THE EARLY MORNING
The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
-Hilaire Belloc
Category Archives: poetry
Writing light and sage.
John Gower was a friend of Chaucer. He sounds like someone who, if he had lived seven centuries later, would have enjoyed writing a blog.
Confessio Amantis (Prologue: Motivation and Intent)
Of those who wrote before our lives
Their precious legacy survives;
From what was written then, we learn,
And so it’s well that we in turn,
In our allotted time on earth
Do write anew some things of worth,
Like those we from these sages cite,
So that such in like manner might,
When we have left this mortal sphere,
Remain for all the world to hear
In ages following our own.
But it is so that men are prone
To say that when one only reads
Of wisdom all day long, one breeds
A paucity of wit, and so
If you agree I’ll choose to go
Along a kind of middle ground
Sometimes I’ll write of things profound,
And sometimes for amusement’s sake
A lighter path of pleasure take
So all can something pleasing find.
-John Gower (1330 – 1408) England
Modern English version by Richard Brodie
In the Desolate Time
IN THE DESOLATE TIME
Friend, in the desolate time, when your soul is enshrouded in darkness
When, in a deep abyss, memory and feeling die out,
Intellect timidly gropes among shadowy forms and illusions
Heart can no longer sigh, eye is unable to weep;
When, from your night-clouded soul the wings of fire have fallen
And you, to nothing, afraid, feel yourself sinking once more,
Say, who rescues you then?—Who is the comforting angel
Brings to your innermost soul order and beauty again,
Building once more your fragmented world, restoring the fallen
Altar, and when it is raised, lighting the sacred flame?-—
None but the powerful being who first from the limitless darkness
Kissed to life seraphs and woke numberless suns to their dance.
None but the holy Word who called the worlds into existence
And in whose power the worlds move on their paths to this day.
Therefore, rejoice, oh friend, and sing in the darkness of sorrow:
Night is the mother of day, Chaos the neighbor of God.
Erik Johan Stagnelius (1793 – 1823) Sweden
For the chicken ladies.
You know who you are. And I count myself among your number, even though it’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of tending a flock and listening to cackles.
THE HEN
A famous hen’s my story’s theme,
Which ne’er was known to tire
Of laying eggs, but then she ’d scream
So loud o’er every egg, ’t would seem
The house must be on fire.
A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,
A wiser bird and older,
Could bear ’t no more, so off did stalk
Right to the hen, and told her:
“Madam, that scream, I apprehend,
Adds nothing to the matter;
It surely helps the egg no whit;
Then lay your egg, and done with it!
I pray you, madam, as a friend,
Cease that superfluous clatter!
You know not how ’t goes through my head.”
“Humph! very likely!” madam said,
Then proudly putting forth a leg,—
“Uneducated barnyard fowl!
You know, no more than any owl,
The noble privilege and praise
Of authorship in modern days—
I’ll tell you why I do it:
First, you perceive, I lay the egg,
And then—review it.”
-Matthias Claudius (1740 – 1815)
