#octosyllabe

[billetcognitif]

Opossum

Qu’ai-je vécu quand j’étais mort Dans ma tombe mal empierrée ? Mes amitiés incinérées, Qui plaide in absentia mes torts ?

Des glanures du vent dehors Rappellent l’onde de Nérée, Sa prud’homie et la marée Parant le littoral d’ichor.

Mais sans heure, tout se nécrose  ; La complaisante thanatose A fait litière de la mer

Pour qu’un sable en cendres prolonge Ce gris camouflé par l’hiver  : Ma vie étale et ses mensonges.

[crescentmoonrider]

Heaven

Fallarien falls to ruin Under the cold hands of Hannes And the tolling of the church bells The people's cries like a choir For the prompt : Sound Torture [ @badthingshappenbingo ]

read on AO3

or down here, I'm not your boss

.

The church bells toll a solemn note The voice of God     Now silent Come hither, come, children of God The church bells call as every day

Choir of one, as Hannes sings And dances still, Apocalpse Dancing, singing in her cold hands Whispering God’s words to her ears

“Holy daughter of Fallarien,” The people cry,     In despair “Why do you feel no pain for us ? Why inflict us such cruel ends ?”

The church bells toll, and Hannes sings Indifferent to all but God The sweet song of Death, that her sword Sings, in time with her pas-de-deux

“Swans sing before they die,” she says Like a curse for Fallarien Fallen to ruin for its sins The spring of Lourdes dry as stone

“Holy daughter and miracle,” A moaning voice,     Weeping “Why ?” As the bells toll, and Hannes sings The solemn note of punishment

The flames of hell melting down flesh The people cry, in pain, “It hurts” And still the song of God’s angel Slicing through bone as the bells toll

“It sounds like Heaven,” Hannes thinks

[deveril]

How easily things get broken 
So easily love flees the heart; 
How quickly harsh words are spoken, 
How easily we come apart.

— deveril

[dormouse-iii]

Uh, Wicked and sickened like 6 diva wiccans, eating moldy briskets made from fried kittens or-

No! Like a cutie with a poorly wiped patootie, worships 1st person shooties & of course snatching purses full of jewelries from 3rd world beauties.

Abandoning their duties, being wiping the deck and booty, stay acting twice as snooty.

Maybe a little bit for on the nasty side but it's what you get sipping water from a slip n' slide toy; it's typhoid.

A student of Freud - A real Jung and spry boy, said he'd given up trying to cast aside choice into the void

Subject line empty save for the year, thought it was a bit queer she sent the request to make it clear;

No late night electric telegrams bout the magazine cover page for elected hella' gams.

No scatter box static jam weekly programs displaying cultish diagrams for measurement in milligrams.

No pillow advert scams with a mad dash plan to stash cash in bands, "It's like lying on a lamb!" Man, what an absolute sham.

Ranting of rams, no dingbat anagrams! Nintendo's impossible bans on self electroencephalograms.

Uh, in other words a lack of self examination, reflection, a thoughtful allocation of memories and monetized education.

Phrase of the week: "Taste the devil in the air."

Targeting the weak to get the young'uns in cooperate crosshairs.

Phrase of the week: "Smells like charlatan in here."

Keep your homies real near and read the fine print in the mirror.

[alpaca1yps]

Snow deacends from a pitch black sky,

Intent on ruining my day,

Beauty unparalleled, it fails

[upennmanuscripts]

Although the binding has seen better days, the content is beautiful! You can't miss the large illuminated initial, and if you look carefully as we page through you may see faces, hands, or even animals in the forms of the initials. The ascenders are impressive, too! The manuscript is LJS 264, is a summary of all knowledge, divided into 3 parts on the creation of the world and man, geography, and astronomy; copy of the earliest recension in 6,600 octosyllabic lines of verse, as composed in 1245 by Gautier of Metz. It was copied in France, ca. 1400.

🔗:

[al0egarden]

another soul mix that i made this past week.

[kabbal]

36 pour Arthur/Venec pleaaase? 💜

36 - As a Promise

En Aquitaine, même l’hiver est doux. La glace qui recouvre les eaux se brise aisément et les cœurs font pareil, prêts à couler en ruisseaux une fois le printemps venu.

Vénec sait qu’Arthur est promis à un autre destin. Il n’est pas fait pour les bateaux, les épices et les vents – n’était même pas à sa place dans cette villa périclitante à Rome, où Vénec l’a recousu tant bien que mal avec plus de désespoir que d’habileté. Arthur est une légende, un homme immortalisé dans la gloire et le parchemin. Ils écriront des lais et des romans sur son retour en Bretagne, et pas un octosyllabe ne sera alloué au marchand de mauvais aloi qui l’aura désiré plus que raison.

Qu’on ne lui fasse pas dire ce qu’il n’a pas dit : l’amertume ne vient pas de la question d’avoir été aimé en retour ou pas. De ça, Vénec a toujours été certain, autant que du cycle des marées ou de la hausse du prix du grain. Non, le passé est fixé dans des étreintes désespérées et des mots échangés autour de lampes à huile, irrétractables. Vénec a été chéri, il le sait.

Il sait, cependant, qu’il ne pourra pas l’être éternellement.

Leur amour est à mettre entre parenthèses : une histoire qui ne devait pas durer, mais a subsisté tout de même, comme une herbe folle qu’on oublie de couper parce qu’elle ne gêne pas assez les semailles de pousses plus utiles. Vénec a aimé un roi pendant plus de dix ans, au travers de fuites à travers les mers et de mois passés à embrasser la noirceur de l’humain sur les lèvres, et il n’a jamais trouvé de raison d’arrêter ; du moins, pas avant ce jour d’hiver, aux portes du domaine ducal en Aquitaine, à attendre le départ d’Arthur et du Duc pour des contrées lointaines.

(Le Duc conduit Arthur en Bretagne. Ils le savent tous, ici, du plus petit garçon de cuisine jusqu’à la Duchesse elle-même. La porte vers laquelle ils se sont rassemblés pointe vers le nord, et le Duc est notoirement têtu sous ses airs affables. Vénec se demande juste si Arthur, lui, le sait.)

Il faut savoir laisser le vent filer, tous les marins le savent. Le trône de Bretagne attend son roi, tout acariâtre et tempétueux qu’il soit. Dans un an ou deux, quand l’économie se sera stabilisée et que sa tête ne sera – il l’espère – plus mise à prix, il y aura peut-être une place pour Vénec là-bas. Mais pas comme avant. Pas comme à Rome, entre les bras de cet homme qu’il doit laisser partir.

Et s’ils ne se revoient jamais, si Arthur échoue ou s’il désire se distancer de mauvaises fréquentations, eh bien, Vénec aura toujours des monnaies bretonnes dans sa bourse pour contempler le faciès de l’homme qu’il a aimé. On peut toujours embrasser des lèvres d’or sur un profil, aussi petites et peu ressemblantes soient-elles.

Pour l’instant, il peut encore admirer son modèle de cher et d’os, alors qu’Arthur s’approche de la porte sur les talons du Duc. Il est vêtu de noir, les cheveux propres, les joues encore rougies par la chaleur du bain ou bien par l’air frais de l’extérieur. Le teint hâlé qu’il avait lorsqu’Alzagar l’a arraché à son wadi s’est estompé – un souvenir de plus destiné à être laissé dans le passé.

« Vous restez ici ? » demande Arthur, et Vénec ne se démonte pas, même s’il ne s’attendait pas vraiment à ce qu’on s’adresse à lui.

« Ouais, on m’a proposé un job dans l’évènementiel ici. Le Duc a gardé de bons souvenirs de mes services, il m’a racheté la mise. » Il salue son nouveau bienfaiteur d’un signe de tête, et se voit récompensé par un gloussement aristocratique.

« Vous vous en tirez pas si mal, finalement, » dit Arthur. Il a l’air moins renfrogné. Les vieilles tendresses sont comme les blessures – elles se rappellent à nous quand on presse dessus. Vénec se demande si c’est ce qu’il est, maintenant, pour Arthur : un brin de nostalgie incarné. « C’est votre paiement pour avoir poussé cette cage à travers la moitié du monde connu. »

« Sa Grâce est généreuse comme ça. »

Ses flatteries font sourire Arthur, même alors qu’elles ne lui sont pas adressées. « Au risque de vous submerger sous la générosité, j’ai envie de vous laisser un petit quelque chose, moi aussi. »

Ses mains viennent chercher le menton de Vénec, et malgré la lenteur de son geste, il arrive quand même à être surpris quand le baiser arrive.

Arthur l’embrasse, et tout d’un coup Vénec n’est plus le larron à la barbe grise que le temps l’a vu devenir. D’un coup, il est sur une plage, le cœur battant, tentant de sauver un homme qui n’est pas encore tout pour lui mais finira par le devenir. Les lèvres qui se posent sur les siennes sont pourtant sages, la passion transpirant dans la longueur plutôt que dans la pression.

Le parfum de sa barbe et ses cheveux ramène Vénec à Rome, aux odeurs de fruits et de vin épicé, à une couchette partagée dans un tabularium délabré. Répondre au baiser lui revient comme un geste appris il y a longtemps mais jamais oublié.

Vénec sait qu’il ne pourra pas démêler les fils que cet homme a noué autour de sa poitrine, et que seuls ses étreintes semblent être capable de relâcher.

Un raclement de gorge amusé, probablement celui du Duc, vient mettre un terme à l’étreinte. Vénec est plus peiné par cette interruption qu’il ne l’avait été par celle d’Alzagar il y a tout ce temps, en mer rouge.

« Vous viendrez me voir, quand vous aurez fini ici ? » demande Arthur, son pouce encore occupé à tracer des cercles dans les poils argentés de la barbe de Vénec. « Vous connaissez le chemin, après tout. »

« Je ne pense pas que vous aurez besoin de moi, là où vous allez. » Il faut qu’il comprenne. Il faut qu’il sache – le chemin qu’il va prendre ne va pas vers le wadi, mais vers un château lugubre qui fut l’écrin de sa perte et sera, si tout se passe bien, celui de son apothéose.

« Je crois que j’aurai toujours besoin de vous, Vénec. » Cette tendresse, toujours, insoutenable. « Où que j’aille, j’aurai toujours besoin de vous. »

Les dieux – quels qu’ils soient, Vénec a toujours été du genre à prier à tous les autels – sont injustes de lui avoir permis d’avoir cet homme, juste pour le lui arracher après. « J’vous promet de passer, » dit-il, et il espère, pour une fois, ne pas mentir en murmurant ce serment.

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Lay of Yonec

by Marie de France, translated by Eugene Mason

@ariel-seagull-wings @princesssarisa @adarkrainbow

In fairy tales there is this type of story where a prince that can shapeshifts into a bird visits a young maiden locked in a tower and makes love with her. Madame d'Aulnoy’s The Blue Bird, possibly the origin of the term Prince Charming or Le roi Charmant as he was originally called, is one of these tales.

In my research I found this charming and bittersweet tale among the lais of Marie de France. Lays or lais are narrative or lyrical poems, usually in octosyllabic couplets, intended to be sung from medieval Breton literature that deal with courtly love and chivalric deeds, often involving supernatural fairy elements. They are like the link between chivalric romances and fairy tales.

Since I have commenced I would not leave any of these Lays untold. The stories that I know I would tell you forthwith. My hope is now to rehearse to you the story of Yonec, the son of Eudemarec, his mother's first born child.

In days of yore there lived in Britain a rich man, old and full of years, who was lord of the town and realm of Chepstow. This town is builded on the banks of the Douglas, and is renowned by reason of many ancient sorrows which have there befallen. When he was well stricken in years this lord took to himself a wife, that he might have children to come after him in his goodly heritage. The damsel, who was bestowed on this wealthy lord, came of an honourable house, and was kind and courteous, and passing fair. She was beloved by all because of her beauty, and none was more sweetly spoken of from Chepstow to Lincoln, yea, or from there to Ireland. Great was their sin who married the maiden to this agèd man. Since she was young and gay, he shut her fast within his tower, that he might the easier keep her to himself. He set in charge of the damsel his elder sister, a widow, to hold her more surely in ward. These two ladies dwelt alone in the tower, together with their women, in a chamber by themselves. There the damsel might have speech of none, except at the bidding of the ancient dame. More than seven years passed in this fashion. The lady had no children for her solace, and she never went forth from the castle to greet her kinsfolk and her friends. Her husband's jealousy was such that when she sought her bed, no chamberlain or usher was permitted in her chamber to light the candles. The lady became passing heavy. She spent her days in sighs and tears. Her loveliness began to fail, for she gave no thought to her person. Indeed at times she hated the very shadow of that beauty which had spoiled all her life.

Now when April had come with the gladness of the birds, this lord rose early on a day to take his pleasure in the woods. He bade his sister to rise from her bed to make the doors fast behind him. She did his will, and going apart, commenced to read the psalter that she carried in her hand. The lady awoke, and shamed the brightness of the sun with her tears. She saw that the old woman was gone forth from the chamber, so she made her complaint without fear of being overheard.

"Alas," said she, "in an ill hour was I born. My lot is hard to be shut in this tower, never to go out till I am carried to my grave. Of whom is this jealous lord fearful that he holds me so fast in prison? Great is a man's folly always to have it in mind that he may be deceived. I cannot go to church, nor hearken to the service of God. If I might talk to folk, or have a little pleasure in my life, I should show the more tenderness to my husband, as is my wish. Very greatly are my parents and my kin to blame for giving me to this jealous old man, and making us one flesh. I cannot even look to become a widow, for he will never die. In place of the waters of baptism, certainly he was plunged in the flood of the Styx. His nerves are like iron, and his veins quick with blood as those of a young man. Often have I heard that in years gone by things chanced to the sad, which brought their sorrows to an end. A knight would meet with a maiden, fresh and fair to his desire. Damsels took to themselves lovers, discreet and brave, and were blamed of none. Moreover since these ladies were not seen of any, except their friends, who was there to count them blameworthy! Perchance I deceive myself, and in spite of all the tales, such adventures happened to none. Ah, if only the mighty God would but shape the world to my wish!"

When the lady had made her plaint, as you have known, the shadow of a great bird darkened the narrow window, so that she marvelled what it might mean. This falcon flew straightway into the chamber, jessed and hooded from the glove, and came where the dame was seated. Whilst the lady yet wondered upon him, the tercel became a young and comely knight before her eyes. The lady marvelled exceedingly at this sorcery. Her blood turned to water within her, and because of her dread she hid her face in her hands. By reason of his courtesy the knight first sought to persuade her to put away her fears.

"Lady," said he, "be not so fearful. To you this hawk shall be as gentle as a dove. If you will listen to my words I will strive to make plain what may now be dark. I have come in this shape to your tower that I may pray you of your tenderness to make of me your friend. I have loved you for long, and in my heart have esteemed your love above anything in the world. Save for you I have never desired wife or maid, and I shall find no other woman desirable, until I die. I should have sought you before, but I might not come, nor even leave my own realm, till you called me in your need. Lady, in charity, take me as your friend."

The lady took heart and courage whilst she hearkened to these words. Presently she uncovered her face, and made answer. She said that perchance she would be willing to give him again his hope, if only she had assurance of his faith in God. This she said because of her fear, but in her heart she loved him already by reason of his great beauty. Never in her life had she beheld so goodly a youth, nor a knight more fair.

"Lady," he replied, "you ask rightly. For nothing that man can give would I have you doubt my faith and affiance. I believe truly in God, the Maker of all, who redeemed us from the woe brought on us by our father Adam, in the eating of that bitter fruit. This God is and was and ever shall be the life and light of us poor sinful men. If you still give no credence to my word, ask for your chaplain; tell him that since you are sick you greatly desire to hear the Service appointed by God to heal the sinner of his wound. I will take your semblance, and receive the Body of the Lord. You will thus be certified of my faith, and never have reason to mistrust me more."

When the sister of that ancient lord returned from her prayers to the chamber, she found that the lady was awake. She told her that since it was time to get her from bed, she would make ready her vesture. The lady made answer that she was sick, and begged her to warn the chaplain, for greatly she feared that she might die. The aged dame replied,

"You must endure as best you may, for my lord has gone to the woods, and none will enter in the tower, save me."

Right distressed was the lady to hear these words. She called a woman's wiles to her aid, and made seeming to swoon upon her bed. This was seen by the sister of her lord, and much was she dismayed. She set wide the doors of the chamber, and summoned the priest. The chaplain came as quickly as he was able, carrying with him the Lord's Body. The knight received the Gift, and drank of the Wine of that chalice; then the priest went his way, and the old woman made fast the door behind him.

The knight and the lady were greatly at their ease; a comelier and a blither pair were never seen. They had much to tell one to the other, but the hours passed till it was time for the knight to go again to his own realm. He prayed the dame to give him leave to depart, and she sweetly granted his prayer, yet so only that he promised to return often to her side.

"Lady," he made answer, "so you please to require me at any hour, you may be sure that I shall hasten at your pleasure. But I beg you to observe such measure in the matter, that none may do us wrong. This old woman will spy upon us night and day, and if she observes our friendship, will certainly show it to her lord. Should this evil come upon us, for both it means separation, and for me, most surely, death."

The knight returned to his realm, leaving behind him the happiest lady in the land. On the morrow she rose sound and well, and went lightly through the week. She took such heed to her person, that her former beauty came to her again. The tower that she was wont to hate as her prison, became to her now as a pleasant lodging, that she would not leave for any abode and garden on earth. There she could see her friend at will, when once her lord had gone forth from the chamber. Early and late, at morn and eve, the lovers met together. God grant her joy was long, against the evil day that came.

The husband of the lady presently took notice of the change in his wife's fashion and person. He was troubled in his soul, and misdoubting his sister, took her apart to reason with her on a day. He told her of his wonder that his dame arrayed her so sweetly, and inquired what this should mean. The crone answered that she knew no more than he, "for we have very little speech one with another. She sees neither kin nor friend; but, now, she seems quite content to remain alone in her chamber."

The husband made reply,

"Doubtless she is content, and well content. But by my faith, we must do all we may to discover the cause. Hearken to me. Some morning when I have risen from bed, and you have shut the doors upon me, make pretence to go forth, and let her think herself alone. You must hide yourself in a privy place, where you can both hear and see. We shall then learn the secret of this new found joy."

Having devised this snare the twain went their ways. Alas, for those who were innocent of their counsel, and whose feet would soon be tangled in the net.

Three days after, this husband pretended to go forth from his house. He told his wife that the King had bidden him by letters to his Court, but that he should return speedily. He went from the chamber, making fast the door. His sister arose from her bed, and hid behind her curtains, where she might see and hear what so greedily she desired to know. The lady could not sleep, so fervently she wished for her friend. The knight came at her call, but he might not tarry, nor cherish her more than one single hour. Great was the joy between them, both in word and tenderness, till he could no longer stay.

All this the crone saw with her eyes, and stored in her heart. She watched the fashion in which he came, and the guise in which he went. But she was altogether fearful and amazed that so goodly a knight should wear the semblance of a hawk. When the husband returned to his house—for he was near at hand—his sister told him that of which she was the witness, and of the truth concerning the knight. Right heavy was he and wrathful. Straightway he contrived a cunning gin for the slaying of this bird. He caused four blades of steel to be fashioned, with point and edge sharper than the keenest razor. These he fastened firmly together, and set them securely within that window, by which the tercel would come to his lady. Ah, God, that a knight so fair might not see nor hear of this wrong, and that there should be none to show him of such treason.

On the morrow the husband arose very early, at daybreak, saying that he should hunt within the wood. His sister made the doors fast behind him, and returned to her bed to sleep, because it was yet but dawn. The lady lay awake, considering of the knight whom she loved so loyally. Tenderly she called him to her side. Without any long tarrying the bird came flying at her will. He flew in at the open window, and was entangled amongst the blades of steel. One blade pierced his body so deeply, that the red blood gushed from the wound. When the falcon knew that his hurt was to death, he forced himself to pass the barrier, and coming before his lady fell upon her bed, so that the sheets were dabbled with his blood. The lady looked upon her friend and his wound, and was altogether anguished and distraught.

"Sweet friend," said the knight, "it is for you that my life is lost. Did I not speak truly that if our loves were known, very surely I should be slain?"

On hearing these words the lady's head fell upon the pillow, and for a space she lay as she were dead. The knight cherished her sweetly. He prayed her not to sorrow overmuch, since she should bear a son who would be her exceeding comfort. His name should be called Yonec. He would prove a valiant knight, and would avenge both her and him by slaying their enemy. The knight could stay no longer, for he was bleeding to death from his hurt. In great dolour of mind and body he flew from the chamber. The lady pursued the bird with many shrill cries. In her desire to follow him she sprang forth from the window. Marvellous it was that she was not killed outright, for the window was fully twenty feet from the ground.

When the lady made her perilous leap she was clad only in her shift. Dressed in this fashion she set herself to follow the knight by the drops of blood which dripped from his wound. She went along the road that he had gone before, till she lighted on a little lodge. This lodge had but one door, and it was stained with blood. By the marks on the lintel she knew that Eudemarec had refreshed him in the hut, but she could not tell whether he was yet within. The damsel entered in the lodge, but all was dark, and since she might not find him, she came forth, and pursued her way. She went so far that at the last the lady came to a very fair meadow.

She followed the track of blood across this meadow, till she saw a city near at hand. This fair city was altogether shut in with high walls. There was no house, nor hall, nor tower, but shone bright as silver, so rich were the folk who dwelt therein. Before the town lay a still water. To the right spread a leafy wood, and on the left hand, near by the keep, ran a clear river. By this broad stream the ships drew to their anchorage, for there were above three hundred lying in the haven. The lady entered in the city by the postern gate. The gouts of freshly fallen blood led her through the streets to the castle. None challenged her entrance to the city; none asked of her business in the streets; she passed neither man nor woman upon her way. Spots of red blood lay on the staircase of the palace.

The lady entered and found herself within a low ceiled room, where a knight was sleeping on a pallet. She looked upon his face and passed beyond. She came within a larger room, empty, save for one lonely couch, and for the knight who slept thereon. But when the lady entered in the third chamber she saw a stately bed, that well she knew to be her friend's. This bed was of inwrought gold, and was spread with silken cloths beyond price. The furniture was worth the ransom of a city, and waxen torches in sconces of silver lighted the chamber, burning night and day. Swiftly as the lady had come she knew again her friend, directly she saw him with her eyes. She hastened to the bed, and incontinently swooned for grief. The knight clasped her in his arms, bewailing his wretched lot, but when she came to her mind, he comforted her as sweetly as he might.

"Fair friend, for God's love I pray you get from hence as quickly as you are able. My time will end before the day, and my household, in their wrath, may do you a mischief if you are found in the castle. They are persuaded that by reason of your love I have come to my death. Fair friend, I am right heavy and sorrowful because of you."

The lady made answer,

"Friend, the best thing that can befall me is that we shall die together. How may I return to my husband? If he finds me again he will certainly slay me with the sword."

The knight consoled her as he could. He bestowed a ring upon his friend, teaching her that so long as she wore the gift, her husband would think of none of these things, nor care for her person, nor seek to revenge him for his wrongs. Then he took his sword and rendered it to the lady, conjuring her by their great love, never to give it to the hand of any, till their son should be counted a brave and worthy knight. When that time was come she and her lord would go together with the son to a feast. They would lodge in an Abbey, where should be seen a very fair tomb. There her son must be told of this death; there he must be girt with this sword. In that place shall be rehearsed the tale of his birth, and his father, and all this bitter wrong. And then shall be seen what he will do.

When the knight had shown his friend all that was in his heart, he gave her a bliaut, passing rich, that she might clothe her body, and get her from the palace. She went her way, according to his command, bearing with her the ring, and the sword that was her most precious treasure. She had not gone half a mile beyond the gate of the city when she heard the clash of bells, and the cries of men who lamented the death of their lord. Her grief was such that she fell four separate times upon the road, and four times she came from out her swoon. She bent her steps to the lodge where her friend had refreshed him, and rested for awhile. Passing beyond she came at last to her own land, and returned to her husband's tower. There, for many a day, she dwelt in peace, since—as Eudemarec foretold—her lord gave no thought to her outgoings, nor wished to avenge him, neither spied upon her any more.

In due time the lady was delivered of a son, whom she named Yonec. Very sweetly nurtured was the lad. In all the realm there was not his like for beauty and generosity, nor one more skilled with the spear. When he was of a fitting age the King dubbed him knight. Hearken now, what chanced to them all, that selfsame year.

It was the custom of that country to keep the feast of St. Aaron with great pomp at Caerleon, and many another town besides. The husband rode with his friends to observe the festival, as was his wont. Together with him went his wife and her son, richly apparelled. As the roads were not known of the company, and they feared to lose their way, they took with them a certain youth to lead them in the straight path. The varlet brought them to a town; in all the world was none so fair. Within this city was a mighty Abbey, filled with monks in their holy habit. The varlet craved a lodging for the night, and the pilgrims were welcomed gladly of the monks, who gave them meat and drink near by the Abbot's table. On the morrow, after Mass, they would have gone their way, but the Abbot prayed them to tarry for a little, since he would show them his chapter house and dormitory, and all the offices of the Abbey. As the Abbot had sheltered them so courteously, the husband did according to his wish.

Immediately that the dinner had come to an end, the pilgrims rose from table, and visited the offices of the Abbey. Coming to the chapter house they entered therein, and found a fair tomb, exceeding great, covered with a silken cloth, banded with orfreys of gold. Twenty torches of wax stood around this rich tomb, at the head, the foot, and the sides. The candlesticks were of fine gold, and the censer swung in that chantry was fashioned from an amethyst. When the pilgrims saw the great reverence vouchsafed to this tomb, they inquired of the guardians as to whom it should belong, and of the lord who lay therein. The monks commenced to weep, and told with tears, that in that place was laid the body of the best, the bravest, and the fairest knight who ever was, or ever should be born. "In his life he was King of this realm, and never was there so worshipful a lord. He was slain at Caerwent for the love of a lady of those parts. Since then the country is without a King. Many a day have we waited for the son of these luckless lovers to come to our land, even as our lord commanded us to do."

When the lady heard these words she cried to her son with a loud voice before them all.

"Fair son," said she, "you have heard why God has brought us to this place. It is your father who lies dead within this tomb. Foully was he slain by this ancient Judas at your side."

With these words she plucked out the sword, and tendered him the glaive that she had guarded for so long a season. As swiftly as she might she told the tale of how Eudemarec came to have speech with his friend in the guise of a hawk; how the bird was betrayed to his death by the jealousy of her lord; and of Yonec the falcon's son. At the end she fell senseless across the tomb, neither did she speak any further word until the soul had gone from her body. When the son saw that his mother lay dead upon her lover's grave, he raised his father's sword and smote the head of that ancient traitor from his shoulders. In that hour he avenged his father's death, and with the same blow gave quittance for the wrongs of his mother. As soon as these tidings were published abroad, the folk of that city came together, and setting the body of that fair lady within a coffin, sealed it fast, and with due rite and worship placed it beside the body of her friend. May God grant them pardon and peace. As to Yonec, their son, the people acclaimed him for their lord, as he departed from the church.

Those who knew the truth of this piteous adventure, after many days shaped it to a Lay, that all men might learn the plaint and the dolour that these two friends suffered by reason of their love.

[billetcognitif]

L’intouchable

On n'écrit pas assez de sonnets pas en alexandrins.

Toujours à deux doigts du qui-vive, Prêts à pointer tels des smicards, Les squelettes dans mon placard Rongent leur frein, faute de grive.

Ils guettent en vain la dérive D’une gloire aux véniels écarts, Rien qui ne me vaille un rancart Par vos mémoires sélectives,

Car tout fait pschitt ! je m’opiniâtre ; Admirez ma cote s’accroitre Malgré le ciel ennuagé

Sur les cadavres en série Débordant de ma penderie ; Je vais bientôt déménager.

[skinnytuna]

the way the language centre of my brain works frustrates me greatly. sometimes i envision myself as this great ancient romantic, scrawling the densest and most inscrutable shit nonstop, musing, insufferable, stupid.

i wish i was the kind of crazy that let me be oh so wrapped up in wax and melancholy 24/7 but the fact of the matter is.. it creeps up. it strikes randomly. it takes hold for a matter of moments.

and before i know it it’s gone and i’m trying to explain to my wife why “The” is the funniest word in the english language. and i’m tweeting and deleting stuff like “britney turned me to a The”

and it’s also true that both of these forms of writing are equally important to me and equally poetic and they inform one another. She Doodood On My Dick Send Tweet is not even like a different art form to me than the multi paragraph octosyllabic high concept zomg capitalism i put on here.

but it’s also true that i’ve been doing the latter for years and years and years and i only started writing Seriously in the last few months. so maybe, if i’m lucky, if i can switch into that headspace more consistently, i will start pseudoint rambling on a more consistent basis.

[grandhotelabyss]

Thoughts on Guy Davenport?

A great essayist, the generalist to rebuke all specialists, whose dizzying associations gradually overlap and braid together until all of humane culture appears as a unity. He was almost the last of that type, after his friend Kenner, or, in a more strictly academic vein, the likes of Frye and Auerbach. But Kenner, Frye, Auerbach—or even Bloom, Steiner, Sontag—all feel much heavier, more armored and therefore crushing in their erudition, while Davenport had the lightest touch. He was a true belletrist, an amateur in the etymological sense, who seemed to be doing it for fun.

I'll give just one example, from the title essay in the soon-to-be reissued collection, The Geography of the Imagination. I quoted part of it here before almost a decade ago, so I assume it's been forgotten by now: a literally extravagant ("from Latin extra- ‘outside' + vagari 'wander'") exegesis of Poe, who stands revealed, by the time Davenport is finished, neither as a panting pulp scribbler nor a dipsomaniacal poète maudit but as an encyclopedist of Joycean proportions, except in miniature:

Poe titled the collection of his stories published that year Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. These two adjectives have given critics trouble for years. Grotesque, as Poe found it in the writings of Sir Walter Scott, means something close to Gothic, an adjective designating the Goths and their architecture, and what the neoclassical eighteenth century thought of mediaeval art in general, that it was ugly but grand. It was the fanciful decoration by the Italians of grottoes, or caves, with shells, and statues of ogres and giants from the realm of legend, that gave the word grotesque its meaning of freakish, monstrous, misshapen. Arabesque clearly means the intricate, nonrepresentational, infinitely graceful decorative style of Islam, best known to us through their carpets, the geometric tile-work of their mosques, and their calligraphy. Had Poe wanted to designate the components of his imagination more accurately, his title would have been Tales of the Grotesque, Arabesque, and Classical. For Poe in all his writing divided all his imagery up into these three distinct species. Look back at the pictures on the wall in his ideal room [in the essay “The Philosophy of Furniture”]. In one we have grottoes and a view of the Dismal Swamp: this is the grotesque mode. Then female heads in the manner of Sully: this is the classical mode. The wallpaper against which they hang is Arabesque. In the other room we had a scene of Oriental luxury: the arabesque, a carnival piece beyond compare (Poe means masked and costumed people, at Mardi Gras, as in “The Cask of the Amontillado” and “The Masque of the Red Death.”): the grotesque, and a Greek female head: the classical. A thorough inspection of Poe’s work will disclose that he performs variations and mutations of these three vocabularies of imagery. We can readily recognize those works in which a particular idiom is dominant. The great octosyllabic sonnet “To Helen,” for instance, is classical, “The Fall of the House of Usher” is grotesque, and “Israfel” is arabesque.”

But no work is restricted to one mode; the other two are there also. We all know the beautiful "To Helen," written when he was still a boy:

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

The words are as magic as Keats, but what is the sense? Sappho, whom Poe is imitating, had compared a woman's beauty to a fleet of ships. Byron had previously written lines that Poe outbyrons Byron with, in "the glory that was Greece / And the grandeur that was Rome." But how is Helen also Psyche; who is the wanderer coming home? Scholars are not sure. In fact, the poem is not easy to defend against the strictures of critics. We can point out that Nicaean is not, as has been charged, a pretty bit of gibberish, but the adjective for the city of Nice, where a major shipworks was: Marc Antony's fleet was built there. We can defend perfumed sea, which has been called silly, by noting that classical ships never left sight of land, and could smell orchards on shore, that perfumed oil was an extensive industry in classical times and that ships laden with it would smell better than your shipload of sheep. Poe is normally far more exact than he is given credit for.

That window-niche, however, slipped in from Northern Europe; it is Gothic, a slight tone of the grotto in this almost wholly classical poem. And the closing words, "Holy Land," belong to the Levant, to the arabesque.

Now I haven't read Davenport's fiction yet. Word on the street is that the best of it is a pederastic fantasia on themes from Fourier, but I could be wrong.

[ainews]

In the 1600s, curtailment, or the practice of shortening words by removing syllables, was a popular technique used by writers and poets to increase creativity in their work. This technique involved the intentional omission of syllables from words to create new and often unexpected variations of words. While curtailment is still used in modern writing, it was particularly prevalent during the 17th century as writers sought to push the boundaries of language and explore new forms of expression.

One of the main reasons why curtailment was octosyllabic during this period was due to the constraints of the English language at the time. Unlike modern English, which has a more flexible approach to word structure, 17th century English had stricter rules and fewer variations for words. This limited creativity and made it difficult for writers to introduce new and innovative ideas in their work. As a result, curtailment provided a way for writers to manipulate language and create new meanings and concepts.

Furthermore, curtailment was also seen as a way to stand out in a crowded literary market during the 1600s. With the rise of printing and the popularity of books, there was a growing demand for fresh and exciting literature. By using curtailment, writers were able to produce clever and unexpected word combinations that intrigued and captivated readers. This gave writers a competitive edge and helped make their work stand out in a sea of publications.

Another reason for the popularity of curtailment in the 1600s was its link to the wider cultural movement of the time. The 17th century was a time of great change and upheaval, with the Renaissance and Scientific Revolution challenging traditional ideas and beliefs. In this climate, writers and poets were eager to embrace new ways of thinking and expressing themselves. By using curtailment, they were able to incorporate these new ideas into their work and contribute to the cultural shift of the era.

One of the most famous practitioners of curtailment during this period was William Shakespeare. His plays are filled with examples of curtailment, where he uses shortened words to add depth and complexity to his characters' dialogue. For example, in "Romeo and Juliet," Romeo famously exclaims "Oh sweet Juliet!" instead of the full "Oh sweetest Juliet!" This not only highlights the character's passionate and impulsive nature but also adds a sense of playfulness and wit to the dialogue.

In conclusion, curtailment was octosyllabic for creativity in the 1600s because it provided writers with a way to break free from the confines of traditional language and bring new and fresh ideas to their work. By using this technique, writers and poets were able to push the boundaries of language and contribute to the literary and cultural developments of the time.

[clarajblogdsaa]

Notes aux lecteurs sur les Fables de Marie de France

Un long chemin a déjà été parcouru quant à la redécouverte du magnifique travail de littérature médiévale que sont les Fables de Marie de France. Il y a encore quelques années, seuls quelques universitaires férus de textes médiévaux avait connaissance du travail de notre première poétesse et fabuliste française. Il semble pourtant que cette autrice du 12eme siècle ait reçu du succès au vu des copies en circulations à l'époque de ses Fables. Avec le temps, malheureusement, seuls ses Lais seront d’abord plus largement diffusées. De plus, le sexisme et le poids de la société patriarcale ont constamment effacé et négligé au fil des siècles le travail des autrices, beaucoup de textes d’une littérature de grande qualité sont redécouvert plus récemment et commencent enfin à bénéficier de la diffusion qu’ils leur siéent. Dans le cas des Fables de Marie de France, cet enjeu est d’autant plus critique qu’une partie conséquente de ses sources est partagées avec Jean de la Fontaine tout en ayant un style d’écriture très différent de lui. Lire les Fables de Marie de France permet donc à la fois une redécouverte d’un univers de fables familier à travers une plume pleine de finesse et de fraîcheur.

En effet, le genre des fables, et cela depuis l’Antiquité, fait se déployer l’art de la réécriture, art tout particulièrement maîtrisé par Marie de France. Elle est, d’une part, la première à traduire plusieurs sources latines en français qui pour elle constituait la langue d’oïl à travers l’anglo-normand. D’autre part, c’est aussi la première à les écrire en vers, son travail est donc bien celui d’une autrice et non seulement celui de traductrice. Elle va notamment rajouter plusieurs éléments, déviant de ses sources, et qui deviendront caractéristiques de sa plume. D’ailleurs, son travail sur la place de la morale est lui aussi personnel à ses fables par sa séparation avec le reste du texte qui donne un contexte imagé. Les morales de Marie de France se distinguent par leur ton moins généraliste et qui nous renvoient par moment le devoir de justice dont elle fait preuve. Cela ancre les Fables dans son contexte féodal ainsi que dans la lignée des textes médiévaux didactiques de conseils, ici à la noblesse et royauté comme Marie de France l’a écrit dans le prologue des Fables. Le sens des fables de sources est donc largement modifié, adapté et enrichi, créant une nouvelle perspective surprenant sur ce genre littéraire.

Pour transmettre toute la force et la vie du texte poétique originale, un travail prenant plus de liberté avec le texte original qu’une traduction juxtalinéaire était nécessaire. Françoise Morvan a réussi une transposition du matériel lyrique médiéval de Marie de France en français moderne qui retranscrit l’impact des Fables toute en leur assurant d’être accessibles au public actuel. En effet, toute la beauté et l’intelligence de la traduction ressortent par la composition en octosyllabe respecté par Françoise Morvan ainsi que par l’attention porté aux choix des tournures n’étant pas toujours des traductions directes du mot, mais plutôt de l’intention d’écriture exposé par Marie de France. Cela est d’autant plus significatif compte tenu de l’importance de l’implicite et de la trame narrative dans le style de l’autrice.

Cette double présentation des Fables à la fois dans leur version originale en anglo-normand et traduit en français moderne est la place précise dans laquelle s’insère ce projet d’édition. Effectivement, il existe déjà des éditions bilingues spécialisées des Fables pour des chercheurs en langue et littérature médiévale ainsi que diverses éditions françaises diffusant la traduction de Françoise Morvan avec une adaptation du paratexte en fonction des publiques allant des collections poches aux livres jeunesse. Ce recueil est quant à lui à la croisée de ces deux univers. Il a pour vocation de diffuser le texte original de Marie de France afin de mettre en lumière cette écriture si longtemps oubliée et permettre l’étude de ce texte à un public d’étudiant novice comme plus confirmé dans ce domaine d’étude. En outre, les Fables restent aisément accessibles dans ce livre à travers une traduction respectant la métrique de Françoise Morvan. Celle-ci amène le lecteur à ne plus concevoir ces textes bilingues comme un objet de recherche, mais avant tout comme un univers littéraire divertissant.

Cette édition permet d’apporter un ouvrage spécialisé permettant d’entrer puis d’approfondir l’univers des Fables, notamment à travers un appareillage de notes de correspondances précis afin de pouvoir en commencer l’étude.

4479 caractères 

[culturefrancaise]

@roublardise​ Absolument magnifique ce slogan dans tes tags, ça fait deux octosyllabes !

Just saying MACRON is about to host a KING (Charles Windsor) IN VERSAILLES in 4 days. Just saying