More Sir Degare in Translation

The hermit takes Degare to be fostered by his sister in the city for the more nurturing environment but takes him back after ten years to provide him ten years of solid grounding in unmarketable knowledge. Degare, in the meantime, has grown up into a comely young lad who is strong of arm. All is revealed to Degare about his past.

The heremite held up bothe his honde An thonked God of al His sonde, And bar that child in to his chapel, And for joie he rong his bel. He dede up the gloven and the tresour And cristned the child with gret honour: In the name of the Trinité, He hit nemnede Degarre, Degarre nowt elles ne is But thing that not never what hit is, Other thing that is neggh forlorn also; Forthi the schild he nemnede thous tho. The heremite that was holi of lif Hadde a soster that was a wif; A riche marchaunt of that countré Hadde hire ispoused into that cité. To hire that schild he sente tho Bi his knave, and the silver also, And bad here take gode hede Hit to foster and to fede, And yif God Almighti wolde Ten yer his lif holde, Ayen to him hi scholde hit wise: He hit wolde tech of clergise. The litel child Degarre Was ibrout into that cité. The wif and hire loverd ifere Kept his ase hit here owen were. Bi that hit was ten yer old, Hit was a fair child and a bold, Wel inorissched, god and hende; Was non betere in al that ende. He wende wel that the gode man Had ben his fader that him wan, And the wif his moder also, And the hermite his unkel bo; And whan the ten yer was ispent, To the hermitage he was sent, And he was glad him to se, He was so feir and so fre. He taughte him of clerkes lore Other ten wynter other more; And when he was of twenti yer, Staleworth he was, of swich pouer That ther ne wan man in that lond That o breid him might astond. Tho the hermite seth, withouten les, Man for himself that he wes, Staleworht to don ech werk, And of his elde so god a clerk, He tok him his florines and his gloves That he had kept to hise bihoves. Ac the ten pound of starlings Were ispended in his fostrings. He tok him the letter to rede, And biheld al the dede. "O leve hem, par charité, Was this letter mad for me?" Ye, bi oure Lord, us helpe sschal! Thus hit was," and told him al.

Both his hands he did raise The hermit, thanking God with praise, Into the chapel bore the boy, And rang the holy bells for joy. Putting the gloves and treasure away, He christened with child without delay: In the name of the Three-in-One "Degare" he named this son, For "Degare," this name of his, Means "One who knows not who he is" Or "Something that was almost lost"; Thus, with this name the child was crossed. A holy life the hermit led. He had a sister who was wed To a merchant and they did dwell In a city where they lived quite well. Shortly the child to her was sent With the silver that was meant To care for it. He told her there To feed and raise the child with care, And if God the child allowed Ten years of life, the hermit vowed That he himself the child would raise, Instructing him in holy ways. Brought into the city with care Degare now grew up there. The hermit's sister with her loved one Brought him up as their own son. By the time he was ten-years old, He was a child fair and bold, Courteous, kind, and nourished well; The best that did in that region dwell. He well believed, that his father Was the merchant and his mother The merchant's wife, the hermit too He assumed to be his uncle true. For ten years he with them sojourned, Then to the hermit's house returned, Who received the child with joy, For fair and noble was the boy. As ten more winters passed them by, The hermit taught him doctrine high; And when the boy reached twenty years Stronger he was than all his peers, Indeed, no one in all the land, Against his blows could make a stand. Then the hermit, the truth did speak That the boy might his fortune seek: For strong of arm and a sage Scholar he was for his age. The hermit returned the gloves and gold That he had guarded in his household Except for the sum of ten pounds sterling Which had been spent on the fostering. The letter he gave the boy to read And thus he found out all, indeed. "For the sake of charity, Dear uncle, was this letter for me?" "Yes, by our Lord, who helps us so!" All he told so the boy would know.

Slow Progress on Degare

The child is left at a hermit's door. The hermit finds the child.

The maiden tok the child here mide, Stille awai in aven tide, Alle the winteres longe night. The weder was cler, the mone light; Than warhth she war anon Of an hermitage in a ston: An holi man had ther his woniyng. Thider she wente on heying, An sette the cradel at his dore, And durste abide no lengore, And passede forth anon right. Hom she com in that other night, And fond the levedi al drupni, Sore wepinde, and was sori, And tolde hire al togeder ther Hou she had iben and wher. The hermite aros erliche tho, And his knave was uppe also, An seide ifere here matines, And servede God and Hise seins. The litel child thai herde crie, And clepede after help on hie; The holi man his dore undede, And fond the cradel in the stede; He tok up the clothes anon And biheld the litel grom; He tok the letter and radde wel sone That tolde him that he scholde done.

The maiden took the child away Stealing into the evening gray, Long she journeyed through wintry night. The weather turned with morning light Then soon she was made aware Of a hermit's house of stone and there A holy man his dwelling made. With great haste, the lad she laid In his cradle at this door, And staying not a moment more, Toward home she took flight. Arriving back the next night, She found her mistress in spirits low, Weeping and crying, filled with woe, And told her all there was to share Of how she had proceeded and where. The hermit rose to morning's glow And up with him his servant also, Together, then, Matins they prayed: To God and his saints, honor they made. Then they heard a baby's yelp The child, it seemed, cried for help. The holy man unlocked the door And found the cradle on the floor; Stripping all the cloths away He looked upon the boy that day. The letter's instructions he carefully read Taking note of all that was said.

Degare is Born

More Degare. The child is born and left to Fortune's whims.

On a dai, as hi wepende set, On of hire maidenes hit underyet. "Madame," she seide, "par charité, Whi wepe ye now, telleth hit me." "A! gentil maiden, kinde icoren, Help me, other ich am forloren! Ich have ever yete ben meke and milde: Lo, now ich am with quike schilde! Yif ani man hit underyete, Men wolde sai bi sti and strete That mi fader the King hit wan And I ne was never aqueint with man! And yif he hit himselve wite, Swich sorewe schal to him smite That never blithe schal he be, For al his joie is in me," And tolde here al togeder ther Hou hit was bigete and wher. "Madame," quad the maide, "ne care thou nowt: Stille awai hit sschal be browt. No man schal wite in Godes riche Whar hit bicometh, but thou and iche." Her time come, she was unbounde, And delivred al mid sounde; A knaveschild ther was ibore: Glad was the moder tharfore. The maiden servede here at wille, Wond that child in clothes stille, And laid hit in a cradel anon, And was al prest tharwith to gon. Yhit is moder was him hold: Four pound she tok of gold, And ten of selver also; Under his fote she laid hit tho, - For swich thing hit mighte hove; And seththen she tok a paire glove That here lemman here sente of fairi londe, That nolde on no manne honde, Ne on child ne on womman yhe nolde, But on hire selve wel yhe wolde. Tho gloven she put under his hade, And siththen a letter she wrot and made, And knit hit with a selkene thred Aboute his nekke wel god sped That who hit founde sscholde iwite. Than was in the lettre thous iwrite: "Par charité, yif ani god man This helples child finde can, Lat cristen hit with prestes honde, And bringgen hit to live in londe, For hit is comen of gentil blod. Helpeth hit with his owen god, With tresor that under his fet lis; And ten yer eld whan that he his, Taketh him this ilke gloven two, And biddeth him, wharevere he go, That he ne lovie no womman in londe But this gloves willen on hire honde; For siker on honde nelle thai nere But on his moder that him bere."

Upon a day as she sat weeping One of her ladies, this perceiving, Said, "For the sake of charity, Why do you cry, please tell me?" "Ah! Gentle maid, chosen one, Help me or my life is done! Ever I have been meek and mild: But look, now I'm quick with child! If this news to any man leaks, Tongues will wag in the streets: They'll say it's fathered by my father For I've been close to no other! And if my father this rumor hears, He'll be wrecked by grief and tears And happy again he'll never be, For all his joy resides in me." Thus she did her story trace, How she got pregnant and in what place. "Fear not, Madam," her lady did say, "In secret the child will be brought away, And no one else will have a clue Of its origins, but me and you." When her time had come around, She delivered the child safe and sound; A boy it was and at his birth She was filled with joy and mirth. The lady, who the secret kept, In swaddling clothes, the child wrapped And laid it in a cradle low, Making ready at once to go. Yet his mother, faithful to him, Carefully placed under his limbs Four pounds of gold, of silver ten, She hid into the cradle then, That it of aid might one day be; A pair of gloves then took she Which from Fairyland were sent, By her lover and were meant On no one else's hands to sit: Her's alone would they fit. These gloves she put under his head. A letter she'd written she did thread Around his neck with silken strands: Thus she carried out her plans. Whoever found the child would read These lines with which she did plead: "For charity's sake if you find This helpless child, be of good mind And have him christened by a priest, And care for him ten years at least. From noble blood he descends So aid him at his own expense: Under his feet there's silver and gold. And when he is ten-years old, Make sure to give him these gloves two And tell him that wherever he's due No single woman must he love Unless her hands fit the glove; In truth, these gloves may none wear, Except the mother that him did bear."

Sir Degare in Drips

A short passage that took a lot of time.

Thi knight passede as he cam. Al wepende the swerd she nam, And com hom sore sikend, And fond here maidenes al slepend. The swerd she hidde als she mighte, And awaked hem in highte, And doht hem to horse anon, And gonne to ride everichon. Thanne seghen hi ate last Tweie squiers come prikend fast. Fram the Kyng thai weren isent, To white whider his doughter went. Thai browt hire into the righte wai And comen faire to the abbay, And doth the servise in alle thingges, Mani masse and riche offringes; And whanne the servise was al idone And ipassed over the none, The Kyng to his castel gan ride; His doughter rod bi his side. And he yemeth his kyngdom overal Stoutliche, as a god king sschal. Ac whan ech man was glad an blithe, His doughter siked an sorewed swithe; Here wombe greted more and more; Therwhile she mighte, se hidde here sore

The fairy knight then disappeared. She headed back, much afeard, With sword in hand, still she wept, Returning to where her ladies slept. The sword she hid as she thought best And woke the ladies from their rest. Each was ordered on her horse And away they rode as a matter of course. Then two squires they saw at last Sent from the King, riding fast, Whose charge it was to find out His precious daughter's whereabouts. Led by them, back rode she Till safe she arrived at the abbey, And there performed the required rites, Offering masses into the night, Rituals well-ordered from first to last. After the appointed time had passed, Back to the castle the King did ride With his daughter by his side. He ruled the land as any king should: With boldness and courage his reign stood. Although all men were blithe and glad, This daughter sickened, was gravely sad, As her womb grew day by day: With heart most sore she hid away.

Sir Degare Goes On

Then a fairy knight, a rape, and a prophecy.

Than segh hi swich a sight: Toward hire comen a knight, Gentil, yong, and jolif man; A robe of scarlet he hadde upon; His visage was feir, his bodi ech weies; Of countenaunce right curteis; Wel farende legges, fot, and honde: Ther nas non in al the Kynges londe More apert man than was he. "Damaisele, welcome mote thou be! Be thou afered of none wihghte: Iich am comen here a fairi knyghte; Mi kynde is armes for to were, On horse to ride with scheld and spere; Forthi afered be thou nowt: I ne have nowt but mi swerd ibrout. Iich have iloved the mani a yer, And now we beth us selve her, Thou best mi lemman ar thou go, Wether the liketh wel or wo." Tho nothing ne coude do she But wep and criede and wolde fle; And he anon gan hire at holde, And dide his wille, what he wolde. He binam hire here maidenhod, And seththen up toforen hire stod. "Lemman," he seide, "gent and fre, Mid schilde I wot that thou schalt be; Siker ich wot hit worht a knave; Forthi mi swerd thou sschalt have, And whenne that he is of elde That he mai himself biwelde, Tak him the swerd, and bidde him fonde To sechen his fader in eche londe. The swerd his god and avenaunt: Lo, as I faugt with a geaunt, I brak the point in his hed; And siththen, when that he was ded, I tok hit out and have hit er, Redi in min aumener. Yit paraventure time bith That mi sone mete me with: Be mi swerd I mai him kenne. Have god dai! I mot gon henne."

Then she saw such a sight: Coming toward her was a knight, A young man, noble and comely; A scarlet robe upon his body; Fair were his form and face; He appeared with such charm and grace; With well-shaped legs, feet and hands: There was no other in the King's lands More attractive than was he. "Damsel, welcome you must be! Be not afraid of any of us: As a fairy knight, I've come thus: It's in my nature with arms to appear To ride a horse with shield and spear. Therefore, be you not afraid No weapon have I but sword displayed. I have loved you many a year And now alone I find you here, We will make love before you go, Whether it brings you joy or woe." Then, nothing could she have done But weep and scream and try to run; Her body, at once, he began to seize, And did his will just as he pleased. Thus he snatched her of maidenhood, And afterwards above her stood. "Beloved," he said, "gentle and mild, I know that you will be with child; Indeed, you will give birth to a boy; So take my sword in your employ. When he's all grown and has the might To wield it: Give it as his right, So that he with sword in hand May seek his father in every land. The sword is good and well-wrought Once, when I a giant fought, I broke the point in his head; And later, after he was dead, I took it out—and so I vouch— I have it here in my pouch. Perhaps in the future there will be A moment when my son meets me: By my sword, him I'll know. Have a good day! I now must go."

More Degare

Here's more from Sir Degare, bringing us up to line 88:

That ryche Kynge every yere wolde A solempne feste make and holde On hys wyvys mynnyng day, That was beryed in an abbay In a foreste there besyde. With grete meyné he wolde ryde, Hire dirige do, and masse bothe, Poure men fede, and naked clothe, Offring brenge, gret plenté, And fede the covent with gret daynté. Toward the abbai als he com ride, And mani knyghtes bi his side, His doughter also bi him rod. Amidde the forest hii abod. Here chaumberleyn she clepede hire to And other dammaiseles two And seide that hii moste alighte To don here nedes and hire righte; Thai alight adoun alle thre, Tweie damaiseles and ssche, And longe while ther abiden, Til al the folk was forht iriden. Thai wolden up and after wolde, And couthen nowt here way holde. The wode was rough and thikke, iwis, And thai token the wai amys. Thai moste souht and riden west Into the thikke of the forest. Into a launde hii ben icome, And habbeth wel undernome That thai were amis igon. Thai light adoun everichon And cleped and criede al ifere, Ac no man aright hem ihere. Thai nist what hem was best to don; The weder was hot bifor the non; Hii leien hem doun upon a grene, Under a chastein tre, ich wene, And fillen aslepe everichone Bote the damaisele alone. She wente aboute and gaderede floures, And herknede song of wilde foules. So fer in the launde she goht, iwis, That she ne wot nevere whare se is. To hire maidenes she wolde anon. Ac hi ne wiste never wat wei to gon. Whenne hi wende best to hem terne, Aweiward than hi goth wel yerne. "Allas!" hi seide, "that I was boren! Nou ich wot ich am forloren! Wilde bestes me willeth togrinde Or ani man me sschulle finde!

Every year the wealthy King Would hold a ritual gathering, To remember his wife's loss Who buried in an abbey was That stood by a forest side. With a great host he would ride, To sing dirges and masses both, Poor men to feed, the naked to clothe, Offerings were brought in great store, And monks were endowed with food and more. Toward the abbey he did ride With many knights by his side, His daughter also with him rode: They made the forest their abode. Then to her ladies the maiden cried And ordered that they there abide. For to answer nature's call, She the journey had to stall. From her horse alighted she, With two damsels for company, She dallied there far too long For forth had ridden all the throng. They would have up and followed so But did not know which way to go. Indeed, the wood was rough and thick And every path seemed to trick They headed south instead of west: And in upon them the trees pressed. Into a land now they crossed Knowing well the way was lost. From their steeds they came down And began to cry on strange ground Wailing together, they shouted out, But their cries brought none about. Since it was hot before midday; Upon the green, down they lay In the shade of a chestnut tree For they knew not what was to be. Both ladies in waiting fell asleep, Leaving their mistress the watch to keep. This lady went gathering flowers Listening to birds sing for hours So far from them wandered she That she got lost eventually. For her maids she did yearn But did not know how to return. A return she hoped to trace and tread But farther off she wandered instead "Alas!" she said, "that I was born! Now I know I am forlorn! Beastly teeth my bones will grind Before any man should me find!"

Translating Degare

So, I meant to work on Sir Degare as one of the three romances that I'll talk about in a book chapter (which I'm adding to the thesis in lieu of my Malory chapter). But I got caught up with the possibility of teaching the poem in the future and not being able to find a modernized version of it. So, I've set out to modernize the romance, with a lot of help from the glosses in the TEAMS text edition, the MED, and with inspiration from Nevill Coghill.

Lysteneth, lordinges, gente and fre, Ich wille you telle of Sire Degarre: Knightes that were sometyme in londe Ferli fele wolde fonde And sechen aventures bi night and dai, Hou thai mighte here strengthe asai; So dede a knyght, Sire Degarree: Ich wille you telle wat man was he. In Litel Bretaygne was a kyng Of gret poer in all thing, Stif in armes under sscheld, And mochel idouted in the feld. Ther nas no man, verraiment, That mighte in werre ne in tornament, Ne in justes for no thing, Him out of his sadel bring, Ne out of his stirop bringe his fot, So strong he was of bon and blod. This Kyng he hadde none hair But a maidenchild, fre and fair; Here gentiresse and here beauté Was moche renound in ich countré. This maiden he loved als his lif, Of hire was ded the Quene his wif: In travailing here lif she les. And tho the maiden of age wes Kynges sones to him speke, Emperours and Dukes eke, To haven his doughter in mariage, For love of here heritage; Ac the Kyng answered ever That no man sschal here halden ever But yif he mai in turneying Him out of his sadel bring, And maken him lesen hise stiropes bayne. Many assayed and myght not gayne.

Listen, Lords, noble and free, As I tell of Sir Degare: Once there were knights in the land Great numbers were on hand Who sought adventure by day and night, In order that they should prove their might; And this too was Sir Degare's cause: I now will tell what man he was. In Brittany there was a king Who wielded power over everything Staunchly he carried sword and shield And many feared him in the field. Truly, in battle, or tournament, In jousts arranged for amusement There was no one, who had the mettle, To move him an inch in his saddle, Or fling him down from mount to mud, So strong he was of bone and blood. This King, he was without heir Except for a maid, noble and fair: Her gentleness and great beauty Were famed throughout each country. This daughter he loved as his own life: In bearing her, the Queen his wife Had, in birth pangs, her life lost. And when the maid her childhood crossed Royal sons let him know, Emperors too and Dukes also, That they desired her to wed: For her inheritance they were mad. To these suits the King would reply That no man should with his daughter lie Unless he might in a joust Himself from his saddle oust, And from the stirrups loosen his feet: Many tried and left in defeat.

More if I make progress this term!

Cold's Coming

Cold's coming marks the
Distance between the places
I call "home" on my body,
As if miles could be etched
By falling degrees.
My body, encapsulated in layered
Warmth, is sedimented geography.

I always wear a Land's End sweater—
Strictly American, catalog shopped—
A Singaporean gift before I
Returned it to the land
Of its merchandising,
Label so faded, its sweatshop past
In another clime unfathomable.

On top of that, an orange hoodie—
"Wild Rivers, Tasmania"—
A tourist buy against
The unexpected cold
At the world's other end.

Or, if my nose doesn't itch,
A black Canterbury
Fleece, that recalls
Another pilgrimage
Medieval souls undertook,
First worn eighteen years ago
When as elite high school
Students we made a study trip
To the Soviet Empire in
Its winter,
Shivering beneath uniform
Black sweaters.

Then, a gray discount
Down overcoat, larger than
It's warm,
And red quilted gloves,
Women's, the only pair from
The remainder bin fitting
My Asian hands.
Bogg boots and knitted
Beanie cap accent
My uncoordination.

Frayed cuffs, torn seams,
Loose elastic, rickety zippers:
Over-worn.
I don't toss them out,
These maps of peregrination.

Unlike our forebears in
Climate controlled Eden,
We wear the fig-leaves
Of our wandering.

How to Lose Your Accent in 28 Days

Concerned about how
My half-breed
Post-colonial tongue
Sounded to non
Non-White ears,
Tired of people inquiring
If I'd come from
Jamaica,
And provoked by
The bemusement caused
When I asked the Home
Depot Guy where
The sink augers were,

I embraced the insult
To identity, searched
Online, and found
"The Accent Reduction
Institute of
Ann Arbor."

"People are going to laugh,"
Edna said, "at an English
Ph.D., going for speech
Classes. All you have
To do is pretend to
Be uppity when you
Speak."

But I didn't want
To sound British or
Posh. I wanted
Words ending
In curled Rs,
Sentences blended
With softened Ts,
Nasalized vowels
On my breath.

I wanted speech to
Defy skin.

Eight hours
Of intensive work to
Straighten out the
Kinks of my tongue,
Would set me back
575 bucks and
I wondered if
I could write a check
Against the white
Man's debt to my people.

I went cheap and put in
A request at the Public
Library for a book
And CD that promised
"952 Ways to
Lose Your Accent
In 28 Days."

The next day, I received
The message:
"Your request is canceled
Because the owning
Library cannot fulfill it."

Instead of turning my
Tongue, perhaps I should
Work on getting it
Canceled.

For Friends Recently Wronged

People who turn to words
Remain indifferent to how
Hypocrites misuse them—
Like decorative party
Wrap around empty boxes,
Or ornamental bows on
Thoughtless trinkets—
By dismissing
The weight, gravity, resistance
Brought by words.

People who stand on words
Can't help but be bemused
When bureaucrats manipulate them—
Like future profit
On short sold shares,
Or bonds
Endlessly derived—
By exaggerating
The hope, power, promise
Contained in words.

People who rest in words
Die a little each time
Hurtful words are spoken—
Like daggers in the back
Suddenly stuck
Or a booby trap's
Deceitful death—
By those who never feel
The peace, healing, wholeness
Secured by words.

Defences of Poetry - 2/23/2002

What sparks this entry was a rather long talk I had with a former student about Literature and the way its often perceived. An added impetus for this monologue is the fact that many of us are very literal, rather than literary.

Anyway, we were talking about how difficult it is to justify the worth and value of literature. The suggestion was that many people who have never studied Literature are convinced that Literature is an irrelevant subject that does not lead an individual very far. Based on that, we thought about why people think so and what does attract us to Literature.

ONE:
I have often found it interesting that many professions do not need to justify themselves. Doctors are needed because people get sick, Lawyers are needed because people get divorced, Engineers are needed because buildings and roads, computers and cars need to be built, Bankers are needed because money exists. And the list runs on. The justification is often economic: these professions are needed otherwise the economy just would not no longer operate smoothly. Yet Literature practitioners (be they teachers, writers, academics or critics) constantly justify their existence. Perhaps it is the particular mode of existence that is justified but even at a very elementary level, ie at Secondary school, the relevance of the subject comes under scrutiny. In comparison to many other functions however, literature deals with more immediate and pressing concerns, language, relationships, emotions, and ideas. Many professions on the other hand deal with artificially constructed systems: the legal system, the financial system, accounting systems. Why is it then that the pressing and the immediate, that which we participate intensely in comes under close scrutiny, while the plainly constructed is accepted as a way of life? Perhaps it is that very fact that ideas, relationships, emotions and language are so commonly discussed without the reference of specialised knowledge that caused Literature to be considered irrelevant. It is not that we are alienated from the concerns of Literature that causes Literature to appear irrelevant. It is the very opposite: we are so engaged with the currency of Literature that when we see it ossified on a page, or explained as analysis, we find that representation distant. And so the irrelevance of Literature is not so much a product of what Literature is about but really is due to the way we Literature is practised.

TWO:
Language is the heart of literary thought. And we fear the unmasking of Language. Fear in the sense that Literature often de-stablises assumptions about language. Literature has to continually justify itself is because its claims that language can be thought about, that language is so fluid and communication is so unstable, that language can so powerfully manipulate, are often so distressing in their conclusions that we rather not have to deal with them. To some, this ability to see through the operations of language may be an enriching or even thrilling process. Yet to a vast majority the abyss that this act provokes causes them to shirk away. The limits set by rule bound systems assure us of some end. But language systems are so dislocated from hard and fast rules that Literature's attempt to think about language is perhaps an extremely mind-boggling enterprise. The claim of the literary practitioner that the manipulative nature of language can be charted is often a claim that is scorned upon. Why is this so? I think we believe very much in our ability to be free from the influences of language.

THREE:
The range and complexity of what actually constitutes Literature is a difficult definition. Complexity has never been used as an excuse to say why a body of knowledge is unapproachable. The finer details of chemical engineering and the mind-boggling array of molecular principles never dissuades individuals from the subject. What is however the case with Literature is it's seeming complication of the simple. For example, after an elaborate explanation by the teacher on the strained relationship between Cassius and Brutus, a sleepy looking face peers up and drawls, " So you're just saying that they don't like each other?" Why does Literature seem to make difficult that which could otherwise be so simply expressed? Does Literature indeed build airy theoretical castles that are merely fabrications of the "heat oppressed" mind? Even novels expound reality in a manner that takes so much time to say so little. The issue then is our perspective on nuance and detail. The big picture is fine for certain modes of living but surely humanity consists of the slow motion replays and the re-runs as well? What distinguishes detail from superfluidity is its discovery. The superfluous exists on the surface, proclaiming its irrelevance and disconnectedness but nuance and details lie embedded, forming part of essence yet not proclaiming it so. And so the mining for nuance enriches not only the analysis of a book, but the analyser's ability to become sensitive to these unspoken currents that often drive desire and action.

This one was a long time coming - 2/18/2002

A Poem for the Chinese New Year

"May I have your name and number please?"
For I am charm and attraction rolled into one –
How can you resist one born
In the Year of the Rat?

"No fear my dear – for my eloquence
Will surely make up for the fact
That I do not act very well, being born
In the Year of the Ox."

I've never heard him speak his mind
All at one time. He merely lets slip
Observations of wit: most of him is hid –
In the Year of the Tiger

"O what care I take when I see her
To say how lovely she is –
For I'm full of tact, articulate, born
In the Year of the Rabbit."

"I do not love by speech alone
But let energy and honesty do the talking.
I'm a little to soft when it comes to love, born
In the Year of the Dragon."

" I know who I'll love and they'll love me too.
My depth of knowing and surface beauty
Confirms this." So said one born
In the Year of the Snake.

"Some peace, some peace please! Ladies
Stand back in queue!" I wish I had paid
More attention to the fact that I was
Born in the Year of the Horse.

Accomplished and elegant,
Too concerned with Art and
Irrelevance to be in love –
Was one born in the year of the Sheep.

"I'm a genius! I'm brilliant. I prance
In eccentric glee, because these questions don't
Concern me. Love has nothing to do
With one born in the year of the Monkey".

"Once she loved me. Now she says I'm
Arrogant and uncaring. Love
Failed hurts, for I was born
In the Year of the Rooster.

"I'm not too romantic,
But at least I'll never stray
From love's first kiss –
I was born in the Year of the Dog."

"She has yet to love me but
I'm sure she will. And I'll stubbornly
Persist until she does. I was born
In the Year of the Pig."

"I have loved many. And many have
Loved me. For they could not tell
Black from white. For I was born
In the Year of the Skunk."

That single last line has been fermenting for a real long time. I think I heard of it about 6 months ago. But never had a serious chance to think about it. It was uttered from the lips of a four year old child who was bullied terribly by her siblings at home. She claimed her elder brother was born in the year of the skunk. I thought of writing a piece that dramatised the situation more clearly, one that was more serious in tone. But CNY gave the line another way of seeing the light of day.

Coffee Sips 3 - 2/9/2002

the glass we look out of
makes the traffic drive into your reflection.

Both through and against,
inconsistent play
of imperfect vision.
Can't properly merge face

with street.
Your nose is tipped by
changing red green traffic
signs.

Over cups we talk passionately
of dial tones and now fashions.
Instead of porcelain cups,
glass ones with brass handles
grace other conversations:
but ours are
wide-rimmed, squat, white -

distraction: you repeat love while i wince at the car
narrowly missing your ear lobe.

Wouldn't it be easier
if i just looked into your
face, instead of insisting
on this half turned nonchalance?

ceiling lights and street lights remain
trapped in the web of reflecting glass.


When glass curves , what holds our shillouttes in place?

Only noisy conversation.

I will concentrate on writing in spite of the busy schedules and nine classes worth of essays to mark. And yet I haven't been highly productive recently. This 3rd installment in the Coffee Sip Series (unless you count that Ode to the Kopi Siew Tai) was written really long ago - some time in Jul last year i think. The physcial location was Olio at Weelock Place. Was staring at a couple having coffee next to the window and how the oddness of the perpective meant that the cars and reflections of cars from the road running perpendicular to the building seemed to run right into them. It wasn't even a good illusion - you knew that the cars were on the outside. but I looked hard and the lines seemed to merge. And so it is with writing - what we gauge naturally in the "real" world, distance, depth, perspective, angle, 3Dness - often becomes ruthlessly contorted when we place/ capture them on paper. And the ill-defined physicality translates into an emphasis on interpretation. And thus the physical gets tangled up with thought and emotion. So the possibilities of paper -continuous(ly) (e)merging.

"You dog! Upon my honour you lye ..." John Webster