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The Canterbury Tales; the Seconde Nonnes Tale

The Prologe of the Seconde Nonnes Tale.

The ministre and the norice unto vices,
Which that men clepe in Englissh ydelnesse,
That porter of the gate is of delices,
To eschue, and by hir contrarie hir oppresse,
(That is to seyn by leveful bisynesse),
Wel oghten we to doon al oure entente,
Lest that the feend thurgh ydelnesse us shente.

For he, that with hise thousand cordes slye
Continuelly us waiteth to biclappe,
Whan he may man in ydelnesse espye,
He kan so lightly cacche hym in his trappe,
Til that a man be hent right by the lappe,
He nys nat war the feend hath hym in honde.
Wel oghte us werche, and ydelnesse withstonde.

And though men dradden nevere for to dye,
Yet seen men wel by resoun, doutelees,

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poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The real success

With a woman of love
When I talk, I savour her every word,
When I touch, I savour her every part,
And when in foreplay, I savour her every writhing.
The real success of mine lies
In making her savour likewise.
28.01.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Save Me Darling

Why should it matter how I feel
This old romantic down at hill
Then again, if Id known the outcome, sure youd win.
Illusion shattered, made them real
A night of magic, fate is sealed
Ran amok, and you knocked my tiny world for six
It wouldnt have made the slightest , blindest bit of difference
All together now, lets hear us pray
Make it better now and savour the day
Im all over, save me darling!
I feel it deep down deep inside
Can not believe were still alive
That is good, cause I did not mean you harm, my love
We took a shot at masquerade
Came crashing down on loves parade
We were young, were so full of teen emotion then
We couldnt have made the slightest, blindest bit of difference
All together now, lets hear us pray
Make it better now and savour the day
Im all over, save me darling!

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song performed by Erasure
Added by Lucian Velea
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Laus Veneris

Asleep or waking is it? for her neck,
Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck
Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out;
Soft, and stung softly — fairer for a fleck.

But though my lips shut sucking on the place,
There is no vein at work upon her face;
Her eyelids are so peaceable, no doubt
Deep sleep has warmed her blood through all its ways.

Lo, this is she that was the world's delight;
The old grey years were parcels of her might;
The strewings of the ways wherein she trod
Were the twain seasons of the day and night.

Lo, she was thus when her clear limbs enticed
All lips that now grow sad with kissing Christ,

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The time

Wedding was over;
Brought home was the bride,
With whom came a maid,
To serve her as an aid.

Days rolled;
As honey, appeared the bride;
As savour, moved about the maid,
As a rule, in a household.

Time lapsed;
The bride shed her charm
And the maid ruled calm
In their wait at the groom.

Event happened;
The groom went blasé
With the honey in use
And the savour was in wait for use.

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poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fruit Of The Tree

And there is this moment
of thousand petaled moments
brilliantly veiled obsidian sights

ageless of ether
impermeable aethers
breaching space splayed
petals' rude sand grain swayed

let us bite the pomegranate's pollinate
savour lush fruit blushing ripe pregnant night

let it lend us to stealing
gleefully squealing
lavishly laughing
ultraviolet's limelight

let us bite the pomegranate's pollinate
savour lush fruit blushing ripe pregnant night

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poem by Randy Resh
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Damaged Love

Thou innocence-primed beauty
Thou dainty svelte
Emotion-ripping
Like the sun’s silhouette
Painted on canvass of the horizon:
Almond-eyed woman
Just like a diamond
Lyrics of the lyres of yesterday
Thou rippling voice
On whose crest
Memory potsherds
Are borne to berth
On the shores of this heart

Frenzied Suitors,
Soil your hands in every toil
Till until evening!
Though on your laps
She lays no love
Pay the dowry of a thousand foreskins,

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poem by Chukwuemeka Ogbu
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Unto This Last

A boy's young fancy taketh love
Most simply, with the rind thereof;
A boy's young fancy tasteth more
The rind, than the deific core.
Ah, Sweet! to cast away the slips
Of unessential rind, and lips
Fix on the immortal core, is well;
But heard'st thou ever any tell
Of such a fool would take for food
Aspect and scent, however good,
Of sweetest core Love's orchards grow?
Should such a phantast please him so,
Love where Love's reverent self denies
Love to feed, but with his eyes,
All the savour, all the touch,
Another's--was there ever such?
Such were fool, if fool there be;
Such fool was I, and was for thee!
But if the touch and savour too
Of this fruit--say, Sweet, of you--

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poem by Francis Thompson
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No More Than Craftsmen

We are no more than craftsmen,
Our materials exist before us,
The word, the thought, the dream
We are those who sew up at the seems
All that lay before them in an aspiration
Towards a harmony that may touch the souls of all.
The words exist, all we may do is re arrange them
And through our ends we may help one another
Though never knowing by offering the soul uneasy
A chance to reflect upon the pains and joys of others,
This life, this life so strange hath changed my soul
Yet within the circle I remain, casting shadows towards
The elemental poles. What a fool I must seem,
Yet within the dream I remain growing uneasy at the thought
Of confronting the reality I so long ago left behind.
Here I am surrounded by joy; here I am surrounded by the beauty of all
Yet to fall and to call upon the demons of my insecurity is to easy
And for this reason I rest my pen upon the page, I flit my fingers across the board
Yet through sharing and never hording the emotion I feel
I have created an ocean within which my soul may drown.

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poem by David Lacey
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Hesperia

OUT OF the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is,
Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy,
As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of stories,
Blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a boy,
Blows from the capes of the past oversea to the bays of the present,
Filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse of invisible feet,
Far out to the shallows and straits of the future, by rough ways or pleasant,
Is it thither the wind’s wings beat? is it hither to me, O my sweet?
For thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind blowing in with the water,
Thee I behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west,
Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter
Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest.
Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber,
Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead
Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number
Die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are burnt by the dead,
Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten caresses,
One warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that endures;
The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses,
And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures.

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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