Best Poems From
Fibonacci - Water (Variation 1)
Weeds in water
Weeds in water form patterns
Patterns form of weeds in water over stones
Over stones and weeds water forms patterns reflecting
sunlight and soul of water
©2009 Forrest Hainline
General Prologue 17: The Wife of Bath - Geoffrey Chaucer (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)
A good Wife was there of beside Bath,
But she was somewhat deaf, and that was scathe.
Of cloth making she had such a haunt
She passed them of Ypres and of Ghent.
In all the parish wife was there none
That to the offering before her should go on;
And if they did, certain so wroth was she
That she was out of all charity.
Her coverchiefs full fine were of ground;
I do swear they weighed ten pound
That on a Sunday were upon her head.
Her hose were of fine scarlet red,
Full straight tied, and shoes full moist and new.
Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hew.
She was a worthy woman all her life:
Husbands at church door she had five,
Without them other company in youth -
But there's no need to speak right now.
And thrice had she been at Jerusalem;
She had passed many a strange stream;
At Rome she had been, and at Boulogne,
In Galicia at Saint Jame, and at Cologne.
She could much of wandering by the way.
Gap-toothed was she, truly for to say.
Upon an ambler easily she sat,
Wimpled well, and on her head a hat
As broad as is a buckler or a targe;
A foot-mantle about her hips large,
And on her feet a pair of spurs sharp.
In fellowship well could she laugh and carp.
Of remedies of love she knew per chance,
For she knew of that art the old dance.
© 2009 Forrest Hainline
General Prologue 16: The Doctor of Physic - Geoffrey Chaucer (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)
With us there was A Doctor of Physic;
In all this world was there none him like,
To speak of physic and of surgery,
For he was grounded in astronomy.
He kept his patient a full great deal
In hours, by his magic natural.
Well could he fortune the ascendant
Of his images for his patient.
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of hot, or cold, or moist, or dry,
And where they engendered, and of what humor.
He was a very perfect practitioner:
The cause he knew, and of his harm the root,
Anon he gave the sick man his boot.
Full ready had he his apothecaries
To send him drugs and electuaries,
For each of them made other for to win –
His friendship was not new to begin.
Well knew he the old Aesculapius,
And Dioscorides and too Rufus,
Old Hippocrates, Hali, and Galen,
Serapion, Rhazes, and Avicen,
Averroes, Damascene, and Constantine,
Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertus.
Of his diet measurable was he,
For it was of no superfluity,
But of great nourishing and digestable.
His study was but little on the Bible.
In sanguine and in perse he clad was all,
Lined with taffeta and with sendal.
And yet he was but easy of dispense;
He kept that he won in pestilence.
For gold in physic is a cordial,
Therefore he loved gold in special.
© 2009 Forrest HainlineHainline
General Prologue 23: The Summoner - Geoffrey Chaucer (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)
A Summoner was there with us in that place
That had a fire-red cherubin’s face,
For sauseflemmed he was, with eyes narrow.
As hot he was and lecherous as a sparrow,
With scaled brows black, and piled beard.
Of his visage children were afeard.
There’s no quick-silver, litharge, nor brimstone,
Borax, ceruse, nor oil of tarter none,
No ointment that would cleanse and bite,
That him might help of his whelks white,
Nor of the knobs sitting on his cheeks.
Well loved he garlick, onions, and also leeks,
And for to drink strong wine, red as blood;
Then would he speak and cry as he were wood.
And when that he well drunk had the wine,
Then would he speak no word but Latin.
A few terms had he, two or three,
That he had learned out of some decree –
No wonder is, he heard it all the day;
And too you know well how that a jay
Can call out “Walter” as well as can the pope.
But whoever could in other things him grope,
Then had he spent all his philosophy;
Ay “Questio quid juris” would he cry.
He was a gentle harlot and a kind;
A better fellow should men not find.
He would suffer for a quart of wine
A good fellow to have his concubine
A twelve month, and excuse him at full;
Full privily a finch too could he pull.
And if he found anywhere a good fellow,
He would teach him to have no awe,
In such case of the archdeacon’s curse,
But if a man’s soul were in his purse;
For in his purse he should punished be.
“Purse is the archdeacon’s hell, ” said he.
But well I know he lied right in dead;
Of cursing ought each guilty man him dread,
For curse will slay, right as absolving save it,
And also beware of a Significavit.
In danger had he at his own guise
The young girls of the diocese,
And knew their counsel, and was all their rede.
A garland had he set upon his head,
As great as it were for an ale-stake.
A buckler had he made him of a cake.
© 2009 Forrest Hainline