Plenty Herring, Plenty MealPlenty Peat To Fill Her CrealPlenty Bonny Bairns As WeelThat's The Toast For

Plenty herring, plenty meal Plenty peat to fill her creal Plenty bonny bairns as weel That's the toast for Marie!

All Brittany is moved: never was such a host seen as King Arthur assembled. When the ships moved out it seemed that everybody in the world was on the sea; for not even the waves were seen, so covered were they with ships. This fact is certain, that it seems from the stir that all Brittany is taking ship.

Now have the ships made the passage; and the folk who have thronged together go into quarters along the shore.

It came into Alexander's heart to go and beg the king to make him a knight; for if ever he is to win renown he will win it in this war. He takes his comrades with him, as his will urges him on to do what he has purposed.

They have gone to the king's tent: the king was sitting before his tent. When he sees the Greeks coming he has called them before him. "Sirs," quoth he, "hide not from me what need brought you here."

Alexander spoke for all and has told him his desire: "I am come," quoth he, "to pray you as I am bound to pray, my lord, for my companions and for myself, that you make us knights."

The king replies: "Right gladly; and not a moment's delay shall there be, since you have made me this request."

Then the king bids there be borne harness for twelve knights: done is what the king commands. Each asks for his own harness; and each has his own in his possession, fair arms and a good steed: each one has taken his harness. All the twelve were of like value, arms and apparel and horse; but the harness for Alexander's body was worth as much—if any one had cared to value or to sell it—as the arms of all the other twelve together.

Straightway by the sea they disrobed and washed and bathed; for they neither wished nor deigned that any other bath should be heated for them. They made the sea their bath and tub.

The queen, who does not hate Alexander—rather does she love and praise and prize him much—hears of the matter. She wills to do him a great service; it is far greater than she thinks. She searches and empties all her chests till she has drawn forth a shirt of white silk very well wrought, very delicate, and very fine. There was no thread in the seams that was not of gold, or at the least of silver.

Soredamors from time to time had set her hands to the sewing, and had in places sewn in beside the gold a hair from her head, both on the two sleeves and on the collar to see and to put to the test whether she could ever find a man who could distinguish the one from the other, however carefully he looked at it; for the hair was as shining and as golden as the gold or even more so.

The queen takes the shirt and has given it to Alexander. Ah God! how great joy would Alexander have had if he had known what the queen is sending him.

Very great joy would Soredamors too have had, who had sewn her hair there, if she had known that her love was to have and wear it. Much comfort would she have had thereof; for she would not have loved all the rest of her hair so much as that which Alexander had. But neither he nor she knew it: great pity is it that they do not know.

To the harbour where the youths are washing came the messenger of the queen; he finds the youths on the beach and has given the shirt to him, who is much delighted with it and who held it all the dearer for that it came from the queen.

But if he had known the whole case he would have loved it still more; for he would not have taken all the world in exchange, but rather he would have treated it as a relic, I think, and would have worshipped it day and night.

Has anyone else noticed how proto-cinematic is Chretien de Troyes? Is this another instance of that strange involuntary parallel between postmodern and medieval times?

Day dress, 1804-06

From Cora Ginsburg (auctioned 1999)

The Raven's Wife and the Terrible Bright Bell

by Alana K. Asby

The Angel of Death rises up in the land: His eyes are like iron, his wings drifting sand. And the Ravens who race to the Ark see him stand On the peaks of two stormclouds, at Settlement Strand; And waters, dark waters, pour out of his hand.

The gush from his right gathers black as a well; Beneath his right foot stands a mountainous swell; His left hand makes brittle bright flows to congeal. The Ravens arrive, and Ja-Pheth rings the bell; Oh, the sound of that bell in the silence is fell:

To the family within it says, “Fall to your prayers!” The forsaken without feel the roots of their hairs; It troubles the cats and the twitchety hares; But the raven-wife stops at the door and declares That she’s fallen in love with the bell unawares!

He sees her in shadow, the bell bright as flame; Then the Angel leans down, shuts the door in God’s name. So the Raven is never quite sure who to blame That he sails for six weeks, bereft of his dame, So weeping, Ham almost regrets that he came.

He beats at the door by night and by day; He shouts till his voice is as hoarse as a jay. The Prophet serene hears himself shout, “Belay!” But the Raven just answers in curses risqué, For his wife is the one he is used to obey.

Then can it surprise that as soon as the cruise swamps in the carboniferous ooze, postdiluvian ooze, the Prophet should choose to commission the bird he is longing to lose? (And what of that ill-judged inebriate snooze?)

The Raven flies out and the Raven flies back; He scans the seethed country, both crevice and crack, The oily black waters, the rotted sea wrack - And he flies past the Angel, who stands with his back to the long hallowed ship – Oh, what whirring black

Winged nestling thing huddles under his chin? Now the Raven forgets how distraught he has been, While he feasts with his mate on the wages of sin. And he fancies himself a small feathered kin To the Angel – and croaks when he sees him again.

Rim Bitik art

Fleur-de-Lys

Wither, Lily slim and white;   softly cede each velvet part.

Sing, Wind, that she was straight and tall.

With rainfall swell and fill,  stem-circling green Pool.

Roll in around her, Night,  aghast and whispering and cool.

Within her faultless heart  creep, armored Animals and small.

And last, O Pool! -  on your breast whose strength is slight,     awhile bear still        the spear she must let fall.

When I woke up and went out to the living room, I saw a little brown bird with a finch-type beak fluttering against the window panes. We had the windows open the day before, and she must have come in then. I thought I heard strange noises in the night!

After we mutually discussed things with the Holy Guardian Angel in a our High Gentle Voices, the bird settled on my finger tips and I put my hand out the window. She sat looking at me with her head cocked for a few seconds before flying away.

I felt:

One thing I learned right away is that the scariest thing for birds is to have their wings pinned. So they don't want to be grabbed from the back, however gently. The animation here is actually correct: the bird is far more comfortable if you bring your hand up from beneath and offer a perch.