Author: Low Wattage

Expat Welshman, educated (somewhat) in UK, left before it became fashionable to do so. Now a U.S. Citizen, and recent widower, playing with retirement and house remodeling, living in Delaware and rural Maryland (weekends).

Fantasticks June

I had not forgotten, just got a little behind with my homework this month.

Here is June from that strange work, Fantasticks, by Nicholas Breton, first published in 1626 and out of print for many a long year. I have been altruistically (lovely word) copying it out, month by month, since, when was it?

The word Bagge below means wine-skin, and I am told that a Tassell is a male hawking bird of some kind. Perhaps someone else could tell me exactly what kind.

JUNE

It is now June and the Hay-makers are mustered to make an army for the field, where not alwayes in order, they march under the Bagge and the Bottle, and betwixt the Forke and the Rake, there is seene great force of armes: Now doth the broad Oke comfort the weary Laborer, while under his shady Boughes he sits singing to his bread and cheese: the Hay-cocke is the Poore mans Lodging, and the fresh River is his gracious Neighbor: Now the Faulcon and the Tassell try their wings at the Partridge, and the fat Bucke fils the great pasty: the trees are all in their rich aray: but the seely Sheep is turned out of his coat: the Roses and sweet Herbes put the Distiller to his cunning, while the greene apples on the tree are ready for the great bellied wives: Now begins the Hare to gather up her heeles, and the Foxe lookes about him, for feare of the Hound: the Hooke and the Sickle are making ready for harvest: the Medow grounds gape for raine, and the Corne in the eare begins to harden: and the little Lads make Pipes of the straw, and they that cannot dance, will yet bee hopping: the Ayre now groweth somewhat warme, and the Coole winds are very comfortable: the Sayler now makes merry passage, and the nimble Foot-man runnes with pleasure: In briefe, I thus conclude, I hold it a sweet season, the senses perfume and the spirits comfort.

Farewell.

May – Fantasticks

You May (Huh?) have been wondering where Nicholas Breton’s portrait is, since it’s now the second of the month.

Nicholas Breton expected dripping clouds in May

Well, here it is, copied from his Fantasticks, published in 1626 and now out of print.

May

It is now May, and the sweetnesse of the Aire refresheth every spirit: the sunny beames bring forth faire Blossomes, and the dripping Clouds water Floraes great garden: the male Deere puts out the velvet head, and the pagged Doe is neere her fawning: The Sparhawke now is drawne out of the mew, and the Fowler makes ready his whistle for the Quaile: the Larke sets the morning watch, and the evening the Nightingale: the Barges like Bowers keep the streames of the sweet Rivers, and the Mackrell with the Shad are taken prisoners in the Sea: the tall young Oke is cut downe for the Maypole: the Sithe and the Sickle are the Mowers furniture, and Fayre weather make the Labourer merry: the Physitian now prescribes the cold Whey, and the Apothecary gathers the dew for a medecine: Butter & Sage make the wholsome breakfast, but fresh cheese and creame are meat for a dainty mouth: and the Strawbery and the Pescod want no price in the market: the Chicken and the Ducke are fatned for the market, and many a Goslin never lives to be Goose. It is the moneth wherein Nature hath her full of mirth, and the Senses are filled with delights. I conclude, It is from the Heavens a Grace, & to the Earth a Gladnesse.
Farewell.

A few learned observations:
Pagged means pregnant.
Sparhwake is sparrow-hawk.
Sithe is a scythe.
Nor was it usual in his time to use apostrophes with nouns in the genitive. (kindly remember you heard that here first)

Both Shad and Strawberry seasons are in full swing here, (Asparagus too), no sign of fresh peas yet.

Now is the Winter of our discontent…

…made glorious Summer by this son of York.

One of the best first lines ever written IMO.

I always thought the last Plantagenet  had suffered from a bad  press, although by heritage I had to support his nemesis Henry Tudr (it is so,  how it is spelled, only the English need extra vowels).

Well, just to show I’m not totally prejudiced, I joined the Richard 111 society (American Branch) this year and now get access to all the latest goings-on around  the car park.

Where was I?  Yes, discontent, well there must be some as a result of the April Poetry Competition, which  unlike modern playground games will only have one winner.  A fine crop of entries  from many of the usual suspects plus a few from some expert prevaricators.  I liked them all, especially Soutie’s pairing of poem and picture, but most of all I liked this little gem from Bilby:

Sunshine

Harsh lover
are you warming someone else’s land
And sucking moisture from the sand?
with lizards gaping in the heat
and lifting legs to cool their feet.

Absent lover
There’s a Tequila sunrise when you set
and bodies sunsick, slick with sweat;
swaying, dancing, heat skin-deep,
dreaming sunlight when they sleep.

Fickle lover
leaving, teasing,
warming, disappearing, freezing.
constancy is not your style
but, oh, please linger for a while!

Well done Bilby!  Now set us another one for May.

 

 

You Are My Sunshine

It’s finally arrived here, sunshine that is.  Leaped  from the low 40’s (5C) to the high 80’s (30C) in the space of two days, no Spring, one day Winter, next day Summer.  Actually it’s  91  (33C)   as we speak.

So the theme for the April Poetry comp. must be SUNSHINE.  Any form and length, what a blessing it is to have sunshine again , it’s been a long winter.

Closing date?  Let’s say April 30, midnight somewhere.

Commissioning the boat so I’m off back to the bilges for a while.

 

April

Let’s see what Nicholas Breton has to say for April.

He, if you are new round here, was the author of Fantasticks, a weird collection of strangely spelled observation published in 1626.

 APRILL

It is now April, and the Nightingale begins to tune her throat against May: the Sunny showers perfume the aire, and the Bees begin to goe abroad for honey: the Dewe, as in Pearles, hangs upon the tops of the grasse, while the Turtles sit billing upon the little greene boughes: the Trowt begins to play in the Brookes, and the Sammon leaves the Sea, to play in the fresh waters: The Garden bankes are full of gay flowers, and the Thorne and the Plumme send forth their faire Blossomes: the March Colt begins to play, and the Cosset Lamb is learned to butt.

The Poets now make their studies in the woods, & the Youth of the Country make ready for the Morris-dance; the little Fishes lye nibling at a bait, and the Porpas playes in the pride of the tide: the Shepheardes pipe entertaines the Princesse of Arcadia, and the healthfull Souldier hath a pleasant march. The Larke and the Lambe looke up at the Sun, and the labourer is abroad by the dawning of the day: Sheepes eyes in Lambs heads, tell kind hearts strange tales, while faith and troth make the true Lovers knot: the aged haires find a fresh life, and the youthfull cheeks are as red as a cherry: It were a world to set downe the worth of this moneth: But in summe, I thus conclude, I hold it the Heavens blessing, and the Earths comfort.

Farewell.

Turtles are Turtle Doves I would imagine.

Not much Heaven’s blessing or Earth’s comfort around this neck of the woods yet (perhaps in Washington State?) but it’s a goodly way to go ’til May.

Easter Day

Since it’s Easter I can give you a bonus installment from Fantasticks, the peculiar book by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626), a series of sketches, of hours, season and months.  Breton’s take on Easter is a little different from mine, but times do change.

EASTER DAY

It is now Easter, and Jacke of Lent is turned out of doores: the Fishermen now hang up their nets to dry, while the Calfe and the Lambe walke toward the Kitchin and the Pastry: the velvet heads of the Forrests fall at the loose of the Crosse-bow: the Sammon Trowt playes with the Fly, and the March Rabbit runnes dead into the dish: the Indian Commodities pay the Merchants adventure: and Barbary Sugar puts Honey out of countenance: the holy feast is kept for the faithfull, and a knowne Jew hath no place among Christians: the Earth now beginnes to paint her upper garment, and the trees put out their young buds, the little Kids chew their Cuds, and the Swallow feeds on the Flyes in the Ayre: the Storke clenseth the Brookes of the Frogges, and the Sparhawke prepares her wing for the Partridge: the little Fawne is stolne from the Doe, and the male Deere beginne to be hearde: the spirit of Youth is inclined to mirth, and the conscionable Scholler wil not breake a holy-day: the Minstrell cals the Maid from her dinner, and the Lovers eyes do troule like Tennis balls. There is mirth and joy, when there is health and liberty: and he that hath money, will be no meane man in his mansion: the Ayre is wholesome, and the Skye comfortable, the Flowers odiferous, and the Fruits pleasant: I conclude, it is a day of much delightfulnesse: the Sunnes dancing day, and the Earths Holy-day.

Farewell.