Book V, Lines 1786-1813 by Geoffrey Chaucer Go, litel book, go litel myn tragedie, Ther god thy maker yet, er that he dye, So sende might to make in som comedie! But litel book, no making thou nenvye, But subgit be to alle poesye; And kis the steppes, wher-as thou seest pace Virgile, Ovyde, Omer, Lucan, and Stace. And for ther is so greet diversitee In English and in wryting of our tonge, So preye I god that noon miswryte thee, Ne thee mismetre for defaute of tonge. And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe, That thou be understonde I god beseche! But yet to purpos of my rather speche. -- The wraththe, as I began yow for to seye, Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten dere; For thousandes his hondes maden deye, As he that was with-outen any pere, Save Ector, in his tyme, as I can here. But weylawey, save only goddes wille, Dispitously him slough the fiers Achille. And whan that he was slayn in this manere, His lighte goost ful blisfully is went Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere, In convers letinge every element; And ther he saugh, with ful avysement, The erratik sterres, herkeninge armonye With sownes fulle of hevenish melody.Note: A recitation can be heard here.
- Mark Olival-Bartley
- Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.