poems-msg - 1/15/01
Poems written by SCA folks. Period poetry.
NOTE: See also the files: poetry-msg, singing-msg, bardic-msg, music-bib,
p-songs-msg, p-stories-msg, Bardic-Guide-art, song-sources-msg.
This file is a collection of various messages having a common theme that
I have collected from my reading of the various computer networks. Some
messages date back to 1989, some may be as recent as yesterday.
This file is part of a collection of files called Stefan's Florilegium.
These files are available on the Internet at: http://www.florilegium.org
I have done a limited amount of editing. Messages having to do with
seperate topics were sometimes split into different files and sometimes
extraneous information was removed. For instance, the message IDs were
removed to save space and remove clutter.
The comments made in these messages are not necessarily my viewpoints. I
make no claims as to the accuracy of the information given by the
Please respect the time and efforts of those who have written these
messages. The copyright status of these messages is unclear at this
time. If information is published from these messages, please give
credit to the orignator(s).
Mark S. Harris AKA: THLord Stefan li Rous
From: lawbkwn@BUACCA.BITNET (Yaakov HaMizrachi/HJFeld)
Date: 10 May 91 13:51:09 GMT
Organization: The Internet
Unto the assembled fishers of the Rialto, greetings
on this 41st day of the Omer. I appologize in advance
for that which I am about to inflict upon you. It
came to me suddenly, during a moment of quiet reflection on
a conversation between myself, my lady, and Gilly of Southbank.
I took up the rattan to fight
For my dear lady's sake
But just one tourney later
I discovered my mistake
My new made armor fit me as well
as pickle barrel might
I sought my lady's fond embrace
before I went to fight
But when I came before her
my heart within me sank
She said: "you are as snuggly
as an armor plated tank!"
Undaunted I came to the list
as countless have before
My lady left within the hour
as watching made her bored
How hard we fought beneath the sun
despite the sweat and pain
But when I told my lady
she just shrugged and muttered "men!"
(Much as I hate to argue
with my love, I must make plain
The women on the tourney field
fight hard as any man)
I stripped my armor from my frame
and weary from the day
Again sought my fair lady
Who again turned me away
"You're hot, you're wet and sticky
And you stink doth overpower
Don't come within a cubit
'Til you've visited the showers!"
So off I went to wash away
The grime of those who dance
The grime of those who Fight
and looked forward to the revels
That I would enjoy that night
But my muscles did betray me
By becoming stiff and sore
It hurt to put on formal garb
and stumble out the door
I chased my love away, for her
embraces were no help
Though velvet soft, her every touch
produced a painful yelp
So sore of limb and heart I sit
A failure at romance
I think instead of fighting
I shall try to take up dance!
In service to everything,
Subj: A poem of the SCA
Date: 1 Jun 92
From: lawbkwn@buacca.BITNET (Yaakov HaMizrachi)
Greetings to all the good folk who
pass this place, this being the 43rd
day of the omer.
The most recent thread on the 'essence'
of the SCA stirred my creative juices.
So, with appologies to Rudyard Kippling,
In The Current Middle Age
By Yaakov HaMizrachi
See the Tudor in his pride
And the Celt there by his side
And behind him is a Viking who's a knight
For there are nine and sixty ways
To play in the SCA
And every single one of them is right
In the Current Middle Age
Mighty Battles we do wage
(Tho' we looks like little boys what play with sticks)
I was never very fond
of the warriors of Nippon
For I've always said that East and West don't mix
Then the swishy-pokey tramps
Tried to come into me camp
And they said my helm and armor didn't match
For they said there is no place
Where a helm with open face
Would be paired with metal plate and leather patch
So I fixed 'em with a sneer
An said: "You haughty Cavalier"
"You've the nerve to come and try to play our game
For you foolish foppish dupe
Your entire ensemble's OOP."
And I harangued him 'til 'e 'ung 'is 'ead in shame
But when word of what I sing
Came before our noble king
He did say to me in court that very night
There be nine and sixty ways
To play within the SCA
and every single one of them is right!"
"See the dances that we know
both from Playford and Arbeau
Though a hundred years may lie betwixt the two
And you wouldn't think it coarse
Of a Pict or Jarl or Norse
To wear shoes from when the Tudor line was new."
Still in this current Middle Age
Folk may fly into a rage
When they see something with which they don't agree
When they see something with which they don't agree
And will run and shout "It's Schism!"
When it's just anachronism
Born of ignorance or maybe poverty
Some are in here for the fun,
And have been since A.S. 1
While still others love the research and the work
But whatever you enjoy
Don't the other you annoy
Or you'll find that EVERYONE thinks you're a jerk
Here's the most amazing thing
I learned then from my king
Though I don't claim to have exceptional insight
"There are nine and sixty ways
Of playing in the SCA
AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM IS RIGHT!"
copyright 1992 by Harold Feld
Permission to use and republish this
in any SCA publication is granted.
However, the author would really appreciate
a copy if it is published.
From: email@example.com (10/23/95)
RE>Poems for Adult Bardic
As promised, here is the poem by Robert Herrick (1591-1674), "Upon the Nipples
of Julia's Breast." Herrick wrote several poems concerning Julia; anyone
concerned about references to Her Majesty but still wishing to use Herrick's
poetry would do well to examine these others - they are lovely.
I have also included a piece by John Donne (1573-1631), who IMHO, wrote some of
the most sensual, splendid love poetry in the history of English literature
(until James I induced him to take orders, where eventually he became the Dean
of St. Paul's and turned his pen to more ecclesiastical matters. These are very
good as well - Devotion 17 "Now this Bell tolling softly for another, says to
me, Thou must die," should be familiar to some...but I digress)
On to the poetry!
"Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast"
Have ye beheld, with much delight,
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry, double graced,
Within a lily's center placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.
"Elegy XX: To His Mistree Going To Bed"
<<Read this with a voice of anticipated, impatient passion, and you will have
lord reaching for his lady, and every lady fanning herself with the hem of her
gown. At least, that's my reaction. Passionate stuff...>>
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy;
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bedtime.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with you hose and shoes; then softly tread
In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise, and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite:
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, and below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like book's gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus arrayed.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
-Whom their imputed grace will dignify-
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself, cast all, yea, this white linen hence;
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?
Both poems taken from _Love Poems of Robert Herrick and John Donne_ Rutgers
University Press, New Brunswick, N.J., 1948.
Again, if there are any other works someone would like to see, drop me email.
Please, excuse me, I must find my fan...
Barony of Bjornsborg
(aka Ashley Smith firstname.lastname@example.org)
From: email@example.com (Raquille)
To: Mark Harris
Date: Mon, 29 Jan 1996 14:57:56 -0500
Subject: Ode to Pennsic War
Ode to Pennsic War
Oh, I'm going off to Pennsic War
Where I have never been before
Although I have heard lots of lore
About this "Pennsic War!"
Yes, I'm going off to Pennsic now
I'll have to get to War somehow
With all my garb I don't know how
I'll get to Pennsic War!
My brother watches jealously
I'm going off to War, you see
My mother looks on nervously
As I leave for Pennsic War!
My car is stuffed up to the brim
I cannot fit the armor in
I'm thankful that I am quite thin
As I drive to Pennsic War!
My mother thinks I'm in a cult
She takes a personal insult
That I want to join in the revolt
As we fight at Pennsic War!
Pay a visit to the swimming hole
Naked swimming, that's the goal
Of course, that's if we get past Troll
The Troll at Pennsic War!
I'll watch the fighting every day
And wish that I could join the fray
But I'll just duck when they come my way
For I'm at Pennsic War!
We'll sing and dance quite endlessly
And drink and drink till we can't see
Fighting goes continuously
We have fun at Pennsic War!
Every day I will refrain
From treating people with disdain
Because like me, they're not quite sane
Yes, we're at Pennsic War!
Those drums! Those drums! so loud at night
Daytime, when the stickjocks fight
This year the East is shining bright
As we win at Pennsic War!
I'd like to learn to fight one day
With heavy weapons I will play
Then with a sigh I'll finally say
I fought at Pennsic War!
I will go visit Merchant's Row
And there I'll spend my hard-earned dough
On everything they've got- oh no!
I'm broke at Pennsic War!
I'm told I'll never be the same
After playing Pennsic's game
An AoA I'll surely gain
for my tales of Pennsic War!
And so in service to the Dream
I'll study medieval themes
Yes, it would absolutely seem
I belong at Pennsic War!
I'll study up on heraldry
Embroidering and chivalry
And drink two bottles, maybe three
of mead at Pennsic War!
Now it's time for Court, oh joy
Perhaps I'll get some sleep, oh boy
We bow and cheer like wind-up toys
The Court at Pennsic War!
I'll pay my respects to the King
For he leads us in everything
Victory to us he'll bring
We'll win at Pennsic War!
Exhausted, I pack, my spirits are low
Back home to winter's ice and snow
Just think, in fifty weeks we'll go
Return to Pennsic War!
Raquille the Little
Barony Beyond the Mountain
Kingdom of the East
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Dorothy J Heydt)
Subject: Re: How many to change candle...
Date: 28 Jun 1996 19:59:19 GMT
Organization: University of California at Berkeley
David Friedman <email@example.com> provided answers to
>How many Romans does it take to light a lantern? and
>How many Viking does it take to set fire to a lantern?
Sounds like it's time for me to post this one again...
There was a young man said to me,
A riddle let me ask:
How many people of the West
Must gather to the task
To light a single candle,
No brighter than the sun?
At that I laughed and said to him,
We need not even one.
Our candle has been burning
Since the Tale of Years began;
Diana in her garden,
She lit it with her hand.
O guard this shining candle,
And never let it fade:
It lights a land of glory
That we ourselves have made.
One merry May-Day morning,
While all the bells did chime,
Our fingers sifted history
Like fragrant beds of thyme.
Discarding plague and hatred,
We gathered up the best;
O wonderful to tell: that day
The sun rose in the West.
Since herald knelt for knighthood,
Since crossbow challenged shield,
Since Henrik rode in hauberk
Across a verdant field,
Since days half-lost in legend
Until the final day,
We cherish visions that have been
And will not fade away.
We know wherefrom we're coming;
We know whereto we go;
Our paths are set on solid ground,
And who we are we know.
Our rightful King we follow
Through tempest, fire, and night;
We see the vision clearly,
And are guided by its light.
Dorothea of Caer-Myrddin Dorothy J. Heydt
Mists/Mists/West UC Berkeley
Argent, a cross forme'e sable firstname.lastname@example.org
PRO DEO ET REGE
Subject: ANST - Re: ANST; HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Date: Wed, 31 Dec 97 09:32:37 MST
From: Baronman <Baronman@aol.com>
The Weaving of the Tartan
I saw an old Dame weaving,
I saw an old Dame weaving,
A web of tartan fine.
"Sing high," she said, "sing low," she said,
"Wild torrent to the sea,
That saw my sons and daughters go,
In sorrow far from me.
And warp well the long threads,
The bright threads, the strong threads,
To make the colors shine."
She wove in red for every deed,
Of valor in Ansteorra's need:
She wove in green the Laurel's sheen,
In memory of her glorious one's.
She sang of the battle times,
The Gulf Wars march, the bright Or line.
Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart,
When ever a child of hers took part.
"Tis for the gallent lads," she said,
"Who wear the kilt and the plaid:
"Tis for my winsome lasses too,
Just like my dainty bells of blue.
So weave well the bright threads,
The red threads, the green threads;
Woof well the strong threads
That bind their hearts to mine."
(c) Thomas Erwin aka Bors of Lothian 1997
Baron Bors And Baroness Anne
Subject: ANST - Waking the Dream
Date: Sun, 19 Sep 99 21:21:43 MST
From: Scott Fridenberg <email@example.com>
To: Ansteorran List <ansteorra@Ansteorra.ORG>
, northkeep@Ansteorra.ORG, "firstname.lastname@example.org" <email@example.com>
I wrote this Sonnet to perform for those entering my novice bards
competition. I dedicate it to all the bards who write the words that
wake the dream.
Waking the Dream
The dreams that drive our lives and lift our hearts,
And drive us to be better than we are,
Are sparked within us by the bardic arts.
A sign-post in or hearts, our bright North-Star.
We lift our voice to tell the tales of old.
To sing again the songs of days gone by.
The legends live 'long as their tales are told.
The heros live again in our heart's eye.
The ancient heros walk the earth again,
And by their lives they show us how to live.
Returned to life again by poets pen.
The gift of life that only bards can give.
Respect the bards and show them high esteem.
It's they who write the words that wake the dream.
Barony of Northkeep
Northern Regional Bard
Date: Sun, 24 Oct 1999 19:54:28 MST
From: "Caley Woulfe" <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: ANST - Fw: [TY] more poems
To: "Ansteorran List" <ansteorra@Ansteorra.ORG>
>From: Bryan S McDaniel <email@example.com>
>Sent: Thursday, October 21, 1999 8:03 PM
>Subject: [TY] more poems
> Kestrel's House of Poetry and Song brings you more poems from
> the Portable Medieval Reader.
> This Song Wants Drink -- French; twelfth century
> Who has good wine should flagon it out
> And thrust the bad where the fungus sprout;
> Then must merry companions shout:
> This song wants drink!
> When I see wine into the clear glass slip
> How I long to be matched with it;
> My heart sings gay at the thought of it:
> This song wants drink!
> I thirst for a sup; come circle the cup:
> This song wants drink!
> My Lady Looks So Gentle -- Dante Alighieri
> -- Italian; thirteenth century
> My lady looks so gentle and so pure
> When yielding salutation by the way,
> That the toungue trembles and has nought to say,
> And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.
> And still, amid the praise she hears secure,
> She walks with humbleness for her array;
> Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay
> On earth, and to show a miracle made sure.
> She is so pleasant in the eyes of men
> That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain
> A sweetness which needs proof to know it by:
> And from between her lips there seems to move
> A soothing spirit that is full of love,
> Saying for ever to the soul, "O sigh!"
> Beauty in Women -- Guido Cavalcanti
> -- Italian; thirteenth century
> Beauty in woman; the high will's decree;
> Fair knighthood arm'd for manly exercise;
> The pleasant song of birds; love's soft replies;
> The strength of rapid ships upon the sea;
> The serene air when light begins to be;
> The white snow, without wind that falls and lies;
> Fields of all flower; the place where waters rise;
> Silver and gold; azure in jewellery:
> Weigh'd against these, the sweet and quiet worth
> Which my dear lady cherishes at heart
> Might seem a little matter to be shown;
> Being truly, over these, as much apart
> As the whole heaven is greater than this earth.
> All good to kindred natures cleaveth soon.
> Bryan S. McDaniel SCA aka Kestrel of Wales
> http://kestrel.hawk.org http://kestrelw.webjump.com
Copyright © Mark S. Harris (Lord Stefan li Rous)
All Rights Reserved
Comments to author: firstname.lastname@example.org
Generated: Sun Jan 21 2001