Canterbury Tales, A Grim Look At

If you ever have the chance to read Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, don't.

Here's a guy who had WAAAY too much free time on his hands. If he even HAD hands...he probably had to sell them to get more free time. Seriously, did somebody throw him down a well with a quill and a sheepskin and say, "You'll be fed this kind of food at these hours, now write something."

Anyway, he sure did write something. He came pretty close to writing everything, come to think of it.
Canterbury Tales is a story of 29 pilgrims—plus an inn-keeper host fellow and a Chaucer—headed to see the Holy Blessed Martyr in Canterbury. The pilgrims gather together at an inn the night before leaving for their journey, and at Chaucer ends up meeting them all and decides to disclose their junk to the masses in a kind of tell-all expose in the form of a poem. (Man, a brotha' can get away with murder if he do it with poetry.) Then they all get drunk—*ahem*, 'merry', my pardon I beg—and carry on in mirthfulness and whathaveyou.
Following these goings-on, Mr. "Everybody's a winner; 'Hey YOU down there, you can be a STAR!'" host-for-the-night comes up with what I find to be a really bad idea. I won't go into his exact quote, but he essentially ends up saying, "Heeyy everybody! Heeeey! Hhhhey! Heyyy evrybody! Listen up, I have a stupendous game. You will all tell two stories on the way to Canterbury, and two more on the way back. I will be the judge. Whosoever tells the best story wins a supper paid for by your companions." (So basically the other guys take him out to dinner, like THAT wouldn't be a tense meal...sheesh.) Yeah. That's sounds like something I would have said in the van on the way to camp and everyone would have just looked at me, and then gone back to their conversations.

And I love this. After the host sets up all the rules and stuff, he just decides that whoever 'rebels against his government' would be 'financially liable' for the trip. So there were no two ways about it: you're frapped.

The next morning, they get set to leave when Mr. "FIRST THINGS FIRRST!" comes bounding onto the scene with some straws, insisting that all must draw and determine who shall speak first. So a guy they call the 'pardoner' is chosen, and he goes into this monoHOGue about telling his tale. Seriously, that guy has the floor for about a week. And THEN he tells his story. I guess his strategy was just to put everyone else out of the mood for storytelling. Well, it worked on me.

So why am I saying all of this in the first place? Well, good presupposed rhetorical question, reader. The reason I am saying all of this is because I had a BritLit assignment about a week ago for which I had to write a poem "of at least ten lines in which you emphasize some characteristics of yourself." So, just that I did. But being the me that I am known to be, I (of course) took it to the next level-and-a-half. I used the same rules that Chaucer did: either ten or eleven syllables per line, rhyming ABAB, and I even limited my language to words that were used in the English vernacular at the time that the Canterbury Tales were written.
So I got a little carried away, but here's what you get:

Rode with them a minstrel whose bless'dness was shown;

Played not he a song that was heard a drone.
The themes which he played came thus from above—
The place whence that Spirit came as a dove!

All manner of wonderful song did come
Out of his heart whenever he brought forth from
Its sheath his lute to so skillfully play.
He made laud to the Father all of the way
Of this pilgrimage, and otherwise spake
Softly to bless his neighbor, and that drake,
The Devil, who willed other, to dismay.
He strode one place hence second half a day,
Then to the middle and hind hereupon,
With Holy Writ as inspiration drawn,
That all could hear and be healed, for you see,
His writs, as David's, did salve the malady
Of both great and young—the Lord anointed him.
And Oh! ne'er did a heart with such joy brim.
His laughter did oft spew when it oughtn't,
Yet for it no man was found to him resent.
To cover his head, he oft wore a cloth,
But do not think him in cleanness a sloth.
Not that his hair he did not keep well kembed;
For just as a seamster garments keeps hemmed,
So showed he great care for his golden locks,
And thus it became of a few stumbling blocks.
Therein was the need that he veil his hair:
I trow, it was to the maidens a snare!
And last, I again say his piety;
He showed in all his love for the Deity.
His love for the scriptures showed he not wanton;
A verse he would read and recite then anon.
That God would (and did) with honor him dight,

It would (and did) bless him and curse aright!

There you have it. Comments, kick-backs, sidebars, annotations, allegations, and rips are always appreciated.

~Jacob


Note: There will be more to come. Thanks for reading, guys!