It’s the First of April, so you know what that means, don’t
you? Yes, yes—well done! We’ve got 30 days of poems and poets ahead of us!
It’s National Poetry Month. As I did last year, I’m going
to share poems that have significance for me—they may or may not be classics,
or epics or any of that nonsense. I’m delving into my history, my joys, my sorrows
and finding poems that have spoken to me in one way or another. And they may or
may not speak to you—in any manner of ways.
Last year I started out with T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, because it contains the
telling line, “April is the cruelest month”. This year I’m setting the WAYBAC Machine
to a much earlier commentary on the month: the “Prologue” to The Canterbury Tales.
If you’ve ever taken an English lit class, you’ll know
the one I mean. Back in the very mists of time, there was Beowulf. Then a whole bunch of…I don’t know, stuff. And then The Canterbury Tales.
Canterbury
Tales is a collection of stories ostensibly told by a group of
pilgrims on their way from Southwark (London) to Canterbury, the site of the
murder of Saint Thomas à Becket. Because there were no video games, Internet, cable
TV or, indeed, iTunes, the travelers hung out together and told each other tales
for entertainment when they stopped at night. It was probably the greatest work
of Geoffrey Chaucer, whose day job was as a bureaucrat in the employ of both
Edward III and Richard II.
(I grimace to bring this up, but you may recall Geoffrey
Chaucer from that ridiculous mash-up film The
Knight’s Tale. I’d prefer that you remove that character from your mind,
although I don’t object whatsoever to holding up the image of Paul Bettany as
the personification of the poet.)
So—the tales are quite the collection to read, especially
if you were in high school when you were first introduced to them, as I was.
(Remember Mr.
Sheinkopf from last year?) It’s weird at that age to think of medieval
folks both having sex and telling really bawdy stories about it.
(Okay—probably not so weird to kids today, what with
Internet porn, cable TV and rap. But back in the last century? Oh, baby!)
Anyhow, Chaucer introduces the tales with the Prologue,
wherein he sets the pilgrimage context. According to him, April is the month
when, after the rains of early spring, things begin stirring throughout the
world—flowers, birds, animals. And people just naturally feel the urge to go on
pilgrimage.
I’m giving it to you in Chaucer’s original because in two different lit classes I had to memorize and recite it, all the way to the folk longing to hit the road. You cannot imagine the relief when you get to the word "pilgrimages," even if it's pronounced "pilgrimahzhes". If you really
feel you need a “translation”, you can find it here.
Whan
that Aprille with his shoures
soote,
The
droghte of March hath perced to
the roote,
And
bathed every veyne in swich
licóur
Of
which vertú engendred is the
flour;
Whan
Zephirus eek with his swete
breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The
tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath
in the Ram his halfe cours
y-ronne,
And
smale foweles maken melodye,
That
slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So
priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne
longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And
palmeres for to seken straunge
strondes,
To
ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And
specially, from every shires ende
Of
Engelond, to Caunterbury they
wende,
The
hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That
hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
So saddle up, pilgrims; we’re heading out for a month of poetry.
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