or Lancelot

of Chrestien, but ich do nat, ich am stedfast to Machaut

aftir well nigh fallynge a-swoun wyth quandarynesse

and for Gower ich just repaire to the CHEPESIDE

tavenrer and ask for a botel of god rhenishe wyn, and

than ich go back whence ich cam to Soperes Lane

and the grocer nere the Pageant Wagon and

lightli demaunde a carton of spyces of pepir and oon

of galyngale, and a PROCLAMACIOUN wyth her visage upon it

and ich sweate muchel nowe and ich thynke upon

leaning on the chambre door at the palais of Sheene

whil she did daunce so comlily, carole and synge so swetely

that my lord Duk John and al and mynself brethed nat

JESU ME

by Dame Julian of Norwich

Hethen slaye yow;

Ovens are hotte;

Inquisitores flaye yow;

And plague-sik haue snotte.

Abbesses growe fatter;

Prechours moote wirche,

Pilgrims oft chatter:

Wall me in a chirche!