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UUHEREAS ðe English alphabet haþ been in an vnchanging, ſtatic ſtate for ſome centuries nouu,

KNOUUING ðat flexibility breeds creatiuity and innouation,

IT IS RESOLUED ðat a reuiual and reintroduccioun of certain loſt elements of orthography and the alphabet uuould lead to a flouriſhing of the arts and diuerse intellectual endeauors;

THEREFORE þis post urges all and ſundry to once again integrate þose letters heretofore ſet aſide:

ITEM j: ðe ash (æsc, æ). Perfect for all ae-digraphy needs and, taking up leſs uuidþ on þe page, also attains ðe ſtatus of a "green letter," as it requireþ leſs energy expenditure to produce and leſs paper to replicate! Eſpecially vſeful to þoſe writing about algæ or færies and, of course, ðe mediæval.

ITEM ij: ðe eth (Ð and ð). If you wish to write a voiced dental fricatiue, ðis letter is more ðan uſeful: it is abſolutely neceſsary and carries wiþ it a louely Old Engliſh atmosphere. It is also a green letter. One warning: þouȝ stifling any form of creatiuity is abhorrent, custom dictates that the eþ should neuer appear at ðe end of a word. But for þose willing to indulge in euen greater degrees of flexibility, it is interchangeable wiþ:

ITEM iij: ðe thorn (Þ and þ). Ideal for rendering all the þorny problems of life in þeir full alphabetic glory, ðis character haþ furþer uses for more modern, cutting-edge repreſentations of voiced and unuoiced dental fricatiues. Be not þin in its use, for it helps the enuironment! In a pinch, it can also ſubſtitute for:

ITEM iiij: ðe wyn. Ðis letter was brutally ſhoved aside by þe introduccioun of the Roman W (curse þose Classicizing habits!) and haþ been diſaduantaged furðer ſtill by the failure to grant it an ascii character code. But, adopting þe manner of ſome late fourteenth- and fifteenth-century ſcribes,* one can make use of a þorn in its place, or give it a nod þrouȝ þe alternatiue conuention of uuriting tuuo Us inſtead.

ITEM v: ðe yogh (Ȝ and ȝ). Ðe potential applications for þis character are hiȝ, as it can take þe place of "gh" of all flauors, as well as the "y" in "you," "it," and "year." Try it: Ȝou uuill like ȝit well enouȝ!

ITEM vj: u/v and i/j. Treat ðese letters as exchangeable, ðereby adding to ðe beauty and diuerſity of þe graphical repreſentacioun of Engliſche!

ITEM vij: ðe long s (ſ). Perfect for ðe ſtart of words, þis letterform may alſo lead to the enjoyment of many visual double entendres!

ETA: * I just had the idea that those scribes were inadvertently writing thorn/wyn slashfic. Hmm....

ETA2: I have since learned that one can write wens using unicode or html: yay for the advancing cause!

I am at the NYPL doing some dissertation work. The NYPL assigns numbers to every book request, evens only, by which you pick up the book when it arrives from the stacks. Today the book I requested was the 21st request of the day, and so the number I got was 42.

That's right! The book I requested is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything! A one-day special only, of course.

So, today, if you wish to know the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, you must consult . . .

*drumroll*

The Manuscripts of the Canterbury Tales by Charles A. Owen, Jr.

I am certain that you will find it useful.

A few weeks ago, when basil started being sold locally in sufficiently sizable lots, I decided that I wanted to make pesto. I'd never actually eaten it, but I liked fresh basil (from those little $2 plastic containers) on pizza, and it seemed to me to be a plausible projection from there to pesto.

Attempt 1:
I bought some basil and put it in the fridge, planning to get to it later in the week. By the time I remember it a week and a half later, it had gone black and slimy. I pulled out maybe a quarter-cup of leaves and tried to blend them with my stick blender, since they were too few to put through the food processor. Attempt 1: fail.

Attempt 2:
I bought some more, and more of it, and put it in the fridge. I came back to it three days later: black and starting on sliminess. I rescued a few leaves and, having read that the traditional pesto-making method involved a mortar and pestle, pulled out mine (which is about the size of a teacup) and tried to make it that way. Attempt 2: fail!

Attempt 3:
Having learned my lesson, I bought some more basil, intending to make pesto that very evening. And I bought some nice, freshly-grated Parmesan. Only I went to a party first and came back with insufficient appetite. I promised myself to make it the very next day and went to bed. The next day I pull out the carton of basil, which I'd put out of the way at the back of the fridge. . . . It had frozen. But I found enough fresh leaves to make the pesto anyway! Which was so easy to fix and smelled delicious and looked great on the pasta--up until I took the first bite, at which point I realized I hadn't been thorough enough in washing off sand. But this pesto was now verging on being costly, given how much I'd already invested in basil and cheese, so I thought I'd eat it anyway, and gritted my teeth (literally) through half a dozen bites. I stored the remainder carefully, drizzling olive oil atop it so that its color wouldn't dull. I came back to it yesterday and discovered that it, too, had frozen. Even though it was stored at the front of the fridge! Attempt 3: FAIL.

So, now I ask you: do I try it again? Or do I resign myself to buying pesto in a jar?

Also, I know I need to take the temp of the fridge down a notch.

I've been lingering over a lot of still life paintings recently (particularly of food), and I liked how this poem intersected with that. Looking back over the month, it's kind of apparent to me that I tend to favor poems with a twist at the end--this has just the smallest of twists--and a little bit of multiplicity--this has that in spades, I think, with each verse offering a different take on the pears, leading to a composite image by the end.

Study of Two Pears by Wallace Stevens


I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.

II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.

III
They are not flat surfaces
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.

IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.

V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.

VI
The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.

"warty bliggens the toad" by don marquis

i met a toad
the other day by the name
of warty bliggens
he was sitting under
a toadstool
feeling contented
he explained that when the cosmos
was created
that toadstool was especially planned for his personal
shelter from sun and rain
thought out and prepared
for him

do not tell me
said warty bliggens
that there is not a purpose
in the universe
the thought is blasphemy

a little more
conversation revealed
that warty bliggens
considers himself to be
the centre of the said
universe
the earth exists
to grow toadstools for him
to sit under
the sun to give him light
by day and the moon
and wheeling constellations
to make beautiful
the night for the sake of
warty bliggens

to what act of yours
do you impute
this interest on the part
of the creator
of the universe
i asked him
why is it that you
are so greatly favoured

ask rather
said warty bliggens
what the universe has done to deserve me

if i were a
human being i would
not laugh
too complacently
at poor warty bliggens
for similar
absurdities
have only too often
lodged in the crinkles
of the human cerebrum

archy

I came across this poem while looking up the text of another for NPM; it was the first time I'd encountered "Bad News Blues." This poem irks me because it uses women to generate fear in an implicitly male reader. Frankly, I suspect that there is more violence perpetrated against men in an urban environment than women, although I haven't looked at numbers to verify that my impression. Nor do I want to go into the somewhat related rant about how crimes most often perpetrated against women get their own special class and penalties.

What I do appreciate about this poem is the final line--especially its image of violence, personified, letting himself in at the door. The skeleton key is so appropriate! Some of the other touches, I realized in rereading this, catch my attention now for how easily antiquated they seem: dialing direct, and even dialing collect or long distance, are largely experiences erased and forgotten as cell phones become ever more common as the default phone experience; it reminds me of those annual lists, "The Class of Year So-and-So" that itemize all the experiences matriculating freshmen in this year would not have had, or innovations new in our lifetimes that have always been part of their experience of the world.


Bad News Blues by A.E. Stallings

When Bad News comes to town, hold on to your heart.
When Bad News comes to town, the troubles start.
He’s a hit, marked with a bullet, climbing the chart.

His smile swings open like a pocketknife.
He smiles like he could slice right through a life.
Nobody’s daughter is safe. Nobody’s wife.

He plays the odds. He needs just half a chance.
Sooner or later he’ll ask you to dance.
He gets his own way like an ambulance.

He’s got your number, and he dials direct.
He’s calling you long distance and collect.
You gasp--something is wrong, somebody’s wrecked.

He’s standing outside your door. It’s quarter to three.
You know he’s out there, and it’s quarter to three.
There is no knock. He’s got the skeleton key.

Here's another one of the poems I like for reasons of cultural dissonance. Unlike most of the poem's I've been selecting this month, it doesn't focus on the beautiful, but instead looks at the grotesque. A bit of its appeal is also to my inner six-year-old, who ran through the neighborhood singing, "Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts." So the poem speaks to both distance and affinity, I guess.

A central question in Connie Willis' Doomsday Book is whether people of the Middle Ages (that monolithic period!) felt death as keenly and personally as modern people do, surrounded by it on a daily basis as they were (especially during the Plague). Willis' characters eventually conclude that yes, indeed, they do. Yet for all that similarity, approaches to death differ culturally and historically. This particular poem was written half-a-century before the ars moriendi, the art of dying well, gained cultural prominence in the wake of the Black Death. Like many memento mori practices, the poem emphasizes the physical transformation and decay of death, stopping short of discussing how such changes preclude the eternal life to come. And maybe that's also part of its appeal; it passesover the notion, "Death now with better to come later." Instead, it says, "Death now--and look! It's kind of weird, isn't it? The skin is rotting, eww! Let's watch what happens for a while." As I said, inner six-year-old here. But the poem rather effectively sets the stage for generating an emotional response, in this case disgust and regret, from its readers. At the same time, the first-person point of view urges its readers to keep in mind that, yes, this too will occur to them one day. Death is personal and direct, something one can take ownership of (my death, my body), even as it's shared in common with other living beings.

"All Too Late" ca. 1275-1300


Whenne mine eynen misteth        eynen] eyes
And mine eren sisseth             sisseth] ceaseth?
And my nose coldeth
And my tunge foldeth              foldeth] fails
And my rude slaketh               rude slaketh] color fades
And mine lippes blaketh
And my mouth grenneth
And my spotel renneth            spotel] spittle; renneth] runs
And myn her riseth                 her] hair
And myn herte griseth             griseth] quakes
And mine handen bivieth          bivieth] shake
And mine feet stivieth--            stivieth] stiffen
Al to late, al to late,
Whenne the bere is at the gate!     bere] bier
Thenne I shal flit
From bedde to flore,
From flore to here,                    here] hair-shroud
From here to bere,
From bere to pit,
And the pit fordit.                     fordit] shut
Thenne lith myn hous uppe myn nese:
Of al this world ne give iche a pese!   pese] pea

This poem comes from a British Library manuscript, Arundel 292, a bestiary made around 1275-1300, with some supplementary material added around 1350. Bestiaries frequently presented not only what was known or believed about the natural history of an animal, but also related the animals' allegorical signification to a Christian audience. Thus we find out that the lion slept with its eyes open, its cubs are born sleeping but come to life on the third day when their father roars over them, and this last refers to how Jesus, crucified and dead, came back to life on the third day at the call of God.

For me as a modern reader, the moral exegesis of the whale seems completely random and amuses me for that reason; but I also value how the very oddity of the moral's derivation reminds me about the differences between the culture of then and today.

Cethegrande is a fis, The moste that in water is. That thu wuldes seien get, Gef thu it soge wan it flet, That it were a neilond That sete one the se-sond.    This fis that is unride, Thanne him hungreth he gapeth wide; Ut of his throte it smit an onde, The swetteste thing that is o londe. Therfore othre fisses to him dragen. Wan he it felen he aren fagen. He cumen and hoven in his muth; Of his swike he am uncuth. This cete thanne his chaveles luketh, Thise fisses alle in suketh. The smale he wile thus biswiken; The grete maig he nogt bigripen.    This fis wuneth with the se grund And liveth ther evre heil and sund Til it cumeth the time That storm stireth al the se. Thanne sumer and winter winnen Ne mai it wunen therinne; So drovi is to sees grund Ne mai he wunen ther that stund, Oc stireth up and hoveth stille Wiles that weder is so ille. The sipes that am on se fordriven-- Loth hem is ded and lef to liven-- Biloken hem and sen this fis; A neilond he wenen it is. Therof he aren swithe fagen, And mid here migt tharto he dragen. Sipes on festen And alle up gangen, Of ston mid stel in the tunder Wel to brennen one this wunder; Warmen hem wel and heten and drinken.    The fir he feleth and doth hem sinken: For sone he diveth dun to grunde. He drepeth hem alle withuten wunde. Significacio    This devel is mikel with wil and magt So witches haven in here craft. He doth men hungren and haven thrist And mani other sinful list; Tolleth men to him with his onde, Whoso him folegeth he findeth sonde: Tho am the little, in leve lage. The mikle ne maig he to him dragen; The mikle I mene the stedefast In rigte leve mid fles and gast. Whoso listneth develes lore On lengthe it sal him rewen sore. Whoso festeth hope on him He sal him folgen to helle dim.

The whale (cethegrande literally means 'the big fish') is a fish, The biggest that lives in the water; Moreover, you would say, If you saw it when it floated, That it were an island That sits on the sea-sand. This fish that is so monstrously huge, When he's hungry he gapes wide; From his throat he emits a breath That is the sweetest thing in the world. Therefore other fishes are drawn to him; When they smell it they are delighted: They come and linger in his mouth; Of his treachery they are ignorant. This fish then snaps his jaws shut, And sucks in all these fishes. The small he will thus entrap, The big he may not catch. This fish lives by the sea-ground, And lives there always safe and sound Til it comes the time That storms stir all the sea. Then summer and winter so contend That it may not live therein: So disturbed is the sea-bottom That he can't at all live there then. Instead, he rises up and stays still While the weather is so ill. The ships that are storm-driven on the sea-- Death is hateful to them and life precious-- Look about them and see this fish; They think he is an island. They are very glad of this, And with all their strength they draw near him, Moor their ships to him, And all go upon him, With stone and steel in the tinder To burn a fire on this wonder; They warm themselves well, eat and drink. He feels the fire and it makes him sink; As soon as he dives down to the sea-bed, He slays them all without a wound. Signification The devil is strong with guile and might, Just as witches are in their craft: He makes men hunger and thirst And desire many other sinful things; He entices men to him with his breath; Whoso follows him, he finds ruin: Those are the little ones, feeble in faith; The strong he may not draw to him. By strong, I mean the steadfast In true faith with body and soul. Whoever listens to the devil's lore, In the end he shall repent it bitterly; Whoso puts his trust in him, He shall follow him to dark hell.

This was in a collection entitled Love Songs of Syon; Syon was one of the richest religious houses in England at the time of the Dissolution, with one of the better libraries (it had two: one for men and one for women). A couple texts associated with Syon are relevant to one of my dissertation chapters, and a couple manuscripts once at Syon intersect with the Always Ongoing Bookmarks Project. So Syon has been on my mind a bit recently and is the reason this anthology caught my attention. But the specific lyric, which the anthology locates in Richard Hill's commonplace book (a Balliol manuscript circa 1520), is one I first read years before. I can't remember precisely where or when I read it; it appears in tons of anthologies, so one of those may have been my source, or (more likely, I suspect) a novel. It is aggravating to try but fail to cite one's sources!

Anyway, there are apparently a couple versions of this carol, one for Christmas and one, this one, for the feast of Corpus Christi. I like the poem's gradual closing in of focus, from the bird's view of orchard and hall, to indoors, to a private room, to a bed, and so forth. (My brother wrote an illustrated story of this type when he was in preschool; it began, "In a dark, dark forest there was a dark, dark wood.") It shares a perspective seen often in late medieval art, with the same event at multiple moments or from multiple perspectives depicted in a single visual field. And one of the other neat things about it, to my mind, is the transformation of its religious theme into secular chivalric imagery (with castles and hunting and knights and maidens and beautiful furnishings and so forth). That's not uncommon, but works with particular vividness here.

"The Falcon"

Lully, lulley, lully, lulley.
The fawcon hath borne my mak away.           mak] mate

He bare him up, he bare him down,
He bare him in to an orchard brown.
Lully, lulley, lully, lulley--
The fawcon hath borne my mak away.
In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hangid with purpill and pall.
And in that hall ther was a bede;                 bede] bed
It was hanged with gold so rede.
And in that bed ther lyeth a knyght,
His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.
By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,     may] maiden
And she wepeth both nyght and day.
And by that beddes side ther stondith a stone,
Corpus Christi wretyn thereon.


The manuscript from which this version was taken has images online; the poem is on fol. 165v. Aggravatingly, the Oxford website paginates the images rather than foliates them, so I haven't actually taken the time to convert and factor in or out the prefatory pages, or examine some of the images to see if the manuscript itself is foliated, to find the exact image myself. Folio 165v is also p. 352.

Look what I came across today!

( Rats Away! A Middle English blessing )

This is the third part of a short lyric poem by Chaucer called, by modern editors, "Merciles Beaute." In the first part, Chaucer confesses his love to a fine-eyed woman; in the second part, he has been rejected, and complains that her beauty has driven away her ability to pity or show mercy to her lovers; in this, the third part, Chaucer expresses relief at his escape from Cupid's clutches.

These three parts form a roundel, which could have been sung in succession, but could also have been sung simultaneoulsy. If sung simultaneously, there's less of a linear narrative and more of multiple perspectives on love, more polytextuality as one critic put it (without a sense of irony, sadly). In this view, the third part here may not respond to the situation of the second, but independently presents the perspective of a relieved lover. I like the narrative possibilities of a linear roundel, but I also find the idea that the work presents three different faces of a lover interesting as well, the Lover, the Scored, and the Scorner, perhaps.

I also like how the situation in this part involves mutual strikethroughs. And beans.


Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,              Sin] Since
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this and that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.       I do no fors] I don't care

       Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat
       I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name ystrike out of his slat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For evermo; [ther] is non other mene.       mene] course

       Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
       I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
       Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.



You can read the other two parts online here.

"Yak" is not "yak" in any modern sense, I know (it's "ache"), but sometimes I nevertheless find amusement in the idea of a head yakking, which I envision as just kind of spontaneously spewing one's brains onto the floor; or Yak-ing, in which a yak springs forth from one's brow a la Athena.

But this poem is really about the painful difficulties of trying to write, and I can always sympathize with that!

"My Heid did 3ak Yester Nicht" by William Dunbar (late 15th c.)

My heid did 3ak 3ester nicht,                        3ak] ache; 3ester] yesterday
This day to mak that I na micht.                    mak] write poetry
So sair the magryme does me men3ie,          magryme] megrim, migraine; men3ie] hurt
Persing my brow as ony gan3ie                     gan3ie] arrow
That scant I luik may on the licht.

And now, schir, laitlie, efter mes,         schir] sir; mes] mass
To dyt thocht I begowthe to dres,         dyt] write; dres] address myself
The sentence lay full evill till find,          till] to
Unsleipit in my heid behind,
Dullit in dulnes and distres.

Full oft at morrow I upryse,
Quhen that my curage sleiping lyis,      Quhen] When; lyis] lies
For mirth, for menstrallie and play,
For din nor danceing nor deray,            deray] revelry
It will nocht walkin me no wise.            walkin] waken

I love that this is a riddling poem.



"I Have a Yong Suster"

I have a yong suster
Fer biyonde the see;       Fer] Far
Manye be the druries       druries] gifts
That she sente me.

She sente me the cherye
Withouten any stoon,       stoon] stone
And so she dide the dove
Withouten any boon.        boon] bone

She sente me the brere      brere] briar
Withouten any rinde;         rinde] bark
She bad me love my lemman
Withoute longinge.

How sholde any cherye
Be withoute stoon?
And how sholde any dove
Be withoute boon?

How sholde any brere
Be withoute rinde?
How sholde I love my lemman     lemman] sweetheart
Withoute longinge?

( The answers below )

This is a seduction poem that intriguingly--and amusingly, given the reveal at the end--figures the male speaker's body as a garden, his cock as a pear-tree, and himself as integral to the production of fruit. I like it for that; it's a change from the more common description of women as composed of various bits of nature. Plus: drunken seduction with the woman in charge! I think we're supposed to be outraged (as well as amused) at the end, but I feel that the woman was, instead, being rather clever given the restrictions of her society.

"I have a newe garden" (early 15th c.)

I have a newe garden,
And newe is begunne;
Swich another garden              Swich] Such
Know I not under sunne.

In the middes of my garden
Is a peryr set,                         peryr ] pear
And it wille non per bern
But a per Jenet.

The fairest maide of this town
Preyed me
For to griffen her a grif              To graft her a shoot
Of mine pery tree.

Whan I hadde hem griffed,         hem] them
Alle at her wille,
The win and the ale                  win] wine
She ded in fille.                        ded in fille] did fill me up

And I griffed her
Right up in her home:
And by that day twenty wowkes       wowkes] weeks
It was quik in her womb.

That day twelfus month
That maide I met:
She seid it was a per Robert
But non per Jonet!

I don't remember how I first came across the poetry of John Skelton; it seems like I've known it as long as I've known Chaucer, but neither were in the poetry collections I had access to before high school. But I do remember my impression upon reading this poem for the first time: I was so deeply relieved that it was not a poem in praise of physical beauty but elements of character. I appreciated then, and still enjoy now, the sudden reversal in the third line: Margaret's pretty and gentle--as a falcon, as a bird of prey. It's not a typical standard for femininity. (As far as birds and women in medieval poetry go, women are more often linked to songbirds, hens, and sparrows.)

One of my professors in grad school commented that Skelton's rhyme scheme (these short, quick-tripping lines, which were mocked by later 16th c. poets as rhyme fell out in favor of Classical metrical schemes) most closely approximates modern rap in its effect and its pop-culture elements. I can see that, but I've never quite liked the comparison, for Skelton's verse has a beauty I don't find in the rap I've heard. But in this poem, which I think especially lovely, the comparison does work in a way. Margaret's gentle as a falcon--it's like saying "My girlfriend's as gentle as a Beretta," which leaves me an image of Margaret packing heat as she travels through the verdant Tudor countryside. I suspect she'd carry it in a thigh holster.

"To Mistress Margaret Hussey" by John Skelton (1523)

Mirry Margaret,
     As mydsomer flowre,
  Gentill as fawcoun
  Or hawke of the towre;
With solace and gladness,
Moche mirthe and no madness,
All good and no badness,
     So joyously,
     So maydenly,
     So womanly
     Her demenyng
     In everythynge,—
     Far, far passyng
     That I can endyght
     Or suffice to wryghte
Of mirry Margaret,
  As mydsomer flowre,
Gentill as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.
     As pacient and as styll
     And as full of good wyll
     As faire Isaphill,
     Colyaunder,
     Swete pomaunder,
     Goode Cassaunder;
     Stedfast of thought,
     Wele made, wele wrought;
     Far may be sought
     Erst that ye can fynde
     So courteise, so kynde
As mirry Margaret,
  This mydsomer flowre,
Gentill as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.


( On hawks of the tower )

There are a host of Middle English lyrics about the Crucifixion, which would be seasonal, but I prefer those about the Nativity and particularly those that explore the familial bond between Mary and her son. This one is a particular favorite because it extends that to commenting on the relationships between Mary and the Trinity, which I puzzled over extensively as a child. This poem tenderly transforms Mary's comments into a lullaby to her infant son.


Lullay, my fader, lullay, my brother,
Myn owyn dyre sone, lullay.                           dyre] dear; sone] son

Ye ben my fader by creacion;
My brother ye ben by nativité;
Of Adam we coome bothe al and summ;
My owyn dyre sone, lullay.

Ye ben my fader that made me of nowght,
And with youre blode us all dyre bowght;
I am youre moder; knowe ye me nowght?
My owyn dyre sone, lullay.

Ye ben my fader and I youre chyld;
I am youre moder undefyld;
Loke on youre moder that ys so myld;
Myn owyn dyre sone, lullay.

Ye ben my fader eternally;
My sone ye ben, so most ye drey                   drey] die
For Adamys gylt--ye know wel why;
Myn owyn dyre sone, lullay.

Ye ben my fader that may nowght dey;            dye] die
With yow, my sone, thus schal I playe;
Youre payne myn herte perschyth in tweye;     perschyth] pierces tweye] two
My owyn dyre sone, lullay.

In a statement given to Publisher's Weekly, Amazon claims it's rankings imbroglio is the result of a glitch (second link is to Lilith Saintcrow's site, which contains the statement to PW entire, as PW's site is hosed right now).

ETA: But particularly see also tehdely's comments here; tehdely offers a hypothesis for the situation (link via sartorias).

ETA2: And Dear Author anticipates such a response with a (brief) timeline that seems to contradict it.

ETA3: Teleread documents removals occurring as early as last August.

( Ongoing links of interest below cut )

Amazon.com has implemented a new "adult content" policy that screens books from casual searches if the subject material of the books is deemed "adult." So far, LGBTQ books have been directly affected by the policy: sales rankings are removed from search results so that searches on relevant topics omit many pertinent works. Fiction novels with LGBTQ themes are deemed too explicit and are likewise censored from searches, while many equally (or more) explicit het-oriented works continue to be displayed. The books are still, technically, for sale on Amazon, but you can only find them via advanced searches on the author's name or title; sales rankings, and thus the books' or authors' ability to be found via the standard search box, have been removed.

Try searching for the novels Brokeback Mountain or Lady Chatterley's Lover or Heather Has Two Mommies.

Another example (from desayunoencama here): a search on "homosexuality" now gives as its top-ranked results, "A PARENT'S GUIDE TO PREVENTING HOMOSEXUALITY. Book 3 is YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE GAY. Book 5. is CAN HOMOSEXUALITY BE HEALED?"

YA novels with gay-friendly content are similarly masked from searches; see the comments here for many, many, many examples across a variety of genres. markprobst's post also includes a response from Amazon's Member Services department.

If this concerns you, consider spreading the word. You can also sign an online petition here. ETA1: To get in touch directly with Amazon.com, email their Executive Customer Response department at ecr@amazon.com or log in to your account and use their customer service form or call them at 1-866-216-1072. For a template letter, see the "Dear Author" link below.

ETA2: Follow-up post (with Amazon claiming a glitch) here.

( ETA1 Other links about Amazonfail )

I first heard this poem when a classmate of mine in a grad course at Cornell recited it for the annual medieval studies reception; he performed it with a fine sense of frustration and humor that made me fall for the poem immediately.

It seems to me that, with the feasting of Passover just past and the feasting of Easter incipient, this is a timely poem. It's focus is on the other end of the year, but the speaker, tired of fasting, turns with relief and excitement to the possibility of a more varied diet. He addresses Advent as if it were an anthropomorphized figure who (as he says in a stanza near the end) can be beaten on behalf of all those his food restrictions have made miserable.

And of course I'll be using this for my summer lit course because it's about food!

Looking up the Advent fast, I discovered that, starting in the 4th century, it traditionally began on St. Martin of Tours' day, November 11, and was observed as strictly as Lent, until Christmas Day. No wonder the poem's speaker is so delighted about the arrival of Christmas: that's a long time for fish and dietary restrictions!

Farewell, Advent! (late 15th c.)


Farewell, Advent! Christemas has come.
Farewell fro us both alle and some!

With paciens thou hast us fed,                  paciens] patience
And made us go hungrye to bed;
For lak of mete we were nighe ded--
Farewele fro us both alle and sume.

While thou haste be within our house
We ete no puddinges ne no souse,            souse] pickled pork
But stinking fishe not worthe a louse--
Farewele fro us both alle and sume.

( The rant continues! )