Her neck, I remember
was a round ivory tower
not too short, not too long

Snow-white skin
Snow White her name
Who would not love her!

Oh, her shoulders, firm
and soft her arms and legs
round ******* and hips

straight back, perfect beauty
Magic mirror on the wall
who is beloved by all?

We all wished to know her
and hear words from her mouth
that bear witness to our existence

If she was only there
then I could hope
to love her someday

Escape
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
   Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
   I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
   Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
   I never plan to be in his prison lean;
   Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

**

Original text:

Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
    Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
    I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.
    Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
    I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
    Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
              Explicit.

Rejection
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I’m guiltless, yet my sentence has been passed.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign:
   Your beauty from your heart has so erased
   Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
   Your beauty from your heart has so erased
   Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
   For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

***

Original text:

So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to feyne;
    So hath your beaute fro your herle chaced
    Pilee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So gret beaute, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
    So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
    Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
    For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
    for your eyes slay me suddenly;
    their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death, my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
    your eyes slay me suddenly;
   their beauty I cannot sustain,
   they wound me so, through my heart keen.

***

Original text:

Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly;
     may the beaute of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouthe shal be sene.
     Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
     I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
     So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

Father Why’s Glob

              And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here
                    Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
                    And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle

                                                        -­Chaucer

A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like

A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon

A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips

I fly..
through the capacious sky
sit gleefully
sing my favorite song in heart
I open my pink note
write the date of the day
I still with my old sneaker
for the first moment stepped on unsimilar land
start to use foreign language to express
seeing the different architecture
differ with my country
I feel so amazed to meet new people
It's where Chaucer is born

Some people write, but rarely read,
That seems to me most strange indeed,
They've read less than a hundred books,
Yet think they imitate the looks,
Of Sassoon, Cummings, Keats and Pound,
Or think they imitate the sound,
Of Lennon, Dylan, or Shakur,
And sometimes think they've offered more,
Than Chaucer, Wilde or Shakespeare could,
And claim they're more misunderstood,
Than even Salman Rushdie was,
Which really ticks me off because,
After having read such wondrous works,
A sense of failure always lurks,
Inside me whenever I write,
Yet they think they've done well tonight!
I hate them all! That's it - I've said it!
But they won't know until they've read it,
Which is quite doubtful, I'd attest,
Who'd read my work and skip the best?