536 Philosophy poems

How to get close without going over. How to feign lust for whatever’s on offer. How the largest possible quantity of anything is a lifetime. A lifetime of oat bran. A lifetime of timing belts. A lifetime of saying, sure, why not, i’m only on earth x number of years , and not knowing what to make x. Sometimes I pick a number I’ve already passed. I remember the gambler’s credo — when you only have fifty bucks left in this world, you’d better get rid of it fast; the last thing you want is money around, reminding you every day of the money you lost. The recommended retirement plan is arabesque, then leap and smash on the seawall. We made a promise not to catch each other.

rocket water eglantine wooden moon on the roof signs of night & the red motorbike's bleeding muscle fleshed stalk dripping and overgrowing our evening it too a sign of darkness a leek's fat body the red motorbike our night fire ravishment of chrome steel our red motorbike glazed with henna and betel it squirts salmon  juice between the dark of our thighs it sprouts and shouts at the bar it wears a portion of evening in its eye it sloughs off sleep like the bushes drop resin & berries our rags dip purring in even redder roar our muscles softly skip sweet sweat flickers we polish carefully & assiduously our eyes are perched on steel antennae surely there is nothing redder than our motorbike steed we will live on it our red tent dig our claws into its heart cherries meat it shouts out spittle rip the juice instructs the eyes in the language of iron the red night squats pressed against our motorbike we ride hunting little girls in the wooden sky

There is less difficulty—indeed, no logical difficulty at all—in imagining two portions of the universe, say two galaxies, in which time goes one way in one galaxy and the opposite way in the other. . . . Intelligent beings in each galaxy would regard their own time as “forward” and time in the other galaxy as “backward.” —Martin Gardner, in Scientific American Somewhere now she takes off the dress I am putting on. It is evening in the antiworld where she lives. She is forty-five years away from her death, the hole which spit her out into pain, impossible at first, later easing, going, gone. She has unlearned much by now. Her skin is firming, her memory sharpens, her hair has grown glossy. She sees without glasses, she falls in love easily. Her husband has lost his shuffle, they laugh together. Their money shrinks, but their ardor increases. Soon her second child will be young enough to fight its way into her body and change its life to monkey to frog to tadpole to cluster of cells to tiny island to nothing. She is making a list: Things I will need in the past lipstick shampoo transistor radio Sergeant Pepper acne cream five-year diary with a lock She is eager, having heard about adolescent love and the freedom of children. She wants to read Crime and Punishment and ride on a roller coaster without getting sick. I think of her as she will be at fifteen, awkward, too serious. In the mirror I see she uses her left hand to write, her other to open a jar. By now our lives should have crossed. Somewhere sometime we must have passed one another like going and coming trains, with both of us looking the other way.

Perhaps the universe is an extinguished building with blue banners strung along and the forest, more like a commodity bordering bushes and asphalt, something else to string our blue banners on. Never was restoration swifter: the leafless trees, the asphalt less splintered and more splendid. Never was restoration swifter with its mightier solutions, less splintered and more splendid snipers, dynamiters, colorful bombs. We please ourselves with mightier solutions, picnics under blue spruces snipers, dynamiters, colorful bombs the guardians of what we might call “home rights.” At picnics, under blue spruces we clamor after the news and its employees, the guardians of “home rights” “the media” mustering “one mind.” It’s news, the decision to nobly save rather than meanly lose some pretense of mustering “one mind” secures its truth. The decision to nobly save rather than meanly lose our flag secures its truth as a squirrel secures its nuts by hiding them in the ground. Our flag— a souvenir of having been here before a squirrel’s nuts, deep in the ground. But travel, travail, and The Method’s mistakes all souvenirs of having been here before, haunt us and taunt us and call us names. But travail, travel, and Method’s mistakes mark a different season, nuts rotting, bulbs blooming. Each season haunts us and taunts us and calls us names until finally the universe is an extinguished building, a different season, nuts rotting, bulbs blooming and the forest, a commodity.

Because a lie is not a lie if the teller believes it, the way beautiful things reassure us of the world’s wholeness, of our wholeness, is not quite a lie. Beautiful things believe their own narrative, the narrative that makes them beautiful. I almost believed it until the new mother strapped her infant to her chest, opened the eighth-floor window, and jumped. My daughter tells me, after her preschool field trip to the Firefighter Museum, about the elephant mask, its hose like a trunk, and the video of a man on fire being smothered in blankets. She asks me if she knows anyone who got dead in a fire, anyone who got fired. When will I die? she asks. When I was a child, I churched my hands, I steepled my hands, and all the people were inside, each finger a man, a woman, a child.When I die, will you still love me? she asks. The mother cracked on the pavement— how did the baby live? Look, he smiles and totters around the apartment eight stories up. Beautiful things reassure us of the world’s wholeness: each child sliding down the pole into the fire captain’s arms. But what’s whole doesn’t sell itself as such: buy this whole apple, this whole car. Live this whole life. A lie is not a lie if the teller believes it? Next time the man in the video will not ignite. The baby will open like a parachute.

I am the mother of sorrows, I am the ender of grief; I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late-falling leaf. I am thy priest and thy poet, I am thy serf and thy king; I cure the tears of the heartsick, When I come near they shall sing. White are my hands as the snowdrop; Swart are my fingers as clay; Dark is my frown as the midnight, Fair is my brow as the day. Battle and war are my minions, Doing my will as divine; I am the calmer of passions, Peace is a nursling of mine. Speak to me gently or curse me, Seek me or fly from my sight; I am thy fool in the morning, Thou art my slave in the night. Down to the grave will I take thee, Out from the noise of the strife; Then shalt thou see me and know me— Death, then, no longer, but life. Then shalt thou sing at my coming, Kiss me with passionate breath, Clasp me and smile to have thought me Aught save the foeman of Death. Come to me, brother, when weary, Come when thy lonely heart swells; I’ll guide thy footsteps and lead thee Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

For Hayden Carruth Thought thrusts up, homely as a hyacinth wrapped in its bulb like a root-vegetable, a ninth-month belly, where the green indelible pattern's inscribed into the labyrinth. Thrust into light, it's air's inhabitant with light and air as food and drink. A hyacinth, tumescent pink on the low wooden Mexican chest confronts the wintry dusk with informed self-interest. Leaf-spears extravagantly ask what idea, still gnarled up in a knot of ganglions, will break through the husk shaped at last, recognizable as thought. • Trace, on a city map, trajectories of partially-forgotten words along the river's arteries, volatile substance of a sentient world. Mauve heather crowds the window-grill. The light lingers a little later, with a slight vernal inflection. In a moon-glazed vase bloom yellow freesias, like some rainy day's brook-bank, in someone else's memory. Small whirlpools of perception widen, ring an infant's numinous discoveries of syllables for animals, toys, trees: a Lab's thick coat, the dusty birds in Claremont Park each tardy urban spring, a stuffed pink leather horse with button eyes. • A question-mark in yellow overalls, I could read. I was three. I slept with that pink horse. My one doll's name was V. J. She'd been given to me to celebrate the Victory over Japan, that is to say, the Bomb I'd spend my schooldays taking shelter from. I couldn't tie my shoes. But Reddy the fox, Tootle the engine who jumped off the tracks, spelled me their stories on my mother's lap despite weak eyes and poor small-motor skills. My grandparents were dead: not in pogroms, not in the camps—of strokes and heart attacks, merely immigrants, not deportees. "When you die, does everything just stop?" • I'm four, in itchy woolen leggings, the day that I can't recognize the man down at the park entrance, waving, as my father. He has ten more years to live, that spring. Dapper and balding he walks toward me; then I run toward him, calling him, flustered by my flawed vision. Underfoot, the maples' green- winged seeds splay on mica-specked octagons. His round face, thin nose, moustache silvered gray at thirty-eight look (I think now) Hungarian. I like his wood-smell of two packs a day as he swings me up to his shoulder and I say, things look blurry far away —one Saturday, two years after the war.

To pass over in silence Is to acknowledge logic, The necessity of form, The stunning curve of language, The curious way it seems To turn out that “love” means “need” Even in a lush garden. To pass over the Red Sea Or your bounty—so long as True silence and not some tense Paralysis of the false Is achieved—then Passover Is always a charity, The painted fish in the blue Water turns to their own colors. To pass over in silence Is to acknowledge you if This chatter dissolve as it Will in the marvelous sky.

The passions that we fought with and subdued Never quite die. In some maimed serpent’s coil They lurk, ready to spring and vindicate That power was once our torture and our lord.

Pacience is a poynt, Þa 3 hit displese ofte. When heuy herttes ben hurt wyth heÞyng oÞer elles, Suffraunce may aswag[en] hem & Þe swleme leÞe, For ho quelles vche a qued & quenches malyce; For quoso suffer cowÞe syt, sele wolde fol 3 e, & quo for Þro may no 3 t Þole, Þe Þikker he sufferes. Þen is better to abyde Þe bur vmbestoundes Þen ay Þrow forth my Þro, Þa 3 me Þynk ylle. I herde on a halyday, at a hy 3 e masse, How Mathew melede Þat his Mayster His meyny con teche. A 3 t happes He hem hy 3 t & vcheon a mede, Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse: Thay arn happen Þat han in hert pouerte, For hores is Þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer; Þay ar happen also Þat haunte mekenesse, For Þay schal welde Þis worlde & alle her wylle haue; Thay ar happen also Þat for her harme wepes, For Þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony; Þay ar happen also Þat hungeres after ry 3 t, For Þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode; Thay ar happen also Þat han in hert rauÞe, For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worÞe; Þay ar happen also Þat arn of hert clene, For Þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y 3 en; Thay ar happen also Þat halden her pese, For Þay Þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called; Þay ar happen also Þat con her hert stere, For hores is Þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde. These arn Þe happes alle a 3 t Þat vus bihy 3 t weren, If we Þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of Þewes: Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce Þe Þrydde, Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse, & Þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in Þerafter. He were happen Þat hade one; alle were Þe better. Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt Þat pouerte hatte, I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boÞe, For in Þe tyxte Þere Þyse two arn in teme layde, Hit arn fettled in on forme, Þe forme & Þe laste, & by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede. & als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde: For Þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter, Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oÞer greme; & Þereas pouert enpresses, Þa 3 mon pyne Þynk, Much, maugre his mun, he mot nede suffer; Thus pouerte & pacyence arn nedes playferes. SyÞen I am sette with hem samen, suffer me byhoues; Þenne is me ly 3 tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse, Þenne wyÞer wyth & be wroth & Þe wers haue. 3 if me be dy 3 t a destyne due to haue, What dowes me Þe dedayn, oÞer dispit make? OÞer 3 if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde OÞer to ryde oÞer to renne to Rome in his ernde, What grayÞed me Þe grychchyng bot grame more seche? Much 3 if he me ne made, maugref my chekes, & Þenne Þrat moste I Þole & vnÞonk to mede, Þe had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure. Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle? To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches. Wyl 3 e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle, I schal wysse yow Þerwyth as holy wryt telles. Hit bitydde sumtyme in Þe termes of Jude, Jonas joyned watz Þerinne Jentyle prophete; Goddes glam to hym glod Þat hym vnglad made, With a roghlych rurd rowned in his ere: 'Rys radly,' He says, '& rayke forth euen; Nym Þe way to Nynyue wythouten oÞer speche, & in Þat cete My sa 3 es soghe alle aboute, Þat in Þat place, at Þe poynt, I put in Þi hert. For iwysse hit arn so wykke Þat in Þat won dowellez & her malys is so much, I may not abide, Bot venge Me on her vilanye & venym bilyue; Now swe 3 e Me Þider swyftly & say Me Þis arende.' When Þat steuen watz stynt Þat stown[e]d his mynde, Al he wrathed in his wyt, & wyÞerly he Þo 3 t: 'If I bowe to His bode & bryng hem Þis tale, & I be nummen in Nuniue, my nyes begynes: He telles me Þose traytoures arn typped schrewes; I com wyth Þose tyÞynges, Þay ta me bylyue, Pynez me in a prysoun, put me in stokkes, WryÞe me in a warlok, wrast out myn y 3 en. Þis is a meruayl message a man for to preche Amonge enmyes so mony & mansed fendes, Bot if my gaynlych God such gref to me wolde, Fo[r] desert of sum sake Þat I slayn were. At alle peryles,' quoÞ Þe prophete, 'I aproche hit no nerre. I wyl me sum oÞer waye Þat He ne wayte after; I schal tee into Tarce & tary Þere a whyle, & ly 3 tly when I am lest He letes me alone.' Þenne he ryses radly & raykes bilyue, Jonas toward port Japh, ay janglande for tene Þat he nolde Þole for noÞyng non of Þose pynes, Þa 3 Þe Fader Þat hym formed were fale of his hele. 'Oure Syre syttes,' he says, 'on sege so hy 3 e In His g[lo]wande glorye, & gloumbes ful lyttel Þa 3 I be nummen in Nunniue & naked dispoyled, On rode rwly torent with rybaudes mony.' Þus he passes to Þat port his passage to seche, Fyndes he a fayr schyp to Þe fare redy, Maches hym with Þe maryneres, makes her paye For to towe hym into Tarce as tyd as Þay my 3 t. Then he tron on Þo tres, & Þay her tramme ruchen, Cachen vp Þe crossayl, cables Þay fasten, Wi 3 t at Þe wyndas we 3 en her ankres, Spende spak to Þe sprete Þe spare bawelyne, Gederen to Þe gyde-ropes, Þe grete cloÞ falles, Þay layden in on laddeborde, & Þe lofe wynnes, Þe blyÞe breÞe at her bak Þe bosum he fyndes; He swenges me Þys swete schip swefte fro Þe hauen. Watz neuer so joyful a Jue as Jonas watz Þenne, Þat Þe daunger of Dry 3 tyn so derfly ascaped; He wende wel Þat Þat Wy 3 Þat al Þe world planted Hade no ma 3 t in Þat mere no man for to greue. Lo, Þe wytles wrechche! For he wolde no 3 t suffer, Now hatz he put hym in plyt of peril wel more. Hit watz a wenyng vnwar Þat welt in his mynde, Þa 3 he were so 3 t fro Samarye, Þat God se 3 no fyrre. 3 ise, He blusched ful brode: Þat burde hym by sure; Þat ofte kyd hym Þe carpe Þat kyng sayde, Dyngne Dauid on des Þat demed Þis speche In a psalme Þat he set Þe sauter withinne: 'O folez in folk, felez oÞerwhyle & vnderstondes vmbestounde, Þa 3 he be stape fole, Hope 3 e Þat He heres not Þat eres alle made? Hit may not be Þat He is blynde Þat bigged vche y 3 e.' Bot he dredes no dynt Þat dotes for elde. For he watz fer in Þe flod foundande to Tarce, Bot I trow ful tyd ouertan Þat he were, So Þat schomely to schort he schote of his ame. For Þe Welder of wyt Þat wot alle Þynges, Þat ay wakes & waytes, at wylle hatz He sly 3 tes. He calde on Þat ilk crafte He carf with His hondes; Þay wakened wel Þe wroÞeloker for wroÞely He cleped: 'Ewrus & Aquiloun Þat on est sittes Blowes boÞe at My bode vpon blo watteres.' Þenne watz no tom Þer bytwene His tale & her dede, So bayn wer Þay boÞe two His bone for to wyrk. Anon out of Þe norÞ-est Þe noys bigynes, When boÞe breÞes con blowe vpon blo watteres. Ro 3 rakkes Þer ros with rudnyng anvnder; Þe see sou 3 ed ful sore, gret selly to here; Þe wyndes on Þe wonne water so wrastel togeder Þat Þe wawes ful wode waltered so hi 3 e & efte busched to Þe abyme, Þat breed fysches Durst nowhere for ro 3 arest at Þe bothem. When Þe breth & Þe brok & Þe bote metten, Hit watz a joyles gyn Þat Jonas watz inne, For hit reled on roun vpon Þe ro 3 e yÞes. Þe bur ber to hit baft, Þat braste alle her gere, Þen hurled on a hepe Þe helme & Þe sterne; Furst tomurte mony rop & Þe mast after; Þe sayl sweyed on Þe see, Þenne suppe bihoued Þe coge of Þe [co]lde water, & Þenne Þe cry ryses. 3 et coruen Þay Þe cordes & kest al Þeroute; Mony ladde Þer forth lep to laue & to kest, Scopen out Þe scaÞel water Þat fayn scape wolde, For be monnes lode neuer so luÞer, Þe lyf is ay swete. Þer watz busy ouer borde bale to kest, Her bagges & her feÞer-beddes & her bry 3 t wedes, Her kysttes & her coferes, her caraldes alle, & al to ly 3 ten Þat lome, 3 if leÞe wolde schape. Bot euer watz ilyche loud Þe lot of Þe wyndes, & euer wroÞer Þe water & wodder Þe stremes. Þen Þo wery forwro 3 t wyst no bote, Bot vchon glewed on his god Þat gayned hym beste: Summe to Vernagu Þer vouched avowes solemne, Summe to Diana deuout & derf Nepturne, To Mahoun & to Mergot, Þe mone & Þe sunne, & vche lede as he loued & layde had his hert. Þenne bispeke Þe spakest, dispayred wel nere: 'I leue here be sum losynger, sum lawles wrech, Þat hatz greued his god & gotz here amonge vus. Lo, al synkes in his synne & for his sake marres. I lovue Þat we lay lotes on ledes vchone, & whoso lympes Þe losse, lay hym Þeroute; & quen Þe gulty is gon, what may gome trawe Bot He Þat rules Þe rak may rwe on Þose oÞer?' Þis watz sette in asent, & sembled Þay were, Her 3 ed out of vche hyrne to hent Þat falles. A lodesmon ly 3 tly lep vnder hachches, For to layte mo ledes & hem to lote bryng. Bot hym fayled no freke Þat he fynde my 3 t, Saf Jonas Þe Jwe, Þat jowked in derne. He watz flowen for ferde of Þe flode lotes Into Þe boÞem of Þe bot, & on a brede lyggede, Onhelde by Þe hurrok, for Þe heuen wrache, Slypped vpon a sloumbe-selepe, & sloberande he routes. Þe freke hym frunt with his fot & bede hym ferk vp: Þer Ragnel in his rakentes hym rere of his dremes! Bi Þe haspede he hentes hym Þenne, & bro 3 t hym vp by Þe brest & vpon borde sette, Arayned hym ful runyschly what raysoun he hade In such sla 3 tes of sor 3 e to slepe so faste. Sone haf Þay her sortes sette & serelych deled, & ay Þe lote vpon laste lymped on Jonas. Þenne ascryed Þay hym sckete & asked ful loude: 'What Þe deuel hatz Þou don, doted wrech? What seches Þou on see, synful schrewe, With Þy lastes so luÞer to lose vus vchone? Hatz Þou, gome, no gouernour ne god on to calle, Þat Þou Þus slydes on slepe when Þou slayn worÞes? Of what londe art Þou lent, what laytes Þou here, Whyder in worlde Þat Þou wylt, & what is Þyn arnde? Lo, Þy dom is Þe dy 3 t, for Þy dedes ille. Do gyf glory to Þy godde, er Þou glyde hens.' 'I am an Ebru,' quoÞ he, 'of Israyl borne; Þat Wy 3 e I worchyp, iwysse, Þat wro 3 t alle Þynges, Alle Þe worlde with Þe welkyn, Þe wynde & Þe sternes, & alle Þat wonez Þer withinne, at a worde one. Alle Þis meschef for me is made at Þys tyme, For I haf greued my God & gulty am founden; ForÞy berez me to Þe borde & baÞeÞes me Þeroute, Er gete 3 e no happe, I hope forsoÞe.' He ossed hym by vnnynges Þat Þay vndernomen Þat he watz flawen fro Þe face of frelych Dry 3 tyn: Þenne such a ferde on hem fel & flayed hem withinne Þat Þay ruyt hym to rowwe, & letten Þe rynk one. HaÞeles hy 3 ed in haste with ores ful longe, Syn her sayl watz hem aslypped, on sydez to rowe, Hef & hale vpon hy 3 t to helpen hymseluen, Bot al watz nedles note: Þat nolde not bityde. In bluber of Þe blo flod bursten her ores. Þenne hade Þay no 3 t in her honde Þat hem help my 3 t; Þenne nas no coumfort to keuer, ne counsel non oÞer, Bot Jonas into his juis jugge bylyue. Fryst Þay prayen to Þe Prynce Þat prophetes seruen Þat He gef hem Þe grace to greuen Hym neuer, Þat Þay in balelez blod Þer blenden her handez, Þa 3 Þat haÞel wer His Þat Þay here quelled. Tyd by top & bi to Þay token hym synne; Into Þat lodlych lo 3 e Þay luche hym sone. He watz no tytter outtulde Þat tempest ne sessed: Þe se sa 3 tled Þerwith as sone as ho mo 3 t. Þenne Þa 3 her takel were torne Þat totered on yÞes, Styffe stremes & stre 3 t hem strayned a whyle, Þat drof hem dry 3 lych adoun Þe depe to serue, Tyl a swetter ful swyÞe hem swe 3 ed to bonk. Þer watz louyng on lofte, when Þay Þe londe wonnen, To oure mercyable God, on Moyses wyse, With sacrafyse vpset, & solempne vowes, & graunted Hym vn to be God & graythly non oÞer. Þa 3 Þay be jolef for joye, Jonas 3 et dredes; Þa 3 he nolde suffer no sore, his seele is on anter; For whatso worÞed of Þat wy 3 e fro he in water dipped, Hit were a wonder to wene, 3 if holy wryt nere. Now is Jonas Þe Jwe jugged to drowne; Of Þat schended schyp men schowued hym sone. A wylde walterande whal, as Wyrde Þen schaped, Þat watz beten fro Þe abyme, bi Þat bot flotte, & watz war of Þat wy 3 e Þat Þe water so 3 te, & swyftely swenged hym to swepe, & his swol 3 opened; Þe folk 3 et haldande his fete, Þe fysch hym tyd hentes; Withouten towche of any tothe he tult in his Þrote. Thenne he swengez & swayues to Þe se boÞem, Bi mony rokkez ful ro 3 e & rydelande strondes, Wyth Þe mon in his mawe malskred in drede, As lyttel wonder hit watz, 3 if he wo dre 3 ed, For nade Þe hy 3 e Heuen-Kyng, Þur 3 His honde my 3 t, Warded Þis wrech man in warlowes guttez, What lede mo 3 t lyue bi lawe of any kynde, Þat any lyf my 3 t be lent so longe hym withinne? Bot he watz sokored by Þat Syre Þat syttes so hi 3 e, Þa 3 were wanlez of wele in wombe of Þat fissche, & also dryuen Þur 3 Þe depe & in derk walterez. Lorde, colde watz his cumfort, & his care huge, For he knew vche a cace & kark Þat hym lymped, How fro Þe bot into Þe blober watz with a best lachched, & Þrwe in at hit Þrote withouten Þret more, As mote in at a munster dor, so mukel wern his chawlez. He glydes in by Þe giles Þur 3 glaym ande glette, Relande in by a rop, a rode Þat hym Þo 3 t, Ay hele ouer hed hourlande aboute, Til he blunt in a blok as brod as a halle; & Þer he festnes Þe fete & fathmez aboute, & stod vp in his stomak Þat stank as Þe deuel. Þer in saym & in sor 3 e Þat sauoured as helle, Þer watz bylded his bour Þat wyl no bale suffer. & Þenne he lurkkes & laytes where watz le best, In vche a nok of his nauel, bot nowhere he fyndez No rest ne recouerer, bot ramel ande myre, In wych gut so euer he gotz, bot euer is God swete; & Þer he lenged at Þe last, & to Þe Lede called: 'Now, Prynce, of Þy prophete pite Þou haue. Þa 3 I be fol & fykel & falce of my hert, Dewoyde now Þy vengaunce, Þur 3 vertu of rauthe; Tha 3 I be gulty of gyle, as gaule of prophetes, Þou art God, & alle gowdez ar grayÞely Þyn owen. Haf now mercy of Þy man & his mysdedes, & preue Þe ly 3 tly a Lorde in londe & in water.' With Þat he hitte to a hyrne & helde hym Þerinne, Þer no defoule of no fylÞe watz fest hym abute; Þer he sete also sounde, saf for merk one, As in Þe bulk of Þe bote Þer he byfore sleped. So in a bouel of Þat best he bidez on lyue, Þre dayes & Þ[r]e ny 3 t, ay Þenkande on Dry 3 tyn, His my 3 t & His merci, His mesure Þenne. Now he knawez Hym in care Þat couÞe not in sele. Ande euer walteres Þis whal bi wyldren depe, Þur 3 mony a regioun ful ro 3 e, Þur 3 ronk of his wylle; For Þat mote in his mawe mad hym, I trowe, Þa 3 hit lyttel were hym wyth, to wamel at his hert; Ande as sayled Þe segge, ay sykerly he herde Þe bygge borne on his bak & bete on his sydes. Þen a prayer ful prest Þe prophete Þer maked; On Þis wyse, as I wene, his wordez were mony: 'Lorde, to Þe haf I cleped in carez ful stronge; Out of Þe hole Þou me herde of hellen wombe; I calde, & Þou knew myn vncler steuen. Þou diptez me of Þe depe se into Þe dymme hert, Þe grete flem of Þy flod folded me vmbe; Alle Þe gotez of Þy guferes & groundelez powlez, & Þy stryuande stremez of stryndez so mony, In on daschande dam dryuez me ouer. & 3 et I say as I seet in Þe se boÞem: "Careful am I, kest out fro Þy cler y 3 en & deseuered fro Þy sy 3 t; 3 et surely I hope Efte to trede on Þy temple & teme to Þyseluen." I am wrapped in water to my wo stoundez; Þe abyme byndes Þe body Þat I byde inne; Þe pure poplande hourle playes on my heued; To laste mere of vche a mount, Man, am I fallen; Þe barrez of vche a bonk ful bigly me haldes, Þat I may lachche no lont, & Þou my lyf weldes. Þou schal releue me, Renk, whil Þy ry 3 t slepez, Þur 3 my 3 t of Þy mercy Þat mukel is to tryste. For when Þ'acces of anguych watz hid in my sawle, Þenne I remembred me ry 3 t of my rych Lorde, Prayande Him for pete His prophete to here, Þat into His holy hous myn orisoun mo 3 t entre. I haf meled with Þy maystres mony longe day, Bot now I wot wyterly Þat Þose vnwyse ledes Þat affyen hym in vanyte & in vayne Þynges For Þink Þat mountes to no 3 t her mercy forsaken; Bot I dewoutly awowe, Þat verray betz halden, Soberly to do Þe sacrafyse when I schal saue worÞe, & offer Þe for my hele a ful hol gyfte, & halde goud Þat Þou me hetes: haf here my trauthe.' Thenne oure Fader to Þe fysch ferslych biddez Þat he hym sput spakly vpon spare drye. Þer whal wendez at His wylle & a warÞe fyndez, & Þer he brakez vp Þe buyrne as bede hym oure Lorde. Þenne he swepe to Þe sonde in sluchched cloÞes: Hit may wel be Þat mester were his mantyle to wasche. Þe bonk Þat he blosched to & bode hym bisyde Wern of Þe regiounes ry 3 t Þat he renayed hade. Þenne a wynde of Goddez worde efte Þe wy 3 e bruxlez: 'Nylt Þou neuer to Nuniue bi no kynnez wayez?' ' 3 isse, Lorde,' quoÞ Þe lede, 'lene me Þy grace For to go at Þi gre: me gaynez [n]on oÞer.' 'Ris, aproche Þen to prech, lo, Þe place here. Lo, My lore is in Þe loke, lauce hit Þerinne.' Þenne Þe renk radly ros as he my 3 t, & to Niniue Þat na 3 t he ne 3 ed ful euen; Hit watz a cete ful syde & selly of brede; On to Þrenge ÞerÞur 3 e watz Þre dayes dede. Þat on journay ful joynt Jonas hym 3 ede, Er euer he warpped any worde to wy 3 e Þat he mette, & Þenne he cryed so cler Þat kenne my 3 t alle Þe trwe tenor of his teme; he tolde on Þis wyse: ' 3 et schal forty dayez fully fare to an ende, & Þenne schal Niniue be nomen & to no 3 t worÞe; Truly Þis ilk toun schal tylte to grounde; Vp-so-doun schal 3 e dumpe depe to Þe abyme, To be swol 3 ed swyftly wyth Þe swart erÞe, & alle Þat lyuyes hereinne lose Þe swete.' Þis speche sprang in Þat space & spradde alle aboute, To borges & to bacheleres Þat in Þat bur 3 lenged; Such a hidor hem hent & a hatel drede, Þat al chaunged her chere & chylled at Þe hert. Þe segge sesed not 3 et, bot sayde euer ilyche: 'Þe verray vengaunce of God schal voyde Þis place!' Þenne Þe peple pitosly pleyned ful stylle, & for Þe drede of Dry 3 tyn doured in hert; Heter hayrez Þay hent Þat asperly bited, & Þose Þay bounden to her bak & to her bare sydez, Dropped dust on her hede, & dymly biso 3 ten Þat Þat penaunce plesed Him Þat playnez on her wronge. & ay he cryes in Þat kyth tyl Þe kyng herde, & he radly vpros & ran fro his chayer, His ryche robe he torof of his rigge naked, & of a hep of askes he hitte in Þe myddez. He askez heterly a hayre & hasped hym vmbe, Sewed a sekke Þerabof, & syked ful colde; Þer he dased in Þat duste, with droppande teres, Wepande ful wonderly alle his wrange dedes. Þenne sayde he to his serjauntes: 'Samnes yow bilyue; Do dryue out a decre, demed of myseluen, Þat alle Þe bodyes Þat ben withinne Þis bor 3 quyk, BoÞe burnes & bestes, burdez & childer, Vch prynce, vche prest, & prelates alle, Alle faste frely for her falce werkes; Sesez childer of her sok, soghe hem so neuer, Ne best bite on no brom, ne no bent nauÞer, Passe to no pasture, ne pike non erbes, Ne non oxe to no hay, ne no horse to water. Al schal crye, forclemmed, with alle oure clere strenÞe; Þe rurd schal ryse to Hym Þat rawÞe schal haue; What wote oÞer wyte may 3 if Þe Wy 3 e lykes, Þat is hende in Þe hy 3 t of His gentryse? I wot His my 3 t is so much, Þa 3 He be myssepayed, Þat in His mylde amesyng He mercy may fynde. & if we leuen Þe layk of oure layth synnes, & stylle steppen in Þe sty 3 e He sty 3 tlez Hymseluen, He wyl wende of His wodschip & His wrath leue, & forgif vus Þis gult, 3 if we Hym God leuen.' Þenne al leued on His lawe & laften her synnes, Parformed alle Þe penaunce Þat Þe prynce radde; & God Þur 3 His godnesse forgef as He sayde; Þa 3 He oÞer bihy 3 t, withhelde His vengaunce. Muche sor 3 e Þenne satteled vpon segge Jonas; He wex as wroth as Þe wynde towarde oure Lorde. So hatz anger onhit his hert, [h]e callez A prayer to Þe hy 3 e Prynce, for pyne, on Þys wyse: 'I biseche Þe, Syre, now Þou self jugge; Watz not Þis ilk my worde Þat worÞen is nouÞe, Þat I kest in my cuntre, when Þou Þy carp sendez Þat I schulde tee to Þys toun Þi talent to preche? Wel knew I Þi cortaysye, Þy quoynt soffraunce, Þy bounte of debonerte & Þy bene grace, Þy longe abydyng wyth lur, Þy late vengaunce; & ay Þy mercy is mete, be mysse neuer so huge. I wyst wel, when I hade worded quatsoeuer I cowÞe To manace alle Þise mody men Þat in Þis mote dowellez, Wyth a prayer & a pyne Þay my 3 t her pese gete, & Þerfore I wolde haf flowen fer into Tarce. Now, Lorde, lach out my lyf, hit lastes to longe. Bed me bilyue my bale-stour & bryng me on ende, For me were swetter to swelt as swyÞe, as me Þynk, Þen lede lenger Þi lore Þat Þus me les makez.' Þe soun of oure Souerayn Þen swey in his ere, Þat vpbraydes Þis burne vpon a breme wyse: 'Herk, renk, is Þis ry 3 t so ronkly to wrath For any dede Þat I haf don oÞer demed Þe 3 et?' Jonas al joyles & janglande vpryses, & haldez out on est half of Þe hy 3 e place, & farandely on a felde he fettelez hym to bide, For to wayte on Þat won what schulde worÞe after. Þer he busked hym a bour, Þe best Þat he my 3 t, Of hay & of euer-ferne & erbez a fewe, For hit watz playn in Þat place for plyande greuez, For to schylde fro Þe schene oÞer any schade keste. He bowed vnder his lyttel boÞe, his bak to Þe sunne, & Þer he swowed & slept sadly al ny 3 t, Þe whyle God of His grace ded growe of Þat soyle Þe fayrest bynde hym abof Þat euer burne wyste. When Þe dawande day Dry 3 tyn con sende, Þenne wakened Þe wy 3 vnder wodbynde, Loked alofte on Þe lef Þat lylled grene; Such a lefsel of lof neuer lede hade, For hit watz brod at Þe boÞem, bo 3 ted on lofte, Happed vpon ayÞer half, a hous as hit were, A nos on Þe norÞ syde & nowhere non ellez, Bot al schet in a scha 3 e Þat schaded ful cole. Þe gome gly 3 t on Þe grene graciouse leues, Þat euer wayued a wynde so wyÞe & so cole; Þe schyre sunne hit vmbeschon, Þa 3 no schafte my 3 t Þe mountaunce of a lyttel mote vpon Þat man schyne. Þenne watz Þe gome so glad of his gay logge, Lys loltrande Þerinne lokande to toune; So blyÞe of his wodbynde he balteres Þervnde[r], Þat of no diete Þat day Þe deuel haf he ro 3 t. & euer he la 3 ed as he loked Þe loge alle aboute, & wysched hit were in his kyth Þer he wony schulde, On he 3 e vpon Effraym oÞer Ermonnes hillez: 'Iwysse, a worÞloker won to welde I neuer keped.' & quen hit ne 3 ed to na 3 t nappe hym bihoued; He slydez on a sloumbe-slep sloghe vnder leues, Whil God wayned a worme Þat wrot vpe Þe rote, & wyddered watz Þe wodbynde bi Þat Þe wy 3 e wakned; & syÞen He warnez Þe west to waken ful softe, & sayez vnte Zeferus Þat he syfle warme, Þat Þer quikken no cloude bifore Þe cler sunne, & ho schal busch vp ful brode & brenne as a candel. Þen wakened Þe wy 3 e of his wyl dremes, & blusched to his wodbynde Þat broÞely watz marred, Al welwed & wasted Þo worÞelych leues; Þe schyre sunne hade hem schent er euer Þe schalk wyst. & Þen hef vp Þe hete & heterly brenned; Þe warm wynde of Þe weste, wertes he swyÞez. Þe man marred on Þe molde Þat mo 3 t hym not hyde His wodbynde watz away, he weped for sor 3 e; With hatel anger & hot, heterly he callez: 'A, Þou Maker of man, what maystery Þe Þynkez Þus Þy freke to forfare forbi alle oÞer? With alle meschef Þat Þou may, neuer Þou me sparez; I keuered me a cumfort Þat now is ca 3 t fro me, My wodbynde so wlonk Þat wered my heued. Bot now I se Þou art sette my solace to reue; Why ne dy 3 ttez Þou me to di 3 e? I dure to longe.' 3 et oure Lorde to Þe lede laused a speche: 'Is Þis ry 3 twys, Þou renk, alle Þy ronk noyse, So wroth for a wodbynde to wax so sone? Why art Þou so waymot, wy 3 e, for so lyttel?' 'Hit is not lyttel,' quoÞ Þe lede, 'bot lykker to ry 3 t; I wolde I were of Þis worlde wrapped in moldez.' 'Þenne byÞenk Þe, mon, if Þe forÞynk sore, If I wolde help My hondewerk, haf Þou no wonder; Þou art waxen so wroth for Þy wodbynde, & trauayledez neuer to tent hit Þe tyme of an howre, Bot at a wap hit here wax & away at anoÞer, & 3 et lykez Þe so luÞer, Þi lyf woldez Þou tyne. Þenne wyte not Me for Þe werk, Þat I hit wolde help, & rwe on Þo redles Þat remen for synne; Fyrst I made hem Myself of materes Myn one, & syÞen I loked hem ful longe & hem on lode hade. & if I My trauayl schulde tyne of termes so longe, & type doun 3 onder toun when hit turned were, Þe sor of such a swete place burde synk to My hert, So mony malicious mon as mournez Þerinne. & of Þat soumme 3 et arn summe, such sottez formadde, As lyttel barnez on barme Þat neuer bale wro 3 t, & wymmen vnwytte Þat wale ne couÞe Þat on hande fro Þat oÞer, fo[r] alle Þis hy 3 e worlde. Bitwene Þe stele & Þe stayre disserne no 3 t cunen, What rule renes in roun bitwene Þe ry 3 t hande & his lyfte, Þa 3 his lyf schulde lost be Þerfor; & als Þer ben doumbe bestez in Þe bur 3 mony, Þat may not synne in no syt hemseluen to greue. Why schulde I wrath wyth hem, syÞen wy 3 ez wyl torne, & cum & cnawe Me for Kyng & My carpe leue? Wer I as hastif a[s] Þou heere, were harme lumpen; CouÞe I not Þole bot as Þou, Þer Þryued ful fewe. I may not be so mal[i]cious & mylde be halden, For malyse is no 3 [t] to mayntyne boute mercy withinne.' Be no 3 t so gryndel, godman, bot go forth Þy wayes, Be preue & be pacient in payne & in joye; For he Þat is to rakel to renden his cloÞez Mot efte sitte with more vnsounde to sewe hem togeder. ForÞy when pouerte me enprecez & paynez inno 3 e Ful softly with suffraunce sa 3 ttel me bihouez; ForÞy penaunce & payne topreue hit in sy 3 t Þat pacience is a nobel poynt, Þa 3 hit displese ofte. Amen.