When other poets say you are
Elucidation holds no sway
Either way:

John Clare wasn’t a poet
Emily Dickinson wasn’t a poet
John Keats wasn’t a poet

So many “poets“ weren’t
Til so many poets dared
With big noses who knew

The art of the word, the fall
Of the few, the distinction
Tween farty owls and arty fowls

You are a poet if:
The other poets allow it
There is no other flower like way…

You are a poet
if your heart
has been to Amherst

and you keep the dew
of old devotions
in a Grecian urn.

You are a poet
because you know a maid
who's been ruined

and because the fireflies
glimmering in your yard
are a constellation
of an Irish crowd of stars.

You are a poet
when you can write the saddest lines,
or knowing way leads on to way,
and have doubted the coming back

or you have taken
a ceremonious April walk
with a spinster.

You are a poet
if you have seen
Susanna searching for
the touch of springs,
finding concealed imaginings

and because, when death calls,
you take up the pen and write
"if thou wilt, remember,
and if thou wilt, forget."

Herkneth to me, gode men -
Wives, maydnes, and alle men -
Of a tale that ich you wile telle,
Wo so it wile here and therto dwelle.
The tale is of Havelok imaked:
Whil he was litel, he yede ful naked.
Havelok was a ful god gome -
He was ful god in everi trome;
He was the wicteste man at nede
That thurte riden on ani stede.
That ye mowen now yhere,
And the tale you mowen ylere,
At the biginnig of ure tale,
Fil me a cuppe of ful god ale;
And wile drinken, her I spelle,
That Crist us shilde alle fro helle.
Krist late us hevere so for to do
That we moten comen Him to;
And, witthat it mote ben so,
Benedicamus Domino!
Here I schal biginnen a rym;
Krist us yeve wel god fyn!
The rym is maked of Havelok -
A stalworthi man in a flok.
He was the stalwortheste man at nede
That may riden on ani stede.

It was a king bi are dawes,
That in his time were gode lawes
He dede maken and ful wel holden;
Hym lovede yung, him lovede holde -
Erl and barun, dreng and thayn,
Knict, bondeman, and swain,
Wydues, maydnes, prestes and clerkes,
And al for hise gode werkes.
He lovede God with al his micth,
And Holy Kirke, and soth ant ricth.
Ricthwise men he lovede alle,
And overal made hem for to calle.
Wreieres and wrobberes made he falle
And hated hem so man doth galle;
Utlawes and theves made he bynde,
Alle that he micte fynde,
And heye hengen on galwe-tre -
For hem ne yede gold ne fee!
In that time a man that bore
Wel fifty pund, I wot, or more,
Of red gold upon hiis bac,
In a male with or blac,
Ne funde he non that him misseyde,
Ne with ivele on hond leyde.
Thanne micthe chapmen fare
Thuruth Englond wit here ware,
And baldelike beye and sellen,
Overal ther he wilen dwellen -
In gode burwes and therfram
Ne funden he non that dede hem sham,
That he ne weren sone to sorwe brouth,
And pouere maked and browt to nouth.
Thanne was Engelond at hayse -
Michel was swich a king to preyse
That held so Englond in grith!
Krist of hevene was him with -
He was Engelondes blome.
Was non so bold louerd to Rome
That durste upon his bringhe
Hunger ne here - wicke thinghe.
Hwan he fellede hise foos,
He made hem lurken and crepen in wros -
The hidden hem alle and helden hem stille,
And diden al his herte wille.
Ricth he lovede of alle thinge -
To wronge micht him noman bringe,
Ne for silver ne for gold,
So was he his soule hold.
To the faderles was he rath -
Wo so dede hem wrong or lath,
Were it clerc or were it knicth,
He dede hem sone to haven ricth;
And wo dide widuen wrong,
Were he nevre knicth so strong,
That he ne made him sone kesten
In feteres and ful faste festen;
And wo so dide maydne shame
Of hire bodi or brouth in blame,
Bute it were bi hire wille,
He made him sone of limes spille.
He was the beste knith at nede
That hevere micthe riden on stede,
Or wepne wagge or folc ut lede;
Of knith ne havede he nevere drede,
That he ne sprong forth so sparke of glede,
And lete him knawe of hise hand dede,
Hu he couthe with wepne spede;
And other he refte him hors or wede,
Or made him sone handes sprede
And "Louerd, merci!" loude grede.
He was large and no wicth gnede.
Havede he non so god brede
Ne on his bord non so god shrede,
That he ne wolde thorwit fede
Poure that on fote yede,
Forto haven of Him the mede
That for us wolde on Rode blede -
Crist, that al kan wisse and rede
That evere woneth in any thede.
...
Hwan he havede manrede and oth
Taken of lef and of loth,
Ubbe dubbede him to knith
With a swerd ful swithe brith,
And the folk of al the lond
Bitauhte him al in his hond,
The cunnriche everil del
And made him king heylike and wel.
Hwan he was king, ther mouthe men se
The moste joye that mouhte be -
Buttinge with sharpe speres,
Skirming with talevaces that men beres,
Wrastling with laddes, putting of ston,
Harping and piping, ful god won,
Leyk of mine, of hasard ok,
Romanz reding on the bok.
Ther mouthe men here the gestes singe,
The glewmen on the tabour dinge.
Ther moutthe men se the boles beyte,
And the bores, with hundes teyte.
Tho mouhte men se everil glew;
Ther mouthe men se hw grim grew -
Was nevere yete joye more
In al this werd than tho was thore.
Ther was so mikel yeft of clothes
That, thou I swore you grete othes,
I ne wore nouth ther of trod.
That may I ful wel swere, bi God!
There was swithe gode metes
And of wyn that men fer fetes,
Rith al so mik and gret plenté
So it were water of the se.
The feste fourti dawes sat -
So riche was nevere non so that.
The king made Roberd there knith,
That was ful strong and ful with,
And Willam Wendut hec, his brother,
And Huwe Raven, that was that other,
And made hem barouns alle thre,
And yaf hem lond and other fe,
So mikel that ilker twenti knihtes
Havede of genge, dayes and nithes.

Hwan that feste was al don,
A thusand knihtes ful wel o bon
Withheld the king with him to lede,
That ilkan havede ful god stede,
Helm and sheld, and brinie brith,
And al the wepne that fel to knith.
With hem ek five thusand gode
Sergaunz that weren to fyht wode
Withheld he al of his genge -
Wile I namore the storie lenge.
Yet hwan he havede of al the lond
The casteles alle in his hond,
And conestables don therinne,
He swor he ne sholde never blinne
Til that he were of Godard wreken,
That ich have of ofte speken.
Half hundred knithes dede he calle,
And hise fif thusand sergaunz alle,
And dide sweren on the bok
Sone, and on the auter ok,
That he ne sholde nevere blinne,
Ne for love ne for sinne,
Til that he haveden Godard funde
And brouth biforn him faste bunde.

Thanne he haveden swor this oth,
Ne leten he nouth, for lef ne loth,
That he foren swithe rathe
Ther he was, unto the pathe
Ther he yet on hunting for,
With mikel genge and swithe stor.
Robert, that was of all the ferd
Mayster, girt was wit a swerd,
And sat upon a ful god stede,
That under him rith wolde wede.
He was the firste that with Godard
Spak, and seyde, "Hede, cavenard!
Wat dos thu here at this pathe?
Cum to the king swithe and rathe!
That sendes he thee word and bedes,
That thu thenke what thou him dedes
Whan thu reftes with a knif
Hise sistres here lif
And sithen bede thou in the se
Drenchen him - that herde he!
He is to thee swithe grim;
Cum nu swithe unto him
That king is of this kunerike,
Thou fule man, thou wicke swike!
And he shal yelde thee thy mede,
Bi Crist that wolde on Rode blede!"

Hwan Godard herde that he ther thrette,
With the neve he Robert sette
Biforn the teth a dint ful strong.
And Robert kipt ut a knif long
And smot him thoru the rith arum -
Ther of was ful litel harum!
...
He geten children hem bitwene
Sones and doughtres rith fivetene,
Hwar-of the sones were kinges alle,
So wolde God it sholde bifalle,
And the douhtres alle quenes:
Him stondes wel that god child strenes!
Nu have ye herd the gest al thoru
Of Havelok and of Goldeboru -
Hw he weren boren and hw fedde,
And hwou he woren with wronge ledde
In here youthe with trecherie,
With tresoun, and with felounye;
And hwou the swikes haveden tiht
Reven hem that was here rith,
And hwou he weren wreken wel,
Have ich seyd you everil del.
Forthi ich wolde biseken you
That haven herd the rim nu,
That ilke of you, with gode wille,
Saye a Pater Noster stille
For him that haveth the rym maked,
And ther-fore fele nihtes waked,
That Jesu Crist his soule bringe
Biforn his Fader at his endinge.

Amen

The machine wouldn't let me post the entire 3000 plus lines of the poem as a single unit. Hope you like what I could get to you.

amo et avanti,

Peter

btw,

I really like your little piece.

Kris:

Excellent!

Peter:

Thanks for the post: I hadn't read Havelock the Dane since college, many years ago.

Joe

Hey Joe,

Ta.

Havelock the Dane was forced upon us at school! Obviously being part of Grimbarian legend...Can't say I engaged, fascinating language though...

I kinda thought so. I had to get over the poetry they tried to force on me in school, especially the Georgian Poets, before I could engage poetry. Just thought I'd remind you of your school days.

Cheers,

Peter