Skip to main content

Poetry Sunday: Prologue to the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer

Long, long ago, I was a freshman in college and one of my required courses was English literature. Early in that course, the name of Chaucer came up and, inevitably, "The Canterbury Tales." Our teacher was a big fan and one of her requirements was that we learn and recite from memory the prologue to the tales in the Middle English in which it was written. I'm sure I have forgotten much of what I learned in college but I can still recite most of that prologue!

The General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

by Geoffrey Chaucer

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.

Comments

  1. I think that the only reason that Chaucer appeared on Earth was to torment students for centuries to come. He was joined later by Shakespeare!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I may be in the minority here (a position with which I am very familiar) but I actually quite enjoyed Chaucer and Shakespeare.

      Delete
  2. I majored in cultural anthropology in college, and took a linguistics class. It was one of my favorite classes in my major. I am intrigued by how much our language has changed over the years. Through these stories we peek into the life of some 600 years ago, something that should interest me. These Tales are a masterpiece, but for most of us, we have to read it in a modern English translation. And translations always lose something in the translation. I'm not one of those to have the patience to wade through either this or Shakespeare, something I really should do now that I am semi retired.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That's interesting. I came close to majoring in cultural anthropology myself but in the end went the sociology route instead. But I did take a couple of courses in the field and it has always fascinated me.

      Delete
  3. That's a mouthful! I'd never be able to memorize that....but then memorizing lines, poems, etc. has never been my thing. Even when I manage to get something memorized, I seem to forget it a few weeks later. ;D

    ReplyDelete
  4. I think our teachers must have been related because mine was a huge Chaucer fan, and I can still recite most of that prologue! And-- like you-- I enjoyed Chaucer and Shakespeare. (I can still recite large chunks of Shakespeare, too.)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I wonder if English literature teachers still require such memorization. I thought it was silly at the time, but now I'm so glad they made me do it. Like you, I still have bits of Shakespeare rattling around in my brain. Chaucer and Shakespeare - not bad companions for my consciousness!

      Delete
  5. I remember having to memorize the prologue when I was a senior in high school. Funny how those words, despite their quirky characters, stick in your mind after...well, after quite a number of years.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters!  Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...