Because most philosophies that frown on reproduction don't survive.

Monday, July 02, 2012

A Long Tyme Agoon in a Shire Far Away

Ich bryng tydings of grete joy: Geoffrey Chaucer, though dismayed yn hys mynd by the acclaim of the twitter, hath turned again to the makinge of verses:
And yet, a tetchy kinge notwithstandinge, finallye Ich have hadde a litel space of myn owene for to maken of verses, thogh Ich feare nowe nobody doth lyke verses eny moore. Helas, for Ich am super psyched to maken severale lynes followe oon anothir for hundreds of pages, and yet it semeth everichoon thes dayes loveth oonly to twit and tweete and maken up a gret swarme of quippes and linkes. A blog semeth about as cuttinge edge as a sworde buryed in a mounde. Thogh Ich have made an accompte of twitter, Ich knowe but litel how to maken of a fyne and retweetable tweete. Litel Lowys doth mock me dailye with a fiers mockinge, sayinge “watching yow trye to tweet, Dad, ys lyk watchinge Archbishop Arundel trye to keepe hys cool a a Lollard support groupe. Helle of awkward!” The tweet so short, the crafte so longe to lerne!
And yet Ich have had comfort in myn art. For Ich am composinge a narratif about folke who are togedir ythrowne by the windes of fate and goon on a journeye.
Read ye of hys character notes for the epic celestial: THE PILGRIMS IN THE STERRES!

Ther was a SMUGGELERE, and he the beste,Wyth gowne of whit and snazzye litel veste.He hadde a shippe that was a noble vesselFor in twelf parsekkes it had yronne the Qessel;At customes houses nevir did he pause –For resoned he ther was but litel cause:To paye a tax or impost made hym wood,And I seyde his opinioun was good:Why sholde hys labour fatten up the paunchesOf bureaucrates that sitte upon their haunchesAnd tak their paye from honest merchauntes werke?This good man kepte the officiales in the derkeAnd oft he wolde in his shippes floore hyde. From oon ende of the sterres to the other syde,He hadde yflowne, and seene many a wondere,And yet he hadde no feare of Goddes thondere.He seyde hys destinee was hys to makeWyth blastere or wyth sleight or wyth wisecrake.Of goold and eek of love he had a thirste, In altercaciouns he ay shot firste. 
...A WHINY YOUTHE cam nexte, barleye a man,With yelwe haire, tunique, and farmeres tan.But aquaculture litel did he love,He wolde been a pilot al above And bullseye oump-rattes yn a nimble craft.Saye, have ye evir been upon a rafteAnd herde the wynde blowe fast over the waveSo that the winde did seme to sighe and rave?Wyth just swich fierceness sigheth thys yonge man,And whineth eek, and whingeth whan he kan,For he ne lovede nat his occupaciounAnd he wolde rathir go to Tashi stacioun. 

Take and read.


Amanda Borenstadt said...

Bravo! Well done. :)

Love this!
"A blog semeth about as cuttinge edge as a sworde buryed in a mounde."

Serendipity said...

'Whiny Youthe'....snort