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WHEN that Aprilis, with his showers swoot,                       *sweet
The drought of March hath pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such licour,
Of which virtue engender'd is the flower;
When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath
Inspired hath in every holt
and heath                    grove, forest
The tender croppes
and the younge sun                    twigs, boughs
Hath in the Ram  his halfe course y-run,
And smalle fowles make melody,
That sleepen all the night with open eye,
(So pricketh them nature in their corages
);       hearts, inclinations
Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers  for to seeke strange strands,
To *ferne hallows couth
  in sundry lands;     distant saints known
And specially, from every shire's end
Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful Martyr for to seek,
That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.                helped

Befell that, in that season on a day,
In Southwark at the Tabard  as I lay,
Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Canterbury with devout corage,
At night was come into that hostelry
Well nine and twenty in a company
Of sundry folk, by aventure y-fall            who had by chance fallen
In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all,           into company.
That toward Canterbury woulde ride.
The chamber, and the stables were wide,
And well we weren eased at the best.            we were well provided
And shortly, when the sunne was to rest,                  with the best

So had I spoken with them every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,
And made forword* early for to rise,                            promise
To take our way there as I you devise
.                describe, relate

But natheless, while I have time and space,
Ere that I farther in this tale pace,
Me thinketh it accordant to reason,
To tell you alle the condition
Of each of them, so as it seemed me,
And which they weren, and of what degree;
And eke in what array that they were in:
And at a Knight then will I first begin.

A KNIGHT there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the time that he first began
To riden out, he loved chivalry,
Truth and honour, freedom and courtesy.
Full worthy was he in his Lorde's war,
And thereto had he ridden, no man farre
,                       farther
As well in Christendom as in Heatheness,
And ever honour'd for his worthiness
At Alisandre  he was when it was won.
Full often time he had the board begun
Above alle nations in Prusse.
In Lettowe had he reysed,
and in Russe,                      journeyed
No Christian man so oft of his degree.
In Grenade at the siege eke had he be
Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.
At Leyes was he, and at Satalie,
When they were won; and in the Greate Sea
At many a noble army had he be.
At mortal battles had he been fifteen,
And foughten for our faith at Tramissene.
In listes thries, and aye slain his foe.
This ilke
worthy knight had been also                         same
Some time with the lord of Palatie,
Against another heathen in Turkie:
And evermore *he had a sovereign price
.            He was held in very
And though that he was worthy he was wise,                 high esteem.

And of his port as meek as is a maid.
He never yet no villainy ne said
In all his life, unto no manner wight.
He was a very perfect gentle knight.
But for to telle you of his array,
His horse was good, but yet he was not gay.
Of fustian he weared a gipon,                            short doublet
Alle besmotter'd with his habergeon,     soiled by his coat of mail.
For he was late y-come from his voyage,
And wente for to do his pilgrimage.

With him there was his son, a younge SQUIRE,
A lover, and a ***** bacheler,
With lockes crulle* as they were laid in press.                  curled
Of twenty year of age he was I guess.
Of his stature he was of even length,
And *wonderly deliver
, and great of strength.      wonderfully nimble
And he had been some time in chevachie,                  cavalry raids
In Flanders, in Artois, and Picardie,
And borne him well, as of so little space,      in such a short time
In hope to standen in his lady's grace.
Embroider'd was he, as it were a mead
All full of freshe flowers, white and red.
Singing he was, or fluting all the day;
He was as fresh as is the month of May.
Short was his gown, with sleeves long and wide.
Well could he sit on horse, and faire ride.
He coulde songes make, and well indite,
Joust, and eke dance, and well pourtray and write.
So hot he loved, that by nightertale                        night-time
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.
Courteous he was, lowly, and serviceable,
And carv'd before his father at the table.

A YEOMAN had he, and servants no mo'
At that time, for him list ride so         it pleased him so to ride
And he was clad in coat and hood of green.
A sheaf of peacock arrows bright and keen
Under his belt he bare full thriftily.
Well could he dress his tackle yeomanly:
His arrows drooped not with feathers low;
And in his hand he bare a mighty bow.
A nut-head  had he, with a brown visiage:
Of wood-craft coud* he well all the usage:                         knew
Upon his arm he bare a gay bracer
,                        small shield
And by his side a sword and a buckler,
And on that other side a gay daggere,
Harnessed well, and sharp as point of spear:
A Christopher on his breast of silver sheen.
An horn he bare, the baldric was of green:
A forester was he soothly
as I guess.                        certainly

There was also a Nun, a PRIORESS,
That of her smiling was full simple and coy;
Her greatest oathe was but by Saint Loy;
And she was cleped
  Madame Eglentine.                           called
Full well she sang the service divine,
Entuned in her nose full seemly;
And French she spake full fair and fetisly
                    properly
After the school of Stratford atte Bow,
For French of Paris was to her unknow.
At meate was she well y-taught withal;
She let no morsel from her lippes fall,
Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep.
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That no droppe ne fell upon her breast.
In courtesy was set full much her lest
.                       pleasure
Her over-lippe wiped she so clean,
That in her cup there was no farthing
seen                       speck
Of grease, when she drunken had her draught;
Full seemely after her meat she raught
:           reached out her hand
And *sickerly she was of great disport
,     surely she was of a lively
And full pleasant, and amiable of port,                     disposition

And pained her to counterfeite cheer              took pains to assume
Of court,* and be estately of mannere,            a courtly disposition
And to be holden digne
of reverence.                            worthy
But for to speaken of her conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
                      full of pity
She woulde weep if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled.
Of smalle houndes had she, that she fed
With roasted flesh, and milk, and *wastel bread.
   finest white bread
But sore she wept if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote it with a yarde* smart:                           staff
And all was conscience and tender heart.
Full seemly her wimple y-pinched was;
Her nose tretis;
her eyen gray as glass;               well-formed
Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red;
But sickerly she had a fair forehead.
It was almost a spanne broad I trow;
For *hardily she was not undergrow
.       certainly she was not small
Full fetis* was her cloak, as I was ware.                          neat
Of small coral about her arm she bare
A pair of beades, gauded all with green;
And thereon hung a brooch of gold full sheen,
On which was first y-written a crown'd A,
And after, *Amor vincit omnia.
                      love conquers all
Another Nun also with her had she,
[That was her chapelleine, and PRIESTES three.]

A MONK there was, a fair for the mast'ry,       above all others
An out-rider, that loved venery;                               *hunting
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable:
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear
Jingeling  in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapel bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet,
Because that it was old and somedeal strait
This ilke
monk let olde thinges pace,                             same
And held after the newe world the trace.
He *gave not of the text a pulled hen,
                he cared nothing
That saith, that hunters be not holy men:                  for the text

Ne that a monk, when he is cloisterless;
Is like to a fish that is waterless;
This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
This ilke text held he not worth an oyster;
And I say his opinion was good.
Why should he study, and make himselfe wood                   *mad
Upon a book in cloister always pore,
Or swinken
with his handes, and labour,                           toil
As Austin bid? how shall the world be served?
Let Austin have his swink to him reserved.
Therefore he was a prickasour
aright:                       hard rider
Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl of flight;
Of pricking
and of hunting for the hare                         riding
Was all his lust,
for no cost would he spare.                 pleasure
I saw his sleeves *purfil'd at the hand       *worked at the end with a
With gris,
and that the finest of the land.          fur called "gris"
And for to fasten his hood under his chin,
He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin;
A love-knot in the greater end there was.
His head was bald, and shone as any glass,
And eke his face, as it had been anoint;
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His eyen steep,
and rolling in his head,                      deep-set
That steamed as a furnace of a lead.
His bootes supple, his horse in great estate,
Now certainly he was a fair prelate;
He was not pale as a forpined
ghost;                            wasted
A fat swan lov'd he best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.

A FRIAR there was, a wanton and a merry,
A limitour , a full solemne man.
In all the orders four is none that can
                          knows
So much of dalliance and fair language.
He had y-made full many a marriage
Of younge women, at his owen cost.
Unto his order he was a noble post;
Full well belov'd, and familiar was he
With franklins *over all
in his country,                   everywhere
And eke with worthy women of the town:
For he had power of confession,
As said himselfe, more than a curate,
For of his order he was licentiate.
Full sweetely heard he confession,
And pleasant was his absolution.
He was an easy man to give penance,
There as he wist to have a good pittance:      *where he know
Elizabeth Burns Jul 2016
Rooi rosige wange
En n eerlike mond
n Hart van goud
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit ooit my Ouma met Rooi wange En die mooiste glimlag vergeet nie
En jou lag
Jou stewige lag
Jou Hart Wat so vol liefde was
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit vergeet dat dit was jy Wat vir my afrikaans geleer het
Ek het dit altyd met jou gepraat
My Ouma
Jou geselskap was altyd eerlik En jy het altyd my hart verstaan
My Ouma
Wat so lief vir Facebook was
My Ouma
Van muis stories
En my Ouma
saam met Wie Ek gebak het
My Ouma Van rose
My Ouma Van liefde
My Ouma Van lang goodbyes
En altyd ons ding
Waar ons het gese
Ons is so lief vir mekaar
My Ouma
Ek sal altyd dankbaar wees
Vir ons tyd saam
My lieflike Ouma
Ek sal jou met Rooi wange
En blou grimering onthou
My regte egte Ouma
Ek sal jou lag altyd ****
En jou laaste glimlag sien
En lippe Wat gese:
"Ek is so lief vir jou, my skat. Altyd."
Ouma Ek sal jou nooit ooit vergeet nie
Ouma
Ouma
My mooiste ouma
Van rose
En Rooi wange.

Totsiens my Ouma
This is an Afrikaans poem dedicated to my grandmother (Ouma). She passed away last night and she was very close to me.
Hoping some of you can understand the words...

RIP My Ouma (my grandmother).
Jy ry op die hanekraai
en kom le in my oor.
Jou tree 'n bekende geluid.

Jou teer drafstap deur my drome
maak my seerste monsters stil.
En sus my in 'n doodsluiterse rus.

Jou oe laat my handsaamslaan
op die lumier van meer as een.
Jou aansig maak van my gelowig.

Jou luim is 'n seestroom wat stoot en trek
en ek sit vasgekeer in jou rooi getui
en ek mik dieper , ek mik dood!

My liefste jou aanraak stuur gode
deur my dooie are en ruk my terug
vanaf die donker sluiers.

Jy is die maan, die sterre- nee
die nag! wat om my toevou
en my wieg wanneer my arms na niks gryp.

Jy is die openbaring waarna lewelose streef
en die anker waarna vryes verlang.
Bring my terug, na die gelykstreep,
voor die tyd ons invang.

Ek wil jou prys met woorde
wat God se toorn op my sal bring
maar dit hang aan my lippe
soos ek wag vir more se son om jou te besing.

Dit is my vroegoggend gedagtes,
van my lieflike laatslaper,
wie ek nooit akkuraat sal kan prys nie
, want ek is maar net 'n versotte ou dinkgaper.
Ek wil gedigte en boeke oor jou skryf . Jou met odes eer en met heilige woorde jou beskryf in die lyne van 'n epiese gedig... maar *** meer ek dit wil doen, *** meer verslaan jou werklikheid my en vind ek 'n gebrek aan woorde om die presiese emosies te verduidelik wat jy my laat voel. Dit is tye soos dan ,wanneer dit voel of my verstand gereed is om jou te besig , maar my mond hang oop... wagtend op woorde wat nog nie bestaan nie... om te beskryf wat jy aan my doen.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
My poems, where are they from?

Westerner.

An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."

But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward **, the seeds sown.

From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."

Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.

But where are my poems from?

I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...

But where are my poems from?

Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.

The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.

Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.

We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.

Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.

But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?

**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...
Created Oct. 24~25th, 2013
Watching Wallace Shawn expound, him, driving me crazy,
So on the streets of this my isle,
Look away, look to you,
Thinking about where
The poems I send,
Come from...

Original title was born in the West, they rise in the East.

But that was wrong.
They love the names of your towns and nations,
Where they go,
But there is no country where they
Come from.
Victoria Feb 2019
Jy hou van die manier waarop sy jou naam troosvol uitgespreek het na 'n swaar dag wat jy gehad het.
Jy is lief vir *** sy jou bekommernis verlig met elke woord wat sy sê dat jy nie presies kan vind *** sy daarin slaag om dinge wat jy nie kan uitdruk nie, uit te druk.
Jy hou van *** haar teenwoordigheid jou op jou reënerige dae troos en warmte gee.
Jy hou van haar klappergeur wat in jou kar hang nadat sy saam jou iewers heen gery het.
Jy hou daarvan om die geluid van haar lag te **** wat die leegheid van jou wêreld vul, soos simfonie jou uit die leemte haal.
Jy is lief vir *** sy gedigte geskryf het wat jy altyd weggevoer het, *** hulle gewys het hoeveel sy jou liefgehad het.
Jy hou van die manier *** haar klein vingers met joune verbind is, *** dit jou laat voel het dat jy die is wêreld waarna sy draai.
Jy is lief vir *** hierdie woorde die helderheid van die sterre diffundeer en *** hulle in die konstellasies hierbo vervang.
Jy hou van die manier waarop sy haar lippe saggies die besonderhede van jou gesig spoor soos 'n veer wat sy tydelik in die golwe van die wind laat dryf.
Jy hou van die geluid van elke strook van die potlood wat sy gemaak het toe sy die kruiswoorde wat jy op jou tafel gelos het, opgelos het, en besef dat dit nooit reg was nie, maar om na haar te kyk, was 'n antwoord self.
Jy is lief vir *** sy alles vir jou gemaak het, so erg dat dit jou laat verdrink het.

Jy is lief vir die idee van liefde wat hierin gevorm word.
This is in Afrikaans***
Dit was middernag op ń Saterdag aand
Ek was voor die tv in my warm wolkombers
; hulle was styf teen mekaar gekrul
In die stormdreine van Die Rosestad
Dit was nag.

Dit was 1 uur op ń Sondag oggend
Ek was in ń glasie brandewyn verlore
; Sy was in ń ongeluk in Die Laan bestorwe
Dit was nag.

Dit was 3 uur op ń Sondag oggend.
Ek het aan haar lippe gehang oor die foon
; Hy het homself met ń leerbeld gehang
Oor ń brief in ń hastige hand.
Dit was nag.

Dit was 5 uur op ń Sondag oggend.
My kussing was vol trane.
Die stormdreine was vol kadawers.
Die Laan het geskitter van glas skerwe.
Die brief was vol verdriet.

, maar wie sal omgee?
Wat die oë nie sien nie...
En niemand het gesien nie,
Want dit was nag.
Vat ń slukkie verdriet
En ontnugter jou verstand
Tot dit niks meer
As net ń spookdorp is
Wat tolbos oor
Jou silwerdoek-lewe nie

Jy voed op energie
, maar in ń moeë wêreld
Teer jy jouself uit
Totdat honger straatkinders
Jou ribbes speel
soos marimbas
Vir net ń laaste trek.

Dalk is vandag
Net een van dáárdie dae
, waar jy my sou red
En jou skouers
my vertroosting sou wees-
Jou lippe my spiersalf
Vir ń hart wat seer
geklop is.

Een van daardie dae
, maar jy is nog een van
Dáárdie mense...

Een van mý dae...
Iets wat jy nie is nie-
Myne
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
KEY OF HEAVEN

Here amongst Milton's
Lycidas...a cowslip's

skeleton
pressed between its pages

blossomed back in 1922
its ghost haunting the book

its head bent over the line
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil."

staining the word "Fame"
with its own lost shadow

the unknown woman in
the photographs laughs

at my discovering her
dressed in black and white in black and white

hands stuck in pockets
defiantly staring back at me

she more real
than me

the only other photo
she has removed her hands

from her pockets
producing them like a magic trick

they lay on her lap
like limpid rabbits

curiously alive
somehow

a sheen of sunlight
catches her Marcel wave

Petrella
the photograph names her

in writing as elegant
as she

early spring
1922.

*

Key of Heaven is only one of the names for the common cowslip( Primula Veris ). It travels under other names such as cuy lippe, herb peter, paigle, peggle, key flower, fairy cups, petty mulleins, crewel, buckles, palsywort, plumrocks and tittypines.

There was also a recipe for a delicious sparkling cowslip wine. Alas the book was too expensive for my means and I was more interested in the cowslip dying between Milton's lines and the woman who was Petrella back in the days of the year 19 and 22!

I no longer remember how to make cowslip wine and I never did.
Le brouillard est froid, la bruyère est grise ;
Les troupeaux de boeufs vont aux abreuvoirs ;
La lune, sortant des nuages noirs,
Semble une clarté qui vient par surprise.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Le voyageur marche et la lande est brune ;
Une ombre est derrière, une ombre est devant ;
Blancheur au couchant, lueur au levant ;
Ici crépuscule, et là clair de lune.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

La sorcière assise allonge sa lippe ;
L'araignée accroche au toit son filet ;
Le lutin reluit dans le feu follet
Comme un pistil d'or dans une tulipe.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

On voit sur la mer des chasse-marées ;
Le naufrage guette un mât frissonnant ;
Le vent dit : demain ! l'eau dit : maintenant !
Les voix qu'on entend sont désespérées.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Le coche qui va d'Avranche à Fougère
Fait claquer son fouet comme un vif éclair ;
Voici le moment où flottent dans l'air
Tous ces bruits confus que l'ombre exagère.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Dans les bois profonds brillent des flambées ;
Un vieux cimetière est sur un sommet ;
Où Dieu trouve-t-il tout ce noir qu'il met
Dans les coeurs brisés et les nuits tombées ?

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Des flaques d'argent tremblent sur les sables ;
L'orfraie est au bord des talus crayeux ;
Le pâtre, à travers le vent, suit des yeux
Le vol monstrueux et vague des diables.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

Un panache gris sort des cheminées ;
Le bûcheron passe avec son fardeau ;
On entend, parmi le bruit des cours d'eau,
Des frémissements de branches traînées.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.

La faim fait rêver les grands loups moroses ;
La rivière court, le nuage fuit ;
Derrière la vitre où la lampe luit,
Les petits enfants ont des têtes roses.

Je ne sais plus quand, je ne sais plus où,
Maître Yvon soufflait dans son biniou.
Bien ****, quand il se sent l'estomac écoeuré,
Le frère Milotus, un oeil à la lucarne
D'où le soleil, clair comme un chaudron récuré,
Lui darde une migraine et fait son regard darne,
Déplace dans les draps son ventre de curé.

Il se démène sous sa couverture grise
Et descend, ses genoux à son ventre tremblant,
Effaré comme un vieux qui mangerait sa prise,
Car il lui faut, le poing à l'anse d'un *** blanc,
À ses reins largement retrousser sa chemise !

Or il s'est accroupi, frileux, les doigts de pied
Repliés, grelottant au clair soleil qui plaque
Des jaunes de brioche aux vitres de papier ;
Et le nez du bonhomme où s'allume la laque
Renifle aux rayons, tel qu'un charnel polypier

Le bonhomme mijote au feu, bras tordus, lippe
Au ventre : il sent glisser ses cuisses dans le feu,
Et ses chausses roussir, et s'éteindre sa pipe ;
Quelque chose comme un oiseau remue un peu
À son ventre serein comme un monceau de tripe !

Autour dort un fouillis de meubles abrutis
Dans des haillons de crasse et sur de sales ventres ;
Des escabeaux, crapauds étranges, sont blottis
Aux coins noirs : des buffets ont des gueules de chantres
Qu'entrouvre un sommeil plein d'horribles appétits.

L'écoeurante chaleur gorge la chambre étroite ;
Le cerveau du bonhomme est bourré de chiffons.
Il écoute les poils pousser dans sa peau moite,
Et parfois, en hoquets fort gravement bouffons
S'échappe, secouant son escabeau qui boite...

Et le soir aux rayons de lune, qui lui font
Aux contours du cul des bavures de lumière,
Une ombre avec détails s'accroupit, sur un fond
De neige rose ainsi qu'une rose trémière...
Fantasque, un nez poursuit Vénus au ciel profond.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
islam seems to prescribe an active nostalgia... well... thank you for reviving my "nostalgia" of the wars between the polish-lithuanian commonwealth, and the ottoman turks... much appreciated; oh **** impaling these *******, maim them, so they get to look, real, pretty; **** me, why i always want to write the east german version of the title, including an S prior to the CH? i.e. todlippeläscheln - tod-lippe-laashen? it had to come about with being a decent organic chemist, with all those electron migration diagrams... and a love of cooking... language outside of orthodox science (the period table being my first alphabet) had to take into account a translation: into linguistics.*

poland has overcome
the idle fancies of
aristocrats
  that led to the partioning
of its very existence,
and overcame
  ******,
   and communism?
what's islam?
   a bit like catching
a little boy trying to
steal cookies from a cookie
jar...
    what could ever be
better than beheading?
slicing the ******'s lips off
and cutting out his tongue,
to leave a perfectly
permanent glee of teeth
equivalent to
spotting his sclera in the night.
IV.

Un grand houx, de forme incivile,
Du haut de sa fauve beauté,
Regardait mon habit de ville ;
Il était fleuri, moi crotté ;

J'étais crotté jusqu'à l'échine.
Le houx ressemblait au chardon
Que fait brouter l'ânier de Chine
À son âne de céladon.

Un bon crapaud faisait la lippe
Près d'un champignon malfaisant.
La chaire était une tulipe
Qu'illuminait un ver luisant.

Au seuil priait cette grisette
À l'air doucement fanfaron,
Qu'à Paris on nomme Lisette,
Qu'aux champs on nomme Liseron.

Un grimpereau, cherchant à boire,
Vit un arum, parmi le thym,
Qui dans sa feuille, blanc ciboire,
Cachait la perle du matin ;

Son bec, dans cette vasque ronde,
Prit la goutte d'eau qui brilla ;
La plus belle feuille du monde
Ne peut donner que ce qu'elle a.

Les chenilles peuplaient les ombres ;
L'enfant de choeur Coquelicot
Regardait ces fileuses sombres
Faire dans un coin leur tricot.

Les joncs, que coudoyait sans morgue
La violette, humble prélat,
Attendaient, pour jouer de l'orgue,
Qu'un bouc ou qu'un moine bêlât.

Au fond s'ouvrait une chapelle
Qu'on évitait avec horreur ;
C'est là qu'habite avec sa pelle
Le noir scarabée enterreur.

Mon pas troubla l'église fée ;
Je m'aperçus qu'on m'écoutait.
L'églantine dit : C'est Orphée.
La ronce dit : C'est Colletet.
KEY OF HEAVEN

Here amongst Milton's
Lycidas...a cowslip's

skeleton
pressed between its pages

blossomed back in 1923
its ghost haunting the book

its head bent over the line
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil."

staining the word "Fame"
with its own lost shadow

the unknown woman in
the photographs laughs

at my discovering her
dressed in black and white in black and white

hands stuck in pockets
defiantly staring back at me

she more real
than me

the only other photo
she has removed her hands

from her pockets
producing them like a magic trick

they lay on her lap
like limpid rabbits

curiously alive
somehow

a sheen of sunlight
catches her Marcel wave

Petrella
the photograph names her

in writing as elegant
as she

early spring
1923.

*

Key of Heaven is only one of the names for the common cowslip( Primula Veris ). It travels under other names such as cuy lippe, herb peter, paigle, peggle, key flower, fairy cups, petty mulleins, crewel, buckles, palsywort, plumrocks and tittypines.

There was also a recipe for a delicious sparkling cowslip wine. Alas the book was too expensive for my means and I was more interested in the cowslip dying between Milton's lines and the woman who was Petrella back in the days of the year 19 and 23!

I no longer remember how to make cowslip wine and I never did.

A book I didn't buy in the Oxfam Bookshop Guildford but did inspire me in a completely different way. One never knows what one will find at any one time in my favourite bookshop.
Bien ****, quand il se sent l'estomac écoeuré,
Le frère Milotus, un oeil à la lucarne
D'où le soleil, clair comme un chaudron récuré,
Lui darde une migraine et fait son regard darne,
Déplace dans les draps son ventre de curé.

Il se démène sous sa couverture grise
Et descend, ses genoux à son ventre tremblant,
Effaré comme un vieux qui mangerait sa prise,
Car il lui faut, le poing à l'anse d'un *** blanc,
À ses reins largement retrousser sa chemise !

Or il s'est accroupi, frileux, les doigts de pied
Repliés, grelottant au clair soleil qui plaque
Des jaunes de brioche aux vitres de papier ;
Et le nez du bonhomme où s'allume la laque
Renifle aux rayons, tel qu'un charnel polypier

Le bonhomme mijote au feu, bras tordus, lippe
Au ventre : il sent glisser ses cuisses dans le feu,
Et ses chausses roussir, et s'éteindre sa pipe ;
Quelque chose comme un oiseau remue un peu
À son ventre serein comme un monceau de tripe !

Autour dort un fouillis de meubles abrutis
Dans des haillons de crasse et sur de sales ventres ;
Des escabeaux, crapauds étranges, sont blottis
Aux coins noirs : des buffets ont des gueules de chantres
Qu'entrouvre un sommeil plein d'horribles appétits.

L'écoeurante chaleur gorge la chambre étroite ;
Le cerveau du bonhomme est bourré de chiffons.
Il écoute les poils pousser dans sa peau moite,
Et parfois, en hoquets fort gravement bouffons
S'échappe, secouant son escabeau qui boite...

Et le soir aux rayons de lune, qui lui font
Aux contours du cul des bavures de lumière,
Une ombre avec détails s'accroupit, sur un fond
De neige rose ainsi qu'une rose trémière...
Fantasque, un nez poursuit Vénus au ciel profond.

— The End —