The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

  I saw in the middle between these two points

  a beautiful meadow, thronging with people

  of every station, the poor and the needful

  who slaved at their labours as this hard world requires them.

  Some trudged behind ploughs with no chance of a respite,

  sowing and seeding. They worked without ceasing

  to win for the people what the greedy would waste.

  Others grew proud and dressed up accordingly,

  their faces and get-up a sight for sore eyes.

  But many more, it has to be said,

  lived in penance and prayer for the love of Our Lord,

  in the confident hope of ascending to Heaven.

  As monks and nuns they remained in their cells,

  never wishing to dash round the country

  on the lookout for luxuries to pamper their whims.

  Some took to business and did very well –

  at least as we see it – ‘getting on in the world’.

  More had a fine time, acting the clown

  With dancing and singing and swearing their heads off,

  inventing daft stories, making fools of themselves.

  Such people imagine that work’s a poor option.

  *

  While I was dreaming, Nature enlightened me,

  Calling my name and saying to take notice

  While she led me on through all the world’s marvels.

  And on this great mountain named Earth, I imagined,

  I was first led away to find out in practice

  How God might be loved through observing his creatures.

  The sun I saw, and the sea, and the sand by the shore;

  I saw how the birds make their nests in the trees;

  No man has the skill to equal the least of them.

  Who on earth, then I wondered, tutored the magpie

  To arrange all the sticks that she lays on to breed?

  No joiner, I’m certain, could make a dome like it.

  What kind of a builder might follow that blueprint?

  There were visions besides that I marvelled at further:

  Other bird pairs that sheltered their eggs

  In the deepest seclusion on moor and in marsh, in swamp or on water,

  So no-one could find them but the two of themselves.

  Then I looked out to sea and beyond to the stars.

  Such marvels I saw I can hardly describe them:

  Flowers in the wood of beautiful colours,

  And all shining through the green grass and brown earth.

  Some were rank and some scented: a magical world

  That I haven’t the time or the skill to describe.

  There’s provision enough here, faith has no doubt,

  For no life ever given lacked the means of survival,

  An element to live in and a reason for living.

  First the wild worm lives in wet earth;

  The fish lives in water, the cricket in fire.

  The curlew by nature lives on the air,

  So of any bird its meat is the cleanest.

  Animals live on grass, grain and rootcrops:

  This shows that man too has a natural food

  Which is not only bread but sustained faith and love.

  WILLIAM LANGLAND

  translated by Bernard O’Donoghue

  In Defence of Women

  Woe to him who speaks ill of women! it is not right to abuse them. They have not deserved, that I know, all the blame they have always had.

  Sweet are their words, exquisite their voice, that sex for which my love is great; woe to him who does not scruple to revile them, woe to him who speaks ill of women!

  They do no murder nor treachery, nor any grim or hateful deed, they do no sacrilege to church nor bell; woe to him who speaks ill of women!

  Certain it is, there has never been born bishop nor king nor great prophet without fault, but from a woman; woe to him who speaks ill of women!

  They are thrall to their own hearts, they love a man slender and sound – it would be long before they would dislike him. Woe to him who speaks ill of women!

  An old fat greybeard, they do not desire a tryst with him – dearer to them is a young lad, though poor. Woe to him who speaks ill of women!

  EARL GERALD FITZGERALD

  translated by Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson

  from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

  So the morning dawns when man remembers

  the day our redeemer was born to die,

  and every house on earth is joyful for Lord Jesus.

  Their day was no different, being a diary of delights:

  banquets and buffets were beautifully cooked

  and dutifully served to diners at the dais.

  The ancient elder sat highest at the table

  with the lord, I believe, in the chair to her left;

  the sweeter one and Gawain took seats in the centre

  and were first at the feast to dine, then food

  was carried around as custom decrees

  and served to each man as his status deserved.

  There was feasting, there was fun, and such feelings of joy

  as could not be conveyed by quick description,

  yet to tell it in detail would take too much time.

  But I’m aware that Gawain and the beautiful woman

  found such comfort and closeness in each other’s company

  through warm exchanges of whispered words

  and refined conversation free from foulness

  that their pleasure surpassed all princely sports

  by far.

  Beneath the din of drums

  men followed their affairs,

  and trumpets thrilled and thrummed

  as those two tended theirs.

  They drank and danced all day and the next

  and danced and drank the day after that,

  then St John’s Day passed with a gentler joy

  as the Christmas feasting came to a close.

  Guests were to go in the greyness of dawn,

  so they laughed and dined as the dusk darkened,

  swaying and swirling to music and song.

  Then at last, in the lateness, they upped and left

  towards distant parts along different paths.

  Gawain offered his goodbyes, but was ushered by his host

  to his host’s own chamber and the heat of its chimney,

  waylaid by the lord so the lord might thank him

  profoundly and profusely for the favour he had shown

  in honouring his house at that hallowed season

  and lighting every corner of the castle with his character.

  ‘For as long as I live my life shall be better

  that Gawain was my guest at God’s own feast.’

  ‘By God,’ said Gawain, ‘but the gratitude goes to you.

  May the High King of Heaven repay your honour.

  Your requests are now this knight’s commands.

  I am bound by your bidding, no boon is too high

  to say.’

  At length his lordship tried

  to get his guest to stay.

  But proud Gawain replied

  he must now make his way.

  ANON

  translated by Simon Armitage

  from Pearl

  One thing I know for certain: that she

  was peerless, pearl who would have added

  light to any prince’s life

  however bright with gold. None

  could touch the way she shone

  in any light, so smooth, so small –

  she was a jewel above all others.

  So pity me the day I lost her

  in this garden where she fell

  beneath the grass into the earth.

  I stand bereft, struck to the heart

  with love and loss. My spotless pearl.

  I’ve gazed a hundred times at the place

  sh
e left me, grieving for that gift

  which swept away all shadow, that face

  which was the antidote to sorrow.

  And though this watching sears my heart

  and wrings the wires of sadness tighter,

  still the song this silence sings me

  is the sweetest I have heard –

  the countless quiet hours in which

  her pale face floats before me, mired

  in mud and soil, a perfect jewel

  spoiled, my spotless pearl.

  In the place where such riches lie rotting

  a carpet of spices will spring up and spread,

  blossoms of blue and white and red

  which fire in the full light facing the sun.

  Where a pearl is planted deep in the dark

  no fruit or flower could ever fade;

  all grasscorn grows from dying grain

  so new wheat can be carried home.

  From goodness other goodness grows:

  so beautiful a seed can’t fail

  to fruit or spices fail to flower

  fed by a precious, spotless pearl.

  So I came to this very same spot

  in the green of an August garden, height

  and heart of summer, at Lammas time

  when corn is cut with curving scythes.

  And I saw that the little hill where she fell

  was a shaded place showered with spices:

  pink gillyflower, ginger and purple gromwell,

  powdered with peonies scattered like stars.

  But more than their loveliness to the eye,

  the sweetest fragrance seemed to float

  in the air there also – I knew beyond doubt

  that’s where she lay, my spotless pearl.

  Caught in the chill grasp of grief I stood

  in that place clasping my hands, seized

  by the grip on my heart of longing and loss.

  Though reason told me to be still

  I mourned for my poor imprisoned pearl

  with all the fury and force of a quarrel.

  The comfort of Christ called out to me

  but still I wrestled in wilful sorrow.

  Then the power and perfume of those flowers

  filled up my head and felled me, slipped me

  into sudden sleep in the place

  where she lay beneath me. My girl.

  ANON

  translated by Jane Draycott

  The Prologue

  The fables told by poets in old times

  Are by no means all grounded upon truth

  Yet their attractive style, their craft and themes

  Still make for pleasant listening; and with

  Good cause, since they, from the beginning,

  Aimed to reprove man’s whole wrong way of living

  Under the figure of another thing.

  Just as through a hard unyielding ground,

  If it is laboured with real diligence,

  The flowers will spring and young shoots of green corn,

  Wholesome and good for human sustenance,

  So sweetly edifying moral lessons

  Spring from the well-worked plot of poetry

  For those who have ears to hear and eyes to see.

  The shell upon the nut, though hard and tough,

  Holds the kernel and is still delightful.

  Just so there lies a doctrine of great worth

  And fruitfulness beneath a made-up fable.

  And scholars say it is most profitable

  To mix the merry in with graver matter:

  It makes the spirit lift and time go quicker.

  Furthermore, a bow that’s always bent

  Goes weak and gives and loses all its spring.

  The same is true of minds always intent

  On earnest thought and constant studying.

  To alleviate what’s sad by adding something

  Cheerful is good; Aesop expressed it thus:

  Dulcius arrident seria picta iocis.

  Which author’s Latin, masters, by your leave,

  Submitting myself here to your correction,

  I would convert to mother tongue and prove

  Equal to the task of a translation –

  Not out of vain presumption of my own,

  But at the invitation of a lord

  Whose name it is not needful to record.

  In homely language and rough turns of speech

  I have to write, for always eloquence

  And rhetoric remained beyond my reach.

  Therefore I humbly pray your reverence

  That if you find here through my negligence

  Anything much shortened – or protracted –

  By your good will and good grace you’ll correct it.

  My author in his fables records how

  Wild animals spoke sense and understood,

  Debated point for point, could argue too,

  Propound a syllogism and conclude;

  He shows by example and similitude

  How often humans in their own behaviour

  Resemble the wild animals in nature.

  No wonder that a man grows like a beast!

  Loving each carnal and each foul delight

  Until no shame can hold or halt his lust,

  He soon indulges every appetite

  Which through repetition and bad habit

  Roots in the mind so ineradicably

  He is transformed: then bestiality.

  This scholar, Aesop, as I have been telling,

  Composed in verse of elegance and weight

  A coded book, for he was unwilling

  That readers high or low should underrate

  His art; and first of a cock he wrote,

  Hunting for food, that found a brilliant stone.

  His is the fable you shall hear anon.

  ROBERT HENRYSON

  translated by Seamus Heaney

  The Toad and the Mouse

  Upon a time, as Aesop makes report,

  A little mouse came to a riverside.

  She couldn’t wade, her mouse-shanks were so short,

  She couldn’t swim, she had no horse to ride,

  So willy-nilly there she had to bide

  And to and fro beside that river deep

  She ran and cried with many a piteous peep.

  ‘Help, help me over,’ cried the poor wee mouse,

  ‘For love of God, someone, across this stream.’

  With that a toad, in water nearby, rose

  (For toads by nature nimbly duck and swim),

  And showed her head to mount the bank and come

  Croaking ashore, then gave her greetings thus:

  ‘Good morning! And what brings you here, Miss Mouse?’

  ‘The corn’, she said, ‘in yon field, do you see it?

  The ripened oats, the barley, peas and wheat?

  I’m hungry and I’d love to get to it

  But the water here’s too wide, so here I sit

  And on this side get not a thing to eat

  But hard nuts that I have to gnaw and bore.

  Over beyond, I’d feast on better fare.

  ‘I have no boat, there is no ferryman,

  And if there were, I have no coin to pay.’

  ‘Sister,’ said toad, ‘would you stop worrying.

  Do what I tell you and I shall find a way

  Without horse, bridge or boat or any ferry

  To get you over safely, never fear –

  And not wet once a whisker or a hair.’

  ‘I greatly wonder’, said the little mouse,

  ‘How you can, without fin or feather, float.

  This river is so deep and dangerous

  I think you’d drown as soon as you’d wade out.

  Tell me, therefore, what is the gift or secret

  You own to bring you over this dark flood?’

  And thus in explanation spoke the toad:

  ‘With my two feet for
oars, webbed and broad,

  I row the stream,’ she said, ‘and quietly pull,

  And though it’s deep and dangerous to wade,

  I swim it to and fro at my own will

  And cannot sink, because my open gill

  Vents and voids the water I breathe in.

  So truly, I am not afraid to drown.’

  The mouse gazed up into her furrowed face,

  Her wrinkled cheeks, her ridged lips like a lid

  Hasped shut on her hoarse voice, her hanging brows,

  Her lanky wobbly legs and wattled hide;

  Then, taken aback, she faced the toad and cried,

  ‘If I know any physiognomy,

  The signs on you are of untruth and envy.

  ‘For scholars say the main inclination

  Of a man’s thought will usually proceed

  According to the corporal complexion,

  The good or evil prompting in the blood.

  A thrawn feature means a nature twisted.

  The Latin tag affords a proof of this –

  Mores, it says, are mirrored in the face.’

  ‘No,’ said the toad, ‘that proverb isn’t true,

  For what looks good is often a false showing.

  The bilberry may have a dreary hue

  But will be picked while primrose is left growing.

  The face may fail to be the heart’s true token.

  Therefore I find this judgement still applies:

  ‘You shouldn’t judge a man just by his face.’

  ROBERT HENRYSON

  translated by Seamus Heaney

  A Girl’s Hair

  Shall I have the girl I love,

  The grove of light, my truelove,

  With her silk top like a star

  And her head’s golden pillar?

  Dragon fire lights a doorway,

  Three chains, like the Milky Way.

  A heaven of hair she’ll set fire

  In one bush, like a bonfire.

  Broom or great birchtree’s sweetness,

  Maelor’s yellow-headed lass,