"fust" poems
Original French
Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
English Translation
Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore
Tell me where, in what country,
Is Flora the beautiful Roman,
Archipiada or Thais
Who was first cousin to her once,
Echo who speaks when there's a sound
On a pond or a river
Whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where is the leamed Heloise
For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard
And made him a monk at Saint-Denis,
For his love he took this pain,
Likewise where is the queen
Who commanded that Buridan
Be thrown in a sack into the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
The queen white as a lily
Who sang with a siren's voice,
Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice,
Haremburgis who held Maine
And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine
Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where,
Where are they, sovereign ******
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
9.4k
Wal, Thanksgivin’ do be comin’ round.
With the price of turkeys on the bound,
And coal, by gum! Thet were just found,
Is surely gettin’ cheaper.
The winds will soon begin to howl,
And winter, in its yearly growl,
Across the medders begin to prowl,
And Jack Frost gettin’ deeper.
By shucks! It seems to me,
That you I orter be
Thankful, that our Ted could see
A way to operate it.
I sez to Mandy, sure, sez I,
I’ll bet thet air patch o’ rye
Thet he’ll squash ’em by-and-by,
And he did, by cricket!
No use talkin’, he’s the man—
One of the best thet ever ran,
Fer didn’t I turn Republican
One o’ the fust?
I ‘lowed as how he’d beat the rest,
But old Si Perkins, he hemmed and guessed,
And sed as how it wuzn’t best
To meddle with the trust.
3.3k
They were different times
The only thing I know about old man Venn
He used to tie two cats' tails together
Hang them over the washing line
To watch them fight
Cruel old man Venn
There was a man in the village
He killed dead pigs
If a farmer had a pig die
He'd cart it home then squeal and shriek
Like a dying pig
Then pass off the meat as fresh
Everyone knew about it
A couple in the village were always arguing
One night the man said he was going to drown himself
In the pond
She said do you go an' do it in someone else's pond
I ha' got to drink that water
Jim said there'll be a fire in the village afore long
Russell said how d'you know that then?
Down at Hall Farm I see him stripping the paint off his window
With a blow torch
Right near the thatch
He knows better 'an that
Sure enough the old farmhouse burnt to the ground
He built a bungalow with the insurance money
Old Jim was right again
Russell met his wife to be during the war
He had a few days leave but not long enough to go home
So he stayed with his mate in Lancashire
Ended up marrying his mate's sister
She came down to Suffolk
One of the local women said to her
Where do you come from?
Lancashire she said
I didn't think you was English she said
A farmer said to Jim
That wholly made me sweat to write out your cheque
For thatching this year
Med me sweat fust said Jim
For hurdle making they would cut ash pole in the wood
Using hand axes
When they finished the women from nearby cottages
Would come and pick up the chips to start their fires
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
Come I’, Sit daahn, Shurrup,
Wor t' fust thin 'a' ah 'eard.
So ah grabbed uz buk fra t' back.
‘n prepared for summa’ absurd
An exam ont’ fust day ah exclaimed!
As uz face exploded wi’ rage
Ah dead eyed ‘im fra across t’ room
‘n reluctantly turned t’ page
T’ year continued like ‘dis,
‘n uz nem appeared ont’ board
‘n ta quote wah’ I’d learnt fra’ uz studies,
Ah felt wretched ‘n abhorred
Tahhm passed by,
‘n 'e 'n class began ta connect.
n suddenly 'a' dislikin,
turned inter respect.
Tahhm went furtha,
as 'e yelled 'n laughed 'n cussed,
‘n suddenly ‘a’ respect,
turned inter complete trust.
‘e’d lern wee randa facts,
‘n sha wee gormless vids.
'e’d respect wee li' adults,
'n nivva' treat wee li' kids.
'n even when ah wor glum,
‘n wasn’t feelin missen,
‘e’d finn' eur way ta use 'is words
ta nurse uz back ta 'ealth.
‘n when 'e sez 'e wor leavin, everybody’s 'eart cried,
We didn’t want ta seh tarreur,
teur t' bloke who’d bin ah guide
Sa t' best we can doa is come togetha,
‘n gatha orl wee folks.
'n wish t' best o' luck ta ah ‘un 'n onny,
Yorksha bloke.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive. All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched.
It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots!
One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim; "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year." Jim quickly replied; "Med me sweat fust!"
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
Naguiere chanter je voulois
Comme Francus au bord Gaulois
Avecq' sa troupe vint descendre,
Mais mon luc pinçé de mon doi,
Ne vouloit en dépit de moi
Que chanter Amour, et Cassandre.
Je pensoi pource que toujours
J'avoi dit sur lui mes amours,
Que ses cordes par long usage
Chantoient d'amour, et qu'il faloit
En mettre d'autres, s'on vouloit
Luy aprendre un autre langage.
Et pour ce faire, il n'y eut fust,
Archet, ne corde, qui ne fust
Echangée en d'autres nouvelles :
Mais apres qu'il fut remonté,
Plus haut que davant a chanté
Comme il souloit, les damoyselles.
Or adieu doncq' pauvre Francus,
Ta gloire, sous tes murs veinqus,
Se cachera toujours pressée,
Si, à ton neveu, nostre Roi,
Tu ne dis qu'en l'honneur de toi,
Il face ma Lyre crossée.
993
Grand design takes over
For the better of the worse.
Just for the sign,
Fust for the fun.
Another one takes over.
Another one fun.
Heavens come from nothing
And nothing is impossible.
(That doesn't mean everything is possible.)
Small coincidences make big differences
Between belief and not.
So the life goes on.
Another ballad for the ages.
Great frost on small grass.
Just for the observant to see.
Kinks in the universe,
Jerks in the design,
Crackle and Pop to the justice.
Justice that will soon come.
Gone to send a message,
But still coming soon.
Today is the beginning of life.
But nobody realizes it.
We were made with our memories.
We were made with out memories.
Timing strays off melody.
Lest the lust take over.
Humming to the same beat,
The writ is lamenting.
For his craziness is just inspiration in disguise.
Just like a dot on the edge of the eye.
He walks in a prescribed pattern,
Just to cure nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
He looks out of his clock,
To see the rest of his town,
And stands.
Flashes of light take over.
Loud noises of nothing fill his mind.
And nothing is impossible.
Walls shake as he watches in his clock.
The sky becomes red and brick turns to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
He walks calmly to the next floor down,
Just like he was prescribed to do.
On the next floor down, he looks out of his clock.
He sees the load of burlap.
The floor turns to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
A Haiku in time
Is just like it meant to be,
The coldest and dark.
Just like the Writ did.
He walks another floor down,
And looks out his clock.
Seven circles found.
Seven circles are the ground,
Which turned to nothing.
And nothing is impossible.
The Writ walks another floor down
To the floor floor.
He walks out his clock,
Takes his percautions,
And turns around.
The war has ended,
He sees nothing.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
No longer of use,
The static colliding,
The past in recluse
In the attic, residing
Colors rot in the dust
Pictures die in the silence,
As corpses make fust
And complain under pileus.
The mycelium harvest,
In boredom, they thrive.
And much like the artist
Through flesh, their roots rive.
A place where ghosts and ghoul like to screech,
A place where even the flies couldn’t reach.
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 11:15 AM UTC