"whan" poems - Hello Poetry

Whan the turuf is thy tour anonymous Middle English poem, circa the 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat only sullen worms shall note. What help unto you, then was all your worldly hope? *** Original Middle English text: Whan the turuf is thy tour, And thy pit is thy bour, Thy fel and thy whitë throtë Shullen wormës to notë. What helpëth thee thennë Al the worildë wennë? “Whan the turuf is thy tour” may be one of the oldest carpe diem (“seize the day”) poems in the English language, and an ancestor of Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” with its virginity-destroying worms. Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, medieval, anonymous, rhyme, rhyming, medieval, lament, complaint, lamentation, turf, tower, pit, bower, skin, throat, worms, note, help, worldly, hope

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Feb 28, 2020

Feb 28, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

"Whan the turuf is thy tour" translation

Whan the turuf is thy tour anonymous Middle English poem, circa the 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat only sullen worms shall note. What help unto you, then was all your worldly hope? *** Original Middle English text: Whan the turuf is thy tour, And thy pit is thy bour, Thy fel and thy whitë throtë Shullen wormës to notë. What helpëth thee thennë Al the worildë wennë? “Whan the turuf is thy tour” may be one of the oldest carpe diem (“seize the day”) poems in the English language, and an ancestor of Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress” with its virginity-destroying worms. Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, medieval, anonymous, rhyme, rhyming, medieval, lament, complaint, lamentation, turf, tower, pit, bower, skin, throat, worms, note, help, worldly, hope

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I singe with a hertly lud whan ycham herty, And I arme whan singinge is ne ynewe. Carole whan my corage blissieth, And I shal deye whan his blase deyeth. Druerie shal be his a-brune billets. A stable blase that shal sustene my spyrakles. A schrewe destroyere that kesseth so dimliche. A þeauful kempe with an as-spire swerde. Gostes of i-þank als ouer my vingeres. Al-only dulce conceiptes fletene in my gostes. Sumdel real cannot be als amaddinge. Sumdel real cannot be te-tealte! Is the mannish þonc als mase and puissant Sweuenen of suic a selkout conand? Dest Moder Folde cune of hire child? Hire misty doter who berne and bilde? The hoom is not where the herte is. The herte is the hoom bote motif The herte, the hoom, the ende, and the sepulture. A luft who is the mest derure in the Folde.

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Oct 2, 2012

Oct 2, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC

jackson-freeman

A Luuerlich Mortherer (Middle English Sonnet)

I singe with a hertly lud whan ycham herty, And I arme whan singinge is ne ynewe. Carole whan my corage blissieth, And I shal deye whan his blase deyeth. Druerie shal be his a-brune billets. A stable blase that shal sustene my spyrakles. A schrewe destroyere that kesseth so dimliche. A þeauful kempe with an as-spire swerde. Gostes of i-þank als ouer my vingeres. Al-only dulce conceiptes fletene in my gostes. Sumdel real cannot be als amaddinge. Sumdel real cannot be te-tealte! Is the mannish þonc als mase and puissant Sweuenen of suic a selkout conand? Dest Moder Folde cune of hire child? Hire misty doter who berne and bilde? The hoom is not where the herte is. The herte is the hoom bote motif The herte, the hoom, the ende, and the sepulture. A luft who is the mest derure in the Folde.

20

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES Never did help my Da enough. Always head-stuck-in-a-book. "Donall son..."he call "Can you hold this while ...I saw.!" "Awwww Da!" I'd wail. Me lost in Chaucer and his tale. And so the saw saws but all I see is..."Yo!" "The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone, A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone. The saw cuts through the afternoon. Pauses: then....chaw chaw Chaucers on again. "He did well out of them, for he could go And win the ram at any wrestling show." "Say what...? Oh, don't get me wrong I adored the aesthetic beauty of sawdust floating in a universe of its own suspended in sunlight and shadow. The smell of pine kidnapping my mind. The green dance of the bubble in a spirit level. Didn't have time for all that hammering and sawing. I was a boy on a mission ever since our teacher sighing "Oh I...don't know why I teach you scruff Chaucer ...you'll never read the book!" But by the weekend ( furious at the rebuff ) I( ha ha)HAD! My poor auld Da only getting begrudging help. "Whan that Aprille..." ( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind ) "...with his shoures soote the droghte of Marche..." (Words words oh sweet words. . .) "hath perced to the roote" (My mind. . .) "...bathed every veyne in swich licour," (the bubble in the spirit level poised perfectly...perfectly poised) "Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

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Nov 2, 2016

Nov 2, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES Never did help my Da enough. Always head-stuck-in-a-book. "Donall son..."he call "Can you hold this while ...I saw.!" "Awwww Da!" I'd wail. Me lost in Chaucer and his tale. And so the saw saws but all I see is..."Yo!" "The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone, A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone. The saw cuts through the afternoon. Pauses: then....chaw chaw Chaucers on again. "He did well out of them, for he could go And win the ram at any wrestling show." "Say what...? Oh, don't get me wrong I adored the aesthetic beauty of sawdust floating in a universe of its own suspended in sunlight and shadow. The smell of pine kidnapping my mind. The green dance of the bubble in a spirit level. Didn't have time for all that hammering and sawing. I was a boy on a mission ever since our teacher sighing "Oh I...don't know why I teach you scruff Chaucer ...you'll never read the book!" But by the weekend ( furious at the rebuff ) I( ha ha)HAD! My poor auld Da only getting begrudging help. "Whan that Aprille..." ( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind ) "...with his shoures soote the droghte of Marche..." (Words words oh sweet words. . .) "hath perced to the roote" (My mind. . .) "...bathed every veyne in swich licour," (the bubble in the spirit level poised perfectly...perfectly poised) "Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

55

Please, make it stop. Stop this pain, stop this hopeless hope, stop the love. Fast forward to a time when I won't think of him (or when he'll feel ready to be with me) Make me understand that I cannot have everything I wish for (or him that I can make his deepest wishes true) I don't want to keep living out of flashes and moments, I don't want to keep worrying about the definite end. I don't want to kiss him and leave wondering when it will happen again. Give me a sign of what to pray for, because I really don't know what to ask for when I get on my knees. Do I keep praying for him to realize I am the one or for me to realize that he may not be? How can I convince myself of that? (how can I convince him?) I bet no one would believe that I felt he was special since day one, that I saw in you whan no one would see. And then you smiled, and then you talked, and you named all the reasons to be who you are. And just when I couldn't stop picturing my life without him, he comes and says he is happy alone. That he is not ready right now, that he does not want me, nor anyone. How do I compete against that? There's no other woman, there's nothing to fight against but himself. He says he doesn't know how to think in plural anymore cause he's been alone for so long, well, so have I, c'mon my love, react. We can learn together, from the basics if you want, from writting each other notes and drawing hearts on the windows of our cars. So, what will it be? Do I give up or do you give in?

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Sep 24, 2013

Sep 24, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC

camila

Tired.

Please, make it stop. Stop this pain, stop this hopeless hope, stop the love. Fast forward to a time when I won't think of him (or when he'll feel ready to be with me) Make me understand that I cannot have everything I wish for (or him that I can make his deepest wishes true) I don't want to keep living out of flashes and moments, I don't want to keep worrying about the definite end. I don't want to kiss him and leave wondering when it will happen again. Give me a sign of what to pray for, because I really don't know what to ask for when I get on my knees. Do I keep praying for him to realize I am the one or for me to realize that he may not be? How can I convince myself of that? (how can I convince him?) I bet no one would believe that I felt he was special since day one, that I saw in you whan no one would see. And then you smiled, and then you talked, and you named all the reasons to be who you are. And just when I couldn't stop picturing my life without him, he comes and says he is happy alone. That he is not ready right now, that he does not want me, nor anyone. How do I compete against that? There's no other woman, there's nothing to fight against but himself. He says he doesn't know how to think in plural anymore cause he's been alone for so long, well, so have I, c'mon my love, react. We can learn together, from the basics if you want, from writting each other notes and drawing hearts on the windows of our cars. So, what will it be? Do I give up or do you give in?

34

Father Why’s Glob *And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle* -Chaucer A famous priest takes pictures of his meals Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared As he airplanes around the world attending meetings To talk about people he doesn’t like A famous priest takes pictures of more meals Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat While he is flying holy in first class And praising his cabernet sauvignon A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips) If you will send him money for his many trips

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Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Father Why's Glob

Father Why’s Glob *And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle* -Chaucer A famous priest takes pictures of his meals Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared As he airplanes around the world attending meetings To talk about people he doesn’t like A famous priest takes pictures of more meals Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat While he is flying holy in first class And praising his cabernet sauvignon A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips) If you will send him money for his many trips

15

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES Never did help my Da enough. Always head-stuck-in-a-book. "Donall son..."he call "Can you hold this while ...I saw.!" "Awwww Da!" I'd wail. Me lost in Chaucer and his tale. And so the saw saws but all I see is..."Yo!" "The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone, A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone. The saw cuts through the afternoon. Pauses: then.... Chaucers on again. "He did well out of them, for he could go And win the ram at any wrestling show." "Say what...? Oh, don't get me wrong I adored the aesthetic beauty of sawdust floating in a universe of its own suspended in sunlight and shadow.. The smell of pine kidnapping my mind. The green dance of the bubble in a spirit level. Didn't have time for all that hammering and sawing. I was a boy on a mission ever since our teacher sighing "Oh I...don't know why I teach you scruff Chaucer ...you'll never read the book!" But by the weekend ( furious at the rebuff ) I( ha ha)HAD! My poor auld Da only getting begrudging help. "Whan that Aprille..." ( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind ) "...with his shoures soote the droghte of Marche..." Words words oh sweet words. "hath perced to the roote" My mind ( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, ) the bubble in the spirit level poised perfectly...perfectly poised "Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

0

Aug 26, 2019

Aug 26, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC

donall-dempsey

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES Never did help my Da enough. Always head-stuck-in-a-book. "Donall son..."he call "Can you hold this while ...I saw.!" "Awwww Da!" I'd wail. Me lost in Chaucer and his tale. And so the saw saws but all I see is..."Yo!" "The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone, A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone. The saw cuts through the afternoon. Pauses: then.... Chaucers on again. "He did well out of them, for he could go And win the ram at any wrestling show." "Say what...? Oh, don't get me wrong I adored the aesthetic beauty of sawdust floating in a universe of its own suspended in sunlight and shadow.. The smell of pine kidnapping my mind. The green dance of the bubble in a spirit level. Didn't have time for all that hammering and sawing. I was a boy on a mission ever since our teacher sighing "Oh I...don't know why I teach you scruff Chaucer ...you'll never read the book!" But by the weekend ( furious at the rebuff ) I( ha ha)HAD! My poor auld Da only getting begrudging help. "Whan that Aprille..." ( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind ) "...with his shoures soote the droghte of Marche..." Words words oh sweet words. "hath perced to the roote" My mind ( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, ) the bubble in the spirit level poised perfectly...perfectly poised "Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

55

i want what i want what i want i want whant i wat i what whan i wht wan i..? ii all very well lily, but a man´s conscience and understanding is his own.. and we are not in the business of the judgemental.. iii the materialistic make us sick- all very well but- we have to eat- -we have to die to live- -the spiritual, don´t put the beans on to the toast..does it.. iv in the garden hosts of color- tis, verily, the time of year, with fused-intellect as creators-the love we are- gods, or purple insects, through air flitter-diaphanous.. blooms trickle red and wet- dew-all that is to beautiful too true!-(like a cremer!)* time is stilled.. * jan cremer v work is the word! (or do nothing up to you) stare at a wall, kick a ball, hark the call!- time is true..

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May 31, 2023

May 31, 2023 at 6:51 AM UTC

michael-john

i want what i

i want what i want what i want i want whant i wat i what whan i wht wan i..? ii all very well lily, but a man´s conscience and understanding is his own.. and we are not in the business of the judgemental.. iii the materialistic make us sick- all very well but- we have to eat- -we have to die to live- -the spiritual, don´t put the beans on to the toast..does it.. iv in the garden hosts of color- tis, verily, the time of year, with fused-intellect as creators-the love we are- gods, or purple insects, through air flitter-diaphanous.. blooms trickle red and wet- dew-all that is to beautiful too true!-(like a cremer!)* time is stilled.. * jan cremer v work is the word! (or do nothing up to you) stare at a wall, kick a ball, hark the call!- time is true..

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