PÉARLA

(BEING A RIFF ON THE LONG MIDDLE ENGLISH POEM, 'THE PEARL')

nb: “enjoy” the prologue to my versioning (as distinct from a translation) of the middle english poem ‘the pearl’. original here:
https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/30282/poems.html
i’ll make a separate post about the weirdness of that poem, and why i felt the need to do this at all, but for now, without further comment or apology, make of this what you will.

…

péarla

pearls we had. mine was such
as would delight the eyes
of patriarchs and princes proud.
to fold her, in a fist of gold. aye,
my pearl, i goldly girdled, closed
her in a yellow cell. i kid yea not,
you’d not, in all the dust of distant
lands, set eyes upon her equal,
comb the compass as you cared.
o, my sweetest kernel of pearl.
my seoid. my scruple of pearl.
my whit and quirk of pearl.
my girl.
i kept her close. so solitary
and singular was she. shame
on me, to call it love,
the pryson of my pride. pity
too: i lost my pearl among
the vetches and the nettles,
the verges and the ditches,
beside the turbid stream.
she fell. she fell from me.
the rue is mine. the wound
is round. sorrow, heart-sorrow,
has stained my days. pearls
we had, i had a pearl. glaine
and gile. my blameless girl.

+

she slipped or stole from me
amidst the rue and wastrel
rushes. since that day, i’d sit,
waste my wits in watching,
knelt before her absence
like an icon. in the foolish
stupor of my grief, i’d call
her back: come, console me
for your going. time before,
she was my ease of hours,
of yoke and road; the succour
of my hunger. now, within
the fatty tallow of my love,
pain’s black wick is burning
blue. a hurt on me like heat.
o, that sleep might steal me.
sleep, where she is rolling
through my reverie: pearl,
true pearl. to think of it –
bright bead of light, soiled
and swallowed, mulled in
the dirty mouth
of the earth.

+

here, where wealth has run
to rot; where rot has ripened
into wealth: sorrel, yarrow,
feverfew; ransoms, damsons,
meadowsweet. white on
white, a carpet of stars. hip
to haw, all things must bloom;
thrive and thrust towards
the sun. quickthorn. thyme,
its greening fust. as were my
pearl a seed, then flower
and fruit will spring up where
she sank. and spring up strong,
in lustre and abundance.
their rank sweetness is
rebuke and lure: life gives
way to life, gives rise to
life from death. or else,
no grass from grain; no
thick sheaf to shiver
under the scythe.
i know, i know.
how goodness out
of goodness grows.
my pearl, my shining
síl,will yield a swathe
of tender stems. and wild.
the bower has its roots
in my stainless child.

+

one hot assumption’s eve,
i turned my steps towards
this shady place. while
corn with corrán, keenly
reaped, and bound about
in sturdy sheaves. while
women in the windrows
trailed, and stooped
for thatch and fodder.
i took my sorrow by
the snath, and threshed
among the flowers.
mangered and mantled
in flowers, was she:
thrift and gilly. gromwell,
piquing blue. campion
and peony rose. a veil
of silver tapers, so. a maille
of shining mallow. o,
green and greener grew
her gúna. tunic of flowers,
gown of flowers, flexing
their supple scent. my pearl
dwelt in tent of flowers.
precious pearl, pearl
without taint.

+

no solace here. no rest
from wringing out the wet
rag of my hands. again,
again. fever-pierced, my
heart. and dread,
an insurrection in the blood.
so cold, this grief.
the hoar and rime of it.
it covers me. hope, iced
grimly shut.
reason should appease
this pain. it does not.
she is bound and tied,
the road’s black
banderole rolled up
within. with no more
steps to spend. no
far horizon, spacious
sky. will no more wend.
will no more ride.
and i am anchored too.
measure my tether’s
length, day by day.
snap back –
here again. fury bruises
the weak white skin
of thought. my sorrows,
swinging, sparring. aye,
i cry to christ, then spit
upon his comfort. it is
my pride. it is my rage.
show kindness now?
it turns me in tight
circles like a starving
dog. i am afraid. no
solace here, but sleep.
my senses fogged
with fug of flowers.
the musk of summer
smothers me.
there, in my abandon,
she –
has brought me here,
my subtle pearl.