I started out writing poetry years before I joined the SCA, but it's harder to find an audience for that than for a song, so I switched to filk and eventually to original songs as well. But it's still useful to whip up a bit of a rhyme, so here's them.
Shortly after I was made Bard, I fell madly in love with a sweet and irresistably sexy Rowanite lass named Michelle [Hi, Michelle! Are you embarrassed yet?] As a result, I tended to spend my spare weekends travelling to forn parts instead of writing endless victory poems, and my Bardic duties suffered. This apology was my attempt to redress this lack.
[October, 1995]
Baron Steven, Lord of Rockleigh, and Mathilde, our Baroness,
As your Bard, I've struggled hard, but I confess to great distress.
For the Lord on high above, my prayers ignored, and gave a shove,
So like a hawk upon a dove, I was descended on... by love!
My lady hails from Chenonceaux, (whence came a Rowanite we know!)
But lives in thrall within the hall of Blessed Ursula, to scrawl
A thousand theses, big and small; thus to this saint she gives her all.
And 'though her father earns a rather rightly royal wage for toil,
And she wants for very little, in the days of her committal
To her study, clearly it'll make my wallet old and brittle
As I ride the countryside, to be beside my loving... girlie.
So the task you kindly asked that I perform; to whit, to form
A poem, song or epic long, for every feast until I've ceased
To be your bard, is getting hard. But never fear! For you I'm here,
I hold my joyful duties dear, and for the year I'll stay sincere
To all I vowed the night I bowed and said aloud, to serve I'm proud.
So in the days and feasts to be, when misty haze enshroudeth me,
And any phrase of poetry I cannot raise, and muses flee,
I shall endeavour, now and ever till forever, to be clever,
Writing rhymes to suit the times, if you meantimes forgive my crimes.
Lady Filippa di Genevra Francesca was Chirurgeon to the Principality when I first joined the SCA, and at my first Rowany Festival she gave this collegium on medieval diseases during one of the last feasts ever held at the Festival.
[Easter 1992]
Chirurgeons, while they like to keep it quiet, are more than merely leech-infested quacks.
They have a certain skill - so don't deny it - for giving people sudden heart attacks.
A very good example, fairly recent, is Filippa, Chirurgeon at the time;
A lady with a knack I call indecent, for running rather graphic pantomime.
It happened, through an aggregate of factors, that Filippa was called upon to speak
On antiquated illness, using actors; a lesson both amusing and unique.
She gathered some accomplices together, and gave them all a list of what she had:
Diseases to be acted, hell for leather, and symptoms clearly labelled, good and bad.
And thus, with little formal preparation, began an epic not to be ignored;
For seeking to expand our education, she guaranteed that none of us were bored.
It started, as the people sat at dinner, when Morag brought her husband to the hall:
The unsuccessful Duncan, Scottish sinner, with wounds received that morning in a brawl.
Chirurgeon's help was useless, he diminished; the wound was too severe, his life was done;
His wife however, clearly wasn't finished: her loud lamenting deafened everyone.
Then Elenora rose, and started running, afflicted by the dread St Vitus Dance,
With fingers made of sausage, truly cunning, ejected as she stumbled in a trance.
And Mungo of the Rock, a noble fighter, upon a famous bridge had been harpooned.
He wished he'd merely died, the sorry blighter, when Lady Fili cauterised the wound.
But all the noise had roused a certain Laurel, our autocrat, the Mistress Marguerite
Who found the doc and had a mighty quarrel, asserting all this acting wasn't meet.
So Filippa replied, all posh and plummy, describing all the sickness she'd ignored:
Venereal disease, and upset tummy, and poisoning from food, to be abhorred.
But when the Lady Laurel heard the latter, she clutched her throat and died upon the sand.
An unrehearsed and unexpected matter, the sign that this was getting out of hand.
For suddenly a leper, quite at random, approached amid the general disarray,
And all of Fili's table mates, in tandem, descended to the ground and slid away.
And here was Martin's cue - the storm was rising. He strode toward the Prince and Viscountess
And showed the sores (a trick of his devising) of scrofula, a source of great distress.
The cure was to be touched by someone royal, and Elfinn wasn't pleased to fit the bill
His guard, a man both menacing and loyal, reminded Martin dead was worse than ill.
He wasn't moved; he begged for Elfinn's finger, to touch the sore and make his body clean.
He did, as custom said, but didn't linger: the Lady Rowan's face was turning green!
And when the prince at last removed his digit, the sores, all made of putty, came away.
The Viscountess, discreet, began to fidget, and asked to be excused without delay.
This episode, so trying for the gentry, was nonetheless occasion for a smile:
To take a topic, one so elementary, and make it so alluring spoke of style.
But never underestimate the rabble, the Lady Fili quickly came to see:
As certain noises rose above the babble, the whole event approached an apogee.
Sebastian, who sat at Fili's table, was first to stand, to cough a bit, and die,
Then Gillian, her knees a bit unstable, she also coughed, departed with a sigh.
Then every diner sitting in her section, contracted (all at once) pneumonic plague,
Except for one, who smiled in her direction, and said "I feel all right, though somewhat vague."
So peace arrived, for maybe half a second, till Alistair appeared in tartan dress,
And said, "I got a spider here, I reckoned, it's sittin' in me sporran -- more or less."
Another voice, from over by the Eric, concurred with this: "Tarantula!" it screamed,
The crowd (who love a dance) became hysteric, as with a thousand bugs the tavern teemed.
So up they got, the spider-bit and dying, and up they got, the mindless hangers-on,
And danced the tarantella, fairly flying, away across the darkened plain and gone.
And Filippa, Chirurgeon, stood and waited, till all the noise and chatter died away,
"So that was my collegium," she stated. "I hope you learnt a thing or two today."
Many years ago when the world was young, before sobriety and theses attacked and rendered the Horde boring, Alaric Longshaft was famous for his tendency to drop trou at the slightest whim. After he threatened to this one more time, I composed this heartfelt plea.
[late 1998]
There's a lot of things that people do to hurt their fellow men
There's a history of horrors in the history of time;
There are holocausts and pogroms, there is genocide, and then
There's another, even more uncouth and unforgiven crime...
You can cover me in marmalade and throw me to the ants
You can knee me in the goolies, you can tell my Mum I'm gay,
You can stick a firecracker in my nicest Sunday pants,
Oh, but save me from the hordesman with his privates on display!
You can dress in brown with epaulets and cheer the Master Race;
You can wear a hood and burn a cross upon a Southern lawn;
You can ethnic cleanse your neighbours from a hidden Baltic base;
But there's still a greater evil than all other evils born...
You can crush, with tanks, your students for their democratic dreams;
You can gas the poor Malaysians so they really know the score
You can even hassle presidents for sexcrimes now, it seems;
But I beg you, don't let Alaric reveal his bits once more!
It was my tradition to give, as a prize in the Fighter Auction Tourney at Rowany Festival, a voucher for "one poem, ode or song in style and period as chosen by the bearer". She Moves So Perfectly is another song composed as a result of this; this one was for Hanbal, in honour of Utë von Tangermunde.
I also did her a limerick:
A fencer from Stormhold named Utë
Fought off with a foil every suitor
Till Hannibal came
And he called off her game,
Explaining, "Together, we're cuter!"
[Easter 1999]
A daffodil grows beneath the sun, whose golden face
Entices the bee to wander nigh on golden wing.
He gathers within his tiny hands the golden trace
Of honey that is, of all the world, the sweetest thing.
But honey is second in sweetness,
The bee is the second in art,
The sun is the second in warmth and light,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
The eagle, the lord of all the air, with golden eye
He watches the tiny dragonfly, whose golden dance
Will summon the dawn of every day, the golden sky,
And fill it with joy and nimbleness in bright romance.
But the eagle is second in grandeur,
The dragonfly's second to start,
The dawn is the second in joyfulness,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
But honey is second in sweetness,
The bee is the second in art,
The sun is the second in warmth and light,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
Presented to Their Excellencies, Torg and Lindoret, Baron and Baroness of Rowany, at Their Midwinter Feast, AS XXX. I was made Bard of Politarchopolis when the Barony was created, and the first bit of poetry I performed outside the Barony's bounds nearly started a war. Thankfully, Torg and Lindoret overruled the rabid demands of their populace (no doubt driven to violence by envy at my own Barony's far-superior feasts!) and sent back friendly greetings instead of my corpse.
Nowadays, Rowany's feasts are much improved in quantity (quality, I admit, was never an issue). But if I want a good feed, I'll still go home to Polit.
[July 1995]
Unto Torald, goodly moralled,
wise and well-versed Knight of Hawkhurst,
and Lindoret, who they all say
has all mirth in, of Bryn Myrddin,
do Lord Stephen, fair and even
(yet stick-jockly) Lord of Rockleigh,
and Mathilde, graceful, skilled
wife and patriot of Mynheniot
send their greeting to this meeting
here in Rowany, from their Barony.
May your feast attain -- at least! --
standards fit to suit Polit!
Someone complained about one of my heraldic puns on the Shambles; this was my response. I can count twenty-two heraldic puns herein; I'm particularly fond of the final one.
[1998?]
I stare in Or at potent fools,
Those sinister perverted gules,
Who'd bend and counter all the rules
If proper heralds weren't in charge.
They would disable every law,
And cross their fingers to be sure,
To undermine our ways, and more!
I pale to see them still at large!
An ordinary man cannot
Do vairy much to stop the rot
I must confess it makes me hot
To see this conflict happening!
So mullet over, learn the truth:
Argentleman can't be uncouth!
Take arms upon the field, forsooth!
(And bill your invoice of the King.)
As I was sitting at a table at the St Blasius Day music collegium, Prince Kurgan wandered past and did a double-take when he saw my rhyming dictionary. He opened it, and noted some interestingly ironic rhymes, then demanded that I take those rhymes and write a poem for him. I did so, but of course as pioneering poet for this new, sestina-like style of poem, I claimed naming rights for the invention. I named it a Huraiwa, after Kurgan's princess and wife.
[February 1999]
If a leader would avoid the name of Hitler,
He should carefully compose his manifesto.
He should ask a man of words, some lingo-whittler,
To help compose and, pretty soon, hey presto!
He'll have his dissertation, his theology,
To guide all men, both fit and amputee;
As close to truth as bumps are to phrenology,
And thus he'll lead like Queen Hippolyte.
Despite hypoglycaemia and a disastrous mis-allocation of resources (they let non-Politarchopolans do the cooking!!!), I managed to perform this prologue and epilogue to The Judgement Of Paris during the one-and-only Purgatorio, AS (let me think now...) XXIX, in Goulburn. The middle bit was written by someone else and is not included here.
[July 1994]
We live, we Western nobles, in an age
When Glory signs her name to every page;
When Hades enters not in man's affairs,
For death the tilting jousters never snares.
We seek, desire for vict'ry's gains above,
The triple crown of honour, truth and love,
And show, in all our striving for this goal,
Resemblance to another, older soul.
For Paris, son of Priam, Prince of Troy,
Was all we yearn to be, 'though yet a boy;
To truth he strode, to honour through his dread,
To love above all else, his labours led.
The mighty Zeus, of Attic gods the king,
Was ne'er immune to all the lure of spring;
The daughter of a sea god caught his eye,
So begged he then the Fates to verify.
But Clotho, Atropos and Lachesis,
Presented their divine analysis,
"This woman in her time shall bear a son,
"Whose greatness shall exceed his father's own!"
Thus warned, the god of all Olympus said,
His lady love a mortal king should wed.
He set about a wedding feast to plan,
With guests alike both god and mortal man.
The roll of guests extended from the floor,
To high above the sky, a mile or more;
For all the gods that ever were alive,
Were asked to come; or all, that is, save five:
The god of war's attendants were denied,
And from their war-wracked pallisades they cried:
"Revenge upon the groom and bride to be,
"For slighting such an evil clan as we!"
Thence Deimos and his brother Phobos, fright,
Made dread arachnids crawl from out the night.
But Athene took the time to intervene,
Removing them before they could be seen.
So Pallor, terror lord, and Metus, fear,
With menace, caused a she-bear to appear,
But Zeus, whose love Callisto was a bear,
Invited her to talk, and take the air.
So Eris, worst of Ares' thwarted aides,
Repaired unto the Hesperian glades,
Where found she one last apple made of gold,
Which had by chance escaped the hero's hold.
Upon the apple's skin these words she wrote:
"This apple to the fairest I devote".
And last, her evil scheming near complete,
She left it at the mortal bridegroom's feet.
The noisy crowd assembled was becalmed
As by the apple's glister they were charmed,
Until the goddess Hera, shaking free,
Retrieved it, stating, "That will be for me!"
"For thee!" Athena screamed. "'Tis not indeed!
"The fairest this is for, canst thou not read?
"The fattest of us all, thou mayst be,
"The fairest, none may doubt, is clear to see!"
"If clear it is," - now Aphrodite spoke -
"Then all we here grow weary of thy joke.
"For me the apple's meant, so let it be."
And fought they long and cruel, these ladies three.
Then Eris spoke, in servant's garb disguised,
To Zeus, who stood amidst the crowd, surprised.
"How then," she asked, "might peace be made to reign?
"Has Zeus himself surrendered to the strain?"
"By Me!" he swore. "This farce will end at once!
"No piece of fruit shall make of Zeus a dunce!
"Let... Hermes find a judge to this dispute,
"Lest all the gods be cast in disrepute!"
"If I," said Hermes then, "must fill the role
"Of arbiter for such a rigmarole,
"My chances for survival will be thin,
"The losers in their wrath shall do me in!
"But let me find a sorry mortal dupe,
"To do the job - and save me from the soup!
"A simpleton, perhaps, whose life is dull;
"He'll miss it less than one whose days were full!"
And Hermes, with the goddesses in tow,
Flew off to find some pastoral tableau,
Where stood a shepherd boy; and Hermes said,
"This lad will do, to judge them my stead.
"A minor Prince, of little consequence,
"Reduced to guarding sheep for some offence.
"He'll make a choice, and when the winner's crowned,
"The losers' rage will put him in the ground!"
This got performed at the famous Rowany AS XXVII, with the entire female population of Rowany (or so it seemed) acting it out -- and running to the waiting arms of the Scarlet Women, led by Kiriel, at the last line.
[Easter 1993]
His Highness, John of Skye, had made it heard
That certain local matters need attention.
Lindoret, Baroness, thus gave her word
To bring about the requisite correction.
For Rowany, the jewel of Lochac's crown
Was not the most unblemished of abodes
The ladies there had gathered great renown
In numerous disgraceful episodes.
But she whose very name commands respect
Achieved the goal with scads of time to spare;
Restoring all the standards you'd expect,
To leave the town as pure as mountain air.
The ladies of disputed moral grain
Are gone from there, by Baroness' decree.
And all the noble lady let remain
Is innocence, and gentle chastity.
The Triple-F of Rowany, forsooth,
Is Feasting, yes, and Fighting, plain to see;
But now we see restored the proper truth:
The final F should stand for Finery.
And if you wish to know the lady's trick
I now reveal her method; it was this:
All women too impure and heretic
Were banished - to Politarchopolis!
Subtitled The Odyssey of Homer, A Tale of Love, Adventure and Sub-Standard Navigation Near Ancient Greece, this was the script of the play I and two others performed for Stephen and Mathilde's wedding feast. Rob played all the women and baddies, including the Cyclops (with a hand placed solemnly over one eye), and his lovely wife whose name escapes me played Odysseus.
[September 1998]
Odysseus, who fought the Trojan War,
Was master of the sword and axe and knife,
But still he had one single, fatal flaw:
He couldn't steer a ship to save his life.
He fought the Trojan War with might and main,
But Ithaca was home to him, not Troy.
So now he yearned to see his wife again,
And thought he'd take a shortcut - silly boy!
He first got stuck, and strangely feel asleep
Upon the lotus eaters' misty isle.
He next got trapped by Cyclops and his sheep,
But bested him in true heroic style.
Aeolus helped him trap the roguish breeze,
But then they all escaped -- what rotten luck.
And Circe turned them all, despite their pleas,
From human form to pig, or cow, or duck.
The Sirens sang, and drove them all insane;
With wax inside their ears they battled free.
Charybdis tried to whirl them down the drain,
While Scylla tried to eat them all for tea.
Apollo told them, "All these cows are mine!"
The men, however, fancied steak, so: ZAP!
Then shipwreck dunked them all into the brine;
Odysseus alone survived this trap.
Odysseus upon a rock was stuck,
Without a boat to take him home to Greece.
But Zeus was rather fond of him, by luck,
And right away secured the man's release.
Telemachus, his son, arrived by chance,
And told him news of Ithaca, his throne.
For several men, all scheming for romance,
Had realised that his wife was all alone.
He dressed in rags, all smelly and unkempt,
And watched the suitors cruelly bickering.
They treated him with undisguised contempt,
For no-one knew this beggar was their king.
Penelope, his lovely wife, decreed
A contest would be held within the town.
The winner, she reluctantly agreed,
Would gain her hand in marriage, and the crown.
The suitors took their turns at feats of strength.
The beggar sat and let them have their fun.
And when they'd proved their skills at boring length,
The beggar stood and bested every one!
He lifted up his sword and, with a lunge,
Beheaded half, and skewered all the rest.
They had to clean them all up with a sponge,
Odysseus was proved the first and best.
It took a dozen years from out his life,
And every night his noble passion burned.
For Ithaca, his home, and for his wife:
Odysseus, the King, at last returned.
This is more-or-less the story of how the SCA began, tho the details are slightly wrong. It should've been a party, not an assignment, that inspired them to dress up. Maybe one day I'll get around to correcting it.
[June, 1993]
It started, Anno Dottus, in the West,
With students by a love of knowledge blest,
Who modelled dressed as fighters, minus horse,
To illustrate a paper for a course.
But just as they were done and due to leave
The faerie world of dream and make-believe,
A fighter (history's mute regarding who)
Decided he could make some history too.
He took a sword and struck a gallant pose,
Then whacked a fellow fighter on the nose!
The melée, unexpectedly begun,
Continued till the setting of the sun.
And once again, the next and every week,
The craze became a fashion, very chic,
As fighters took up armour, sword and shield
To reenact the ancient battle field.
But with its meteoric rise to fame,
Another unforeseen dilemma came.
So many came to heed the battle's call,
That no one had the room to fit them all.
But undeterred, they passed the helm around
To raise enough to rent a piece of ground.
But in the time when all of this was planned
The gods of strife and conflict walked the land
So noisy mobs of students waving sticks
Resembled antisocial politics!
It nearly died, before its proper birth,
Cut down by all the fear that filled the earth,
Till someone in a sympathetic frame
Said, "Maybe if your meetings had a name...
"You'd cease to be a violent student crowd
"We'd list you as a club, and that's allowed!"
Reprieve! They leapt for joy, oh sweet relief!
The beaurocratic mind surpassed belief!
But all the celebration sharply palled
When someone asked, "So what shall we be called?"
A quandary; all were stunned and no one spoke,
Till over by the door the silence broke
The voice of one, a budding authoress,
Who cleared her throat, delivered this address:
"We seek a name, some letters on a page,
"To form a living beacon for the age.
"Society we are, it's plain to see;
"Creative, more than anyone, are we;
"Anachronisms all, we're proud to say;
"The only name that fits is SCA!"
For the creation of the Barony of Politarchopolis, I composed a poem about the most controversial event in our history: the long-winded and painful process the Politarchopolans went through to register the name with the College of Heralds.
[July, 1995]
In the dark old days of Lochac, when the Berries ruled the land
And the iron heel of Rowany trampled every heart and hand,
Came a wizened, sagely greybeard with his fairly youngish wife
On a voyage to the highlands, there to start a better life.
When they came upon a river nestled in among the hills
They declared their search was over, lest they both expire of chills.
Uttered Agvar in a mighty voice: "Let Lochac know that this
"Is the newest shire in all the world, we'll call... ummm... bugger, we need a name..."
"Never mind, my darling Agvar, answered Zoran Belvedere,
"We shall find ourselves a herald who can name this new frontier."
So they called before them Dafydd, saying "Something is amiss!
"So research a proper name to give... ah, this place here... you know..."
Now the welshman known as Dafydd took the job, and he was keen,
So he asked the folks assembled, "What should such a title mean?"
Kiriel was first to answer, saying "Give me one more kiss!"
"Ah," he said, "in old Phoenician, that's Poo La Tokkoo Perloo-oss... no, doesn't really work..."
"Bugger that!" said handsome Brusi, who was newly authorised,
"We should choose a name like thunder! Leave all others traumatised!
"What's a word," he asked of Daffyd, "meaning 'Feasts and rowdiness'?"
"Well in French, the best translation is 'Per lieu ton quam pra lodde... nope, so near and yet... not quite."
They were getting fairly desperate, for the shire was growing old,
Yet it lacked a proper title for its people's hearts to hold.
"What about," said Hrolf Herjolffsen, "saying 'Ignorance is bliss'?"
"That," said Dafydd, "done in Spanish is 'Polly Tor Karoobly Spodd'... oh, that's not it at all..."
Now the folk were getting restless, for the shire by now was huge
And they grey extremely tired of the heralds' subterfuge:
"There's a lot of politicians in our fair metropolis!"
"Then in English," Dafydd answered, "that's Politarchopolis!"
I don't remember writing this. It's very crawly. But there you go.
[December, 1995]
Rowany, in fables old you stand
Astride this mighty land,
From snow to desert sand.
In peace, in war, in rain, in sun, in song,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
Baronies in countless numbers swell,
And all who in them dwell
Have heard these legends tell
Of art, of skill, of warmth, of joy, of song,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
Long beyond this simple present day,
All else may pass away;
This cornerstone will stay,
To stand, to strive, to work, to build, to sing,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
This is a story of the Scarlet Women's Saint Valentine's Day Feast of Anno Societatis XXVII, February, 1993. Prince John and Princess Gabrielle really got into the festivities, possibly in a vain attempt to drown in debauchery the memory of their having presented me with my Award of Arms that night.
[February 1993]
In old Politarchopolis, one night in every year,
The Scarlet Women gather for a feast
To honour saintly Valentine, who all of them hold dear,
They gather, several dozen at the least.
But once a certain royal pair, whose names I shan't reveal
Arrived, in all their splendour, on the night,
And danced a bit and held a court and shared the splendid meal
And had some fun, as surely was their right.
And when the Prince and Princess X (disguised by pseudonyms)
Had finished all the business of the court
They spent a fair amount of time describing all their whims
The very clear and single-minded sort.
The Lady asked for any men to come before the throne
Whose tights were tight, and tunics nice and short.
The Lord requested bodices without delay be shown,
But only those providing scant support.
The Lady asked for brazen men with codpiece overstuffed;
The Lord requested cleavage, bold and sweet.
And Scarlet Women, said the Prince, would never be rebuffed;
And Scarlet Men the Princess yearned to meet.
So through a night of lemons cloved and hankies dropped at will,
The Royal couple had their whims achieved,
And set a standard hard to top, with rare and practiced skill,
And spent a night that scarce can be believed.
The SCA mailing list, named The Shambles by Balrog some years ago, is a mixed blessing. The mixture is caused mostly by a small but incredibly clueless collection of idiots with all the net.savvy of George W. Hey ho.
[2002]
The mailing list known as the Shambles
Was one of Del's sillier gambles:
That in our Society
He'd find some sobriety --
When mostly, they're thicker than brambles.
You'd think, after decades of practice
This List would have much to attract us --
Instead it's a mass
Of the selfish and crass:
And as tools go, it's pretty well cactus.
The List isn't mine to be judging;
I tried, but I hated the drudging.
I gave up control
For the the good of my soul --
So accept this as nothing but nudging.
The Earth is a planet of wonder;
With so many spells to fall under.
If your contribution
Is mail pollution --
You'd best tear your modem asunder.
I and a few other Politarchopolans had the idea of starting a guild or society within the SCA for singers and poets, with the idea that it might encourage a little more performace. We worked out a charter and set up a mailing list. Unfortunately, it sunk, partly because a couple of the members insisted that any sort of hierarchy or ranking system was entirely too medieval for their twentieth century tastes, but mostly because Lochac, outside of Rowany Festival, is totally uninterested in singing unless it's being done by someone else, and even then they won't stop nattering. Bitter? Me? Naaah.
[1997]
Let the rabble cease its babble, and be silent!
Let the masters hush as fast as hunted birds!
Let the clatters of the platters now give way to other matters,
Let the chatter stop or scatter as we speak our solemn words.
In the Barony of bold Politarchopolis
In the lumpy land of Lochac, in the West,
There are groups and guilds to fit a fine metropolis,
But with minstrels, sad to say, the town's not blest.
Now there comes the sound of drums and timbrels playing;
Here a voice will loud rejoice and sing its theme;
Here the dancers take their chances with the feasting hall's expanses,
And the writers of romances join the prancers in the team!
There was once a clever dunce who rode with William,
When he fought King Harald's court on Hastings hill.
He was there, and fought with flair, and he was known as Taillefer,
Singing airs upon his mare and juggling swords -- and then got killed.
Now we beg our noble lords to grant this charter,
To the minstrels, fools and dancers everywhere:
We would like to name our group for that old martyr
And be called (I quote:)
The Worshipful Company of Minstrels, Mummers, Minnesingers and Fools,
Fabliers and Gleemen, Gauklers, Jesters, Joculators and Jongleurs,
Troubadours, Trouveres, Blacksmiths,
Dancers, Chanters, Rhymers and Cantors of Taillefer.
(It's a title whose recital isn't vital: non-grammarians
All can choose to lose the blues and simply call us Tailleferians.)
Should you grant the gift we ask, oh bravest Baron;
Should you hear our heartfelt plea, our Baroness;
Let us offer you our choice as your household's minstrel voice,
For a twelvemonth and a day to serve your court with words and play.
Use him well, this Court Minstrel; but not to keep;
When you take him, please don't break him: bards aren't cheap.
We shall wear upon our hair, or in our sporrans,
Something clear and very dear, our own device:
On a horse a man (of course), jug'ling swords with fire and force,
Singing songs and righting wrongs and bashing saxons once or twice.
When we find a welcome kind of invitation,
When the folk would share a joke or hear a song,
We shall sing, and praise our King, and dance and leap and rhyme and spring,
And bring some zing to everything, and entertain the milling throng.
We shall share good Taillefer, our inspiration;
We shall teach our skill to each inquiring heart;
We shall try until we die to train the voice and hand and eye
Of any mindful passerby who wants to ply the minstrel's art.
There is honour in the art of entertaining,
But the company shall never so require;
Should a minstrel's pride and ego need restraining,
We shall make him think his nadgers are on fire!
We shall spank those fools whose rank is false inflated;
We shall curse with violent verse the ones who boast;
We shall maim the ones who shame the minstrel martyr's mortal name
And do the same to all whose aim is to defame to our loyal host.
May god save the nasty knave who sings for silver;
God forgive the ones who live to sneak and spy;
There's no place in heaven's space for any minstrels who disgrace
Our Baron's face or who debase the company we occupy.
There it is, the most respectable of charters:
If it please you, seal it now with word and wax.
We shall sing and leap and dance and play sonatas,
Knowing well our noble Baron guards our backs.
Written for the William Marshal Feast in Stormhold, AS XXXIII. This was a fun event. Thorfinn invited me to give the toast to William Marshal, which I present here for your entertainment (if you like William Shakespeare crossed with W H Auden). The first three words elicited exactly the response I was hoping for...
[November, 1998]
Chivalry is dead! The finest rose
From England's soil now lies in bleak repose.
The paragon of Knights, the best, is gone.
What reason have we left to toil on?
In legend, from today until the end
His story will remain -- on that, depend.
Tradition yet cries out what all here knew:
No man there was as brave, no Knight as true.
Oh, was he but a man, this legend-Lord?
Is there a scroll or page that dares record
His history, in words we might retell?
Was he a child, a youth, like us as well?
He was, I say! A child indeed -- a child
Of character so sweet and face so mild
That brigands, who to hostage took the boy
Repented and returned him, chaste with joy.
A squire he was, in all his youthful trials
Combining boyish zeal with adult wiles
So skillfully, in all the arts of war,
That many disbelieved the feats they saw.
A knight, in grace, he also came to be,
A leader, both in skill and chivalry.
On tourney field and battle's bitter stage
He proved to be the model of his age.
He guided Kings, and Kings before him knelt;
His wisdom filled the land in which he dwelt.
And now, in state he lies, his long life spent;
We mourn with heavy heart and raiment rent.
The Marshal into Paradise is gone,
But we who stay behind must toil on.
And should we feel, at times, the weight of years,
Let his example lead us through our fears.
Another Bardic duty, reporting the honour bestowed upon three Politarchopolans at the Yule Feast in Rowany, when King Veniamin and Queen Aeron attended, and knighted Hugh the Little, made Kiriel a Court Baroness, and awarded Bess Haddon the Lochac Order of Grace. The style of this poem (ABABBCBCC with 5 beats to the first 8 lines and 6 to the last) is called Spencerian, after Edmund Spencer who used it in his Faerie Queene.
[Hell-Week, December 1995]
O gracious Queen, of beauty, love and grace;
O King by might and will, of all the West:
To have you travel here and take your place
Within our halls and homes, our land was blest.
For many weeks before you came to rest
Within the sea-girt bounds of these domains,
You heeded every messenger's request
As sent from Lochac's shores; and took some pains
To weigh the words we spoke within your hearts and brains.
You weighed within your hearts a score of pleas,
And listened to our every humble word,
And learned, we now perceive, from all of these
Of three specific needs we all averred.
The gentlefolk for whom such speech was heard
Were three whose fame had spread throughout the land,
The first was Hugh, the second Bess, and third
Was Mistress Kiriel; to each you planned
To grant a gift, remembrance from your very hand.
The corps of knights, O King, you called to kneel
Before you, where you held your yuletide court;
Their eyes were bright, their swords of strongest steel,
And yet, you said, their number there was short.
Before you, Hugh the Little then was brought,
And for him in the band you made a space;
And never since a tourney first was fought,
Has any knight so rightly taken up a place,
For none can doubt his fitness who have seen his face.
Belovèd Queen, since first we heard you speak,
And saw the gentle smile within your eye,
We knew, as sure as heaven loves the meek,
To you our hearts would tend until we die.
But still, within our city wallèd high,
There lives a Mistress Bess, whose heart and ways
In beauty to your own are almost nigh;
For which she heard your call, and in a daze
Was named the gracious lady, which is fitting praise.
O Majesties, your wisdom grows and thrives;
No man denies your true beatitude.
To you we give the pledge of all our lives,
And pray you think our words are never crude.
But one exists, to whom our gratitude
So greatly swells that all of us confess:
Our Mistress Kiriel we long have viewed
As worthy of our love and nothing less:
And born to be our cherished Mistress Baroness.
Oh King and Queen, I beg you, understand,
And never be offended by my song.
In coming to your distant southern land,
You travelled many weeks and struggled long;
You met a thousand subjects in a throng:
Perhaps not every face was close observed;
But hear me speak: in this I tread not wrong;
In speaking thus I know the truth is served:
You honoured three whose honour was in truth deserved.
This saga was composed in response to one Odd Oddson, who filked my Battle Of The Dyle and retold the story in an entirely inaccurate, slanderous and (worst of all!) pro-Viking manner. I called this "a blatant attempt to snatch Vik-story from the jaws of Dyle-feat".
Technical notes for fellow wordsmiths: This employs the complex ABCD-ABCD rhyme-scheme I call the Adicote Rhyme, in honour of my Baroness. You can see this scheme elsewhere, in Songs Of The West and How Is It, Why Is It, and other songs. Note the double acrostic: I'm sure you'll figure that out. The Gerard-Manley-Hopkinsesque style of the poem is my own approximation of the bizarre word-making style of early sagas; it also makes rhyming a little easier, which is important given the bloody alliteration. I think this is the only way to get a complex rhyme scheme and alliteration to work together.
[August 1998]
Horns on his head-top Heathen sea-hood
All of his actions Only for airs-taking
Growing no grain-crop Regarding no god-good
Aimless attraction Not earning honour-making
Rude on the brine-road Young raiders and reevers
Turning their toy-boats Here toward town-shores
Heartless unhallowed At heart hell-believers
Early their evil-gloats Taint all our creed-lores
How in our heart-strings This horror here stands
Over our earnest Entreaties to angel-home
Raidings and reevings Destroying our realm-lands
Rape-sons of Hengist Harrassing our new-Rome
Into the eve-mist Out of our eye-sight
Bear-bullies back creep Under the bleak moon
Loves lying death-kissed No sign of life-light
Endless their end-sleep Death is their fortune.
Herewith, a poem commissioned by Master Maelgwyn and company as a weapon in the first war of the sunshades, at Rowany Festival AS XXVII. Maelgwyn said he liked it, and rewarded me with a hand-made and hand-fired cup-thing, which I still have. One of these days I may figure out what I can do with the thing.
[April, 1993]
The very neatly sewn enchanted campsite
Has lately seen the darker price of fame
For with their reputation as a source of admiration
They've attracted imitation and it's looking pretty lame.
The mistresses and masters of enchantment
Are challenged by a sunshade made in hell
Bearing half a dozen peasants, full of scrappy adolescents,
Lacking any incandescence, and developing a smell.
And despite His Highness' very clear directions
The sunshade houses men of ill repute
Who are lounging on the desk in a manner Romanesque
Looking typic'ly grotesque, without redeeming attributes.
They've a number, we admit, of leaves and laurels,
And a dangly bit or hat at times is seen,
But there's never many hints of the class of Laurel Bints
Who parade, gavotte and mince in the tent upon the green!
And they lack the merest whispers of decorum
When their chief is but a raucous auctioneer.
And without a real valet, they perspire through the day
Full of dust and disarray, and quite unlike the comfort here.
You can see the fact whenever peers are meeting
And the pelicans and laurels run and chat.
For the whole enchanted ground is bereft of any sound
While the others mill around looking peasant-like and flat.
And the decorations hitherto presented
Look a little on the trite and tacky side
With their banners limp and wan and their cupids painted on
In their paper parthenon, they're not a challenge to deride.
So while you hear our lovely chorus singing sweetly,
Just consider this with Queen Shaheena's eyes.
Though she's sitting with that bunch, she'll be joining us for lunch
Which I'd tell you in the crunch is quite astonishingly wise!
We were at an Ursulan feast, and I noticed that the banners with pictures of the Ursulan heraldic mascot looked less like a bear than a sort of mishmash of penguin, sloth and rat. Being a herald, I knew instinctively that this was a new kind of heraldic beast (or monster, as they're properly called) and I resolved to research it. These are the results of my long, arduous investigations.
[January 2000]
Eleven thousand virgins, maids and martyrs
Live within this college, so I've heard,
And each is just as sweet and pure of heart as
Saint Ursula could wish - they give their word!
And there upon the wall you see the reason:
The mighty beast to whom they pledge their troth.
With head of rat and tail of fairy penguin,
And slothly feet, the mythic Ranglawoth!
The Ranglawoth in all ways aids the college,
Its many features act as guide and goal.
To know these folk, you must attain their knowledge
Of that creation's heart and mind and soul.
The rat, whose head the beast is plainly wearing,
Is clever, and adapts to any fix.
It lives, nor ever worrying nor caring,
In palace grand or hovel made of sticks.
The sloth, whose legs adorn the mighty creature,
Is careful, wasting not his work or time,
For laziness, no fault it is but feature!
Excessive effort, that's the greater crime!
The penguin, who has lent the beast its tail,
Appears to lack for flight, although a bird,
But in its proper realm it does not fail,
As in their own these folk are undeterred.
And so they live with clever, rat-like cunning,
And rest, as nature teaches, like the sloth,
And strive like penguins, ever in the running;
Emulating thus the Ranglawoth.