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. ************************************************************************ NOTICE - 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 individual authors. 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). Thank you, Mark S. Harris AKA: THLord Stefan li Rous mark.s.harris@motorola.com stefan@florilegium.org ************************************************************************ 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, Yaakov HaMizrachi Subj: A poem of the SCA Date: 1 Jun 92 From: lawbkwn@buacca.BITNET (Yaakov HaMizrachi) Newsgroups: rec.org.sca 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. In Service, Yaakov From: ansteorra@eden.com (10/23/95) To: ansteorra@eden.com 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! Robert Herrick "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. John Donne "Elegy XX: To His Mistree Going To Bed" <> 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... Dierdre O'Faighertaigh Barony of Bjornsborg (aka Ashley Smith asmith@cs.trinity.edu) From: deg@pipeline.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 "goldman@uhavax.hartford.edu" From: djheydt@uclink.berkeley.edu (Dorothy J Heydt) Newsgroups: rec.org.sca Subject: Re: How many to change candle... Date: 28 Jun 1996 19:59:19 GMT Organization: University of California at Berkeley David Friedman 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 djheydt@uclink.berkeley.edu PRO DEO ET REGE Subject: ANST - Re: ANST; HAPPY HOLIDAYS Date: Wed, 31 Dec 97 09:32:37 MST From: Baronman To: ansteorra@Ansteorra.ORG The Weaving of the Tartan I saw an old Dame weaving, Weaving, 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 Happy Hoidays Baron Bors And Baroness Anne Subject: ANST - Waking the Dream Date: Sun, 19 Sep 99 21:21:43 MST From: Scott Fridenberg To: Ansteorran List , northkeep@Ansteorra.ORG, "minstrel@pbm.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. Robert Fitzmorgan Barony of Northkeep Northern Regional Bard Date: Sun, 24 Oct 1999 19:54:28 MST From: "Caley Woulfe" Subject: ANST - Fw: [TY] more poems To: "Ansteorran List" >From: Bryan S McDaniel >To: >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 Edited by Mark S. Harris poems-msg