[John Whitworth]

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.

[Lance Levens]

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.

[FOsen]

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

[John Whitworth]

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.

[Marion Shore]

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?"

[Lance Levens]

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

Lance

[Roger Slater]

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.

[basil ransome-davies]

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)

[Roger Slater]

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).

[basil ransome-davies]

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