Speccie: Pilgrims' Progress
 

Only four winners this week and one of them me. Heh heh! The new competition looks a runner.

No. 2657: Pilgrim’s Progress
You are invited to imagine what merry band Chaucer might bring together if he were writing today (16 lines maximum). Entries should be submitted by email, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 21 July.

Whenas we left the Tabard, then we found
A strapping ladette, blottoe on ye ground.
The squyer woke her, and with courtesie
Suggested she might join our compagnie,
And so came she upon our pylgrymage,
Yet her religioun was hard to gauge,
Save that we heard her mutter 'Oh sweet Jesus'
Syn that there were namo Bacardi Breezers.
The millere much admired this sturdy wench,
Although hir langage made the shipman blench,
And ye Good Wife of Bath cried out 'That's rude'
When reading wordes on hir rumpe tattooed.
Indeed her manners were not over-nice.
The persoun therefor yeft hir good advice.
He tolled her, swearing is nor big nor clevvere.
To which the wench replied but with 'Whatevvere.'

George, that is very good. Right in the slot as the cricket commentators say. Could be money for you, old son.

Congratulations, John!
I'll be back on the speccie scene in August - meanwhile, for the next 3 weeks will be anywhere between London and Land's End - so St. George for England!

Excellent, George.

This competition is too hard for me. I confess that I never developed a taste for Chaucer and the exercise doesn't resonate for me at all. Barring an unexpected Chaucerian inspiration, I won't be entering this one.

Congratulations on your win, John, and George - excellent. Superb last line.

To save the typing, I think I'll just reiterate what Bob said:

Good show, John - George, that one made me laugh - as John has had occasion to say, if there is justice, it deserves a win.

Frank

Thanks for the positive feedback. I've now sent my ladette on a pilgrimage to Lucy.

Oure hoost, cleped Simon, sayeth, “Bloody Helle,”
whan that the STRIPPER’s tassle felle,
Quod he, full snyppye, “In a woord,
thy drasty acte’s nat worth a toord!
Get backe to Engelonde’s erse-end, ye woot,
no drap of talent have ye goot!.”
She putt hyr smale foweles in thir cage—
pleynly, she was no Elaine Paige,
but nevyr one to bee beset by doubte,
now in a PRIORY, she’s dryen oute
and taken mastyrre-clense, she’s coole againe,
yngagyd to a SOCCER HOOLIGAN.
Nexte seson, too, another gygge she hath,
whan therre bigynneth, “Real House-Wyves of Bath.”

Great. I had to Google "real housewives - England" to determine that the show isn't even over there . . . . now I need a shower.

Nice, Frank. But aren't lines 2,4 and 6 a foot short? Lucy won't like that and it's easily put right. If you do add feet and then win I claim ten per cent! I haven't managed one this week, dammit. Yaeh, we've got the housewives, and also something called 'footballers' wives' though I confess I haven't seen either.

John, I have no idea how to enter the contest ( I'd like to), but here's an entry. It was fun.


The Poete’s Tale


A povre poete somdel stape in age
was whilom scribblyng in his narwe cottage
that neither heat nor cold could keep at bay.
The night was ice and colder was the day.
His shivered and he made a waymentynge
Louder, I woot, than creature lyvynge.
Now help me God, sith it is in thy might,
saith he, my bed is frozen as the night.
My wyf is buxom and is nought so old,
But saith no womman loves a bed of cold.
“What thyng is it that wommen moost desiren?
Pay up the bill; thy nekke-boon is iren!
Nay, if thou kanst nat warm me up anon,
Yet shal I yeve thee leve for to gon.”
Thus hath she gon to wikked London toun,
Leaving oure povre poete nought to doon.
And thus gan he to swive in lecherie,
To wenches brennyng and to avotrie.
At every tavern made he swich disport
And gadered hym a menee of his sort.
Wel was the wenche with hym myghte meete.
He was the hyve and ful of hony sweete,
But writ no tale nor biographie,
Nor smale poem nor a historie.
For wyn drank he both whit and dauncing red.
Apoplexie shente him hir heed.
He dyed in Southwark in his warm pleasaunce,
Forgetful of the cold and his mischaunce.
The propre moral, as ye mought have rede:
Pay up youre heating or ye mought be dede.

John, thanks. In my head, the first line of the prologue has four beats, since I forget that it's "Aprillah" - so when I did a quick mental reconnoiter, I emerged with the impression it was mixed tet and pent.

Lance - you have to trim it to no more than 16 lines.

Frank

Lance, do what Frank said, then go to the top of the thread and email in to the address there given. If you win with your first shot you will be an obvious natural.

Frank, Dryden made the same mistake, so you are in good company.

A POETE was there, youngish, cynical,
Who spake his minde as from a pinnacle
Of wysdom, his pronouncements darke and grim
About the Formal scene, which seemede him
Upon the the pathway to perdicioun.
What reeked of beauty or tradicioun,
Or classicism, fostered his malaise.
And saints preserve us from those MFAs!
"A poem," quod he, as though it were a given,
"Sholde never fear to drynken and to swyven!
So many poems are lyke to processed swyll,
Lyke burgers comynge off a faste food grill."
On conteste judges he rayled withouten ende:
Corrupt and biased, each with his agenda;
And the winners, derivative as apes!
Methought I caught a whyff of sour grapes...
....At whych goode Master Chaucer cryed "Pardee--
"I wonder how hym lyketh my poetry?"

Thanks, Frank and John. I'll trim it down and send it off.

Lance

I had an unexpected Chaucerian inspiration:

BYG BIRD there was, who towered eight feet high,
And though he had tweye wings he could not fly;
He was not long on brains, that yellow bird:
He thought the Alphabet was one long word
And wondered ofte sithes what it meant.
Yet all his freends did trow him hevene sent,
And GROVER, BERT and ERNIE all would vouch
For him, as would both ZOE and the GROUCH
Hight OSCAR, lord of wlatsom things and smelly.
The next one in our compaignye was TELLY
Whose verray feere, gentil BABY BEAR,
Was fond of culture, smart and debonair,
Although he could not speke the letter R.
Our pilgramage could not have gotten far
Without the monster ELMO, in whose world
The exploits of our merry band unfurled.

A dweeb there was, and eke a curious nerd,
Who for the companie had not one word
But plyed with busy fingers his laptop.
Godde's bones, the drasty fellowe would not stop!
Though snybbed by oon assent he scorned to cease,
But followed all the while his owne caprice.
This ilke wight feyned wisdom, yet I doubte
'Twas more than mullok in and mullok out.
As his lemman he had a club hostesse
More known for harlotie than for clennesse
And clad in queynte apparel that bewrayed
Full well the ragerye of her foul trade.
I trowe they were ful paired in vileneye,
Which raised mystriste among the companie,
One ny to mysterie as an alkamystre,
The other outened as a fallen sister.

(There is no way I'm going to attempt yer actual Middle English, so I've adopted mix-and-match opportunistic protocols where vocabulary & spelling are concerned)

That approach seems natural, but I wonder if it's what Lucy wants. She said to write it as if Chaucer were writing today, and perhaps that means we should write it in modern English. The problem is, if we don't throw in many nods to Middle English, how else do we instantly invoke a Chaucer vibe? Unable to answer that question myself, I went with the modern/middle English pastiche approach myself. (My problem, though, is that I just learned that the BBC stopped showing Sesame street nearly 10 years ago, so my references may come across as too obscure for those who have not been steeped in Sesame Street in recent times).

Exactly. The problem is the comp. I sometimes wonder what Lucy is on.

A youth there was with football in his hand
Returned from Cape Town sooner than he’d planned
With moll all flash and leggy, known as Wag,
Though truthfully no more than Shopping Bag.
For as we passed by Southwark’s retail Mall
She vanished, implants, fake tan, bling and all.
An MP too there was, expenses paid,
Whom jeering crowds left wholly undismayed;
An eco-hero too, who hugged dead trees
And died, unmourned, near Penge, of Elm Disease;
While poet Ransome-Davies joined to seek
To give his Bonus Fiver won that week
In thanks for intercession by the Saint
To keep him winning what mere mortals cain’t.
(My ghost, you’ll notice, made the trip as well,
And since I died you’ll see it’s learnt to spell.)

As soon as we had left the Tabard’s gate
Our Host bade me a story to relate.
I began a tale of wedded strife
All about a much–beleaguered wife,
Whose husband, so it seemed, was only able
To guzzle beer and gawp at sports on cable
Until she made him sleep in the garage.
This was greeted by a great barrage
Of curses from the Miller and the Reeve.
The Seaman used language you would not believe!
Then cried the Wife of Bath, “Now hold your peace!
Stop squawking like a flock of angry geese!
Lordinges, by all the Saintes glory
For shame! After all, 'tis but a story!”
She winked as we passed through a sunlit dale,
And said to me: "Lambkyn, wait till they hear my tale!"

The taxmen, on their horses, huge and pale,
Rode soberly. They were not drunk of ale.
Ah no! For they were drunk of human folly.
It was despair that made them fat and jolly.
‘Friend, is it you?’ they shouted on the road.
‘We have your number and we have your code.
Fear not, dear friend, your letter’s in the post.
You were, and are, indubitably toast:
We’ll have your house and chattels at a stroke!’
And how they laughed, yet no man shared the joke.
And no man with them rode. They rode alone
And spoke continually by telephone.
They rode alone, for no man would beside
Great Satan and his laughing devils ride.