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Poems By Poet Forrest Hainline  9/20/2014 1:01:02 PM
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  Best Poems From
  FORREST HAINLINE
 
 

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  1.     

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
 
Forrest Hainline
   
 

   
   
 

  2.     

Geoffrey Chaucer, To Rosamund - (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)

Madame, you be of all beauty shrine
As far as circled is the mappamund,
For as the crystal glorious you shine,
And like ruby be your cheeks round.
Therewith you be so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance,
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.

For though I weep of tears full a tyne,
Yet may that woe my heart not confound;
Your seemly voice, that you so small out-twine
Makes my thought in joy and bliss abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound,
That to myself I say, in my penance,
Suffiseth me to love you, Rosamund,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.

No never pike wallowed in galantine
As I in love am wallowed and am wound,
For which full oft I of myself divine
That I am truly Tristan the second.
My love may not refreyd be nor a found
I burn aye in amorous pleasure.
Do what you list, I will your thrall be found,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.

© 2013 Forrest Hainline
 
Forrest Hainline
   
 

   
   
 

  3.     

Merciless Beauty, Geoffrey Chaucer (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)

I. CAPTIVITY

Your two eyes will slay me suddenly
I may the beauty of them not sustain,
So wounded, hit throughout my heart keen.

And but your word will heal hastily
My heart’s wound, while that hit is green,
Your two eyes will slay me suddenly
I may the beauty of them not sustain,

Upon my truth I say you faithfully,
That you’ve been of my life’s death the queen;
For with my death the truth shall be seen.
Your two eyes will slay me suddenly
I may the beauty of them not sustain,
So wounded, hit throughout my heart keen.

II. REJECTION

So has your beauty from your heart chased
Pity, that it avails me not to complain;
For Danger holds your mercy in his chain.

Guiltless my death thus have you purchased;
I say you truly, I need not to faint;
So has your beauty from your heart chased
Pity, that it avails me not to complain.

Alas! that nature has in you compassed
So great beauty; that no man may attain
To mercy, though he starves for the pain.
So has your beauty from your heart chased
Pity, that it avails me not to complain.
For Danger holds your mercy in his chain.

III. ESCAPE

Since I from love escaped am so fat,
I never think to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count him not a bene.

He may answer, and say this or that;
I do not force, I speak right as I mean.
Since I from love escaped am so fat,
I never think to be in his prison lean;

Love has my name stricken out of his slate,
And he is stricken out of my books clean
For evermore; there’s no other mean.
Since I from love escaped am so fat,
I never think to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count him not a bene.

© 2007 Forrest Hainline
 
Forrest Hainline
   
 

   
   
 

  4.     

General Prologue 07: The Monk - Geoffrey Chaucer (Forrest Hainline's Minimalist Translation)

A monk there was, a fair for the mastery,
An outrider, that loved venery,
A manly man, to be an abbot able.
Full many a dainty horse had he in stable,
And when he rode, men might his bridle hear
Jingling in a whistling wind all clear
And too as loud as doth the chapel bell
There as his lord was keeper of the cell.
The rule of Saint Maure or of Saint Benedict -
Because it was old and somewhat strict
This same monk let old things pace,
And held after the new world the space.
He gave not of that text a pulled hen,
That said that hunters be not holy men,
Nor that a monk, when he is reckless,
Is likened to a fish that is waterless -
This is to say, a monk out of his cloister.
But that text held he not worth an oyster;
And I said his opinion was good.
And should he study and make himself wood,
Upon a book in cloister always to pour,
Or work with his hands and labor,
As Austin bid? How shall the world be served?
Let Austin have his work to him reserved!
Therefore he was a prikasour aright:
Greyhounds he had as swift as fowl in flight;
Of tracking and of hunting the hare
Was all his lust, for no cost would he spare.
I saw his sleeves fur-lined at the hand
With gray, and that the finest of the land;
And for to fasten his hood under his chin,
He had of gold wrought a curious pin;
A love knot in the greater end there was.
His head was bald, that shone as any glass,
And too his face, as it had been anoint.
He was a lord full fat and in good point;
His eyes steep, and rolling in his head,
That seemed as a furnace of lead;
His boots supple, his horse in great estate.
Now certainly he was a fair prelate;
He was not pale as a forpyned ghost.
A fat swan he loved best of any roast.
His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.


© 2008,2012 Forrest Hainline
 
Forrest Hainline
   
 
 

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Poems By Poet Forrest Hainline