The Quest of Sir Cochon Le Cure Faible

Editor’s Note:

The following is one of the lost tales from the recently discovered “Le Déjeuner d’Arthur.” Le Déjeuner was originally a collection of oral stories recorded by an unknown French printer that some have identified as Jean Dupré, a contemporary of Caxton whose edition of Le Morte d’Arthur is well known to English readers. Through historical misadventure an early copy of Le Déjeuner was taken by Louis-Joseph de Montcalm to New France where it was eventually translated into Quebecois. Unfortunately the French original was lost, and only the Quebecois version remains today. For those of you unfamiliar with Quebecois as a “language”, Quebecois is to French as Spanglish is to English. Tonton Guillaume Cloche has given us this current translation of Le Déjeuner. Today the only known copy of the work can be found in the Royal Canadian Museum of History in Toronto.

The Quest of Sir Cochon:

It befell on a day that Sir Cochon sat at his table that a gold bratchet entered the hall furiously wagging its tail and came to the board to beg from Sir Cochon, who not being accustomed to the ways of such beasts paid it no attention, much to his sorrow. The brachet after a suitable display of whimpering and abject whining, sat panting the while, its eyes fixed of the great haunch of venison on which Sir Cochon dined.

Not being given even a small token, the bratchet all of a sudden lunged forward and seized the great haunch of venison in its mighty jaws and ran forthwith from the hall, its tail once more wagging furiously.

Sir Cochon, who had long been waiting for a worthy quest to bring him honor, leapt from his seat crying, “A quest, at last!” and, “I will call it the Quest for the Bratchet with the Great Haunch of Venison!”. So saying he ran from the hall in quick pursuit all the time tightening his ceinture, his belt, that he had loosed to give his great belly ease while he was dining. Alas the pursuit was short and disastrous. In his haste to fasten his belt he saw not the swine that was sleeping at his doorway and he stumbled, falling head long into a pile of manure left by that very swine.

Stunned and stinking he arose and looked about. The bratchet was nowhere in sight and what Sir Cochon now smelled was not roast venison. Then from over the hill in front of his hall came the faint but clear sound of the bratchet laughing, at least that is what it sounded like if bratchets could laugh. Then, after a brief snickering silence, came the sound of slavering, tearing and munching as the bratchet devoured the great haunch of venison.

Sir Cochon staggered around in a small circle, kicked the sleeping swine, and silently resolved that he would not report the Quest of the Bratchet with the Great Haunch of Venison to King Arthur and Guinevere. It wouldn’t do for a laughing bratchet to be seated at the Table Round instead of him.

Don’t Play Checkers With Evil Wights

Wight: thing, creature, demon, spirit of the earth, gnome; in the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien a barrow wight is an evil spirit that haunts the tombs of the dead.

Don’t’ play checkers with evil wights, they are fundamentally dishonest. If your attention waivers even for a second they slip your white checkers off the board into a little bag under the table. Then they grin toothlessly at you as though they could not, would not, bite; but they certainly will and at the very first opportunity, for their teeth are hidden behind their gums. Don’t play checkers with them. They cheat. Don’t even sit down at the board with them for if you do your judgment is already compromised. Pass on by. Pass on by. Look the other way. Look the other way. Keep your eyes on your Heavenly Guide. Be bold when evil wights claw at you with piteous hands and say to them, “Be gone adversary” in the Name of Jesus Christ!" Pass on by. Pass on by. There are enough challenges along the road ahead without sitting down to play checkers with evil wights. There is no profit in that. They own the game board. They steal the pieces, and they cheat.

Gossamer Veils

Gossamer veils, gossamer veils,
Come dance to the tune of the gossamer veils.
Thy way is all fraught with gossamer veils,
The moon is all blood and the sky is all black,
The waning sun’s robed in an old gunny sack.
Gossamer veils, gossamer veils.
There is smoke in the air near the old dragon’s lair,
And the sound of his shrieking pierces the air.
The time has nigh come for the veils to be torn
And the judgment of God to spring forth like the morn.
Gossamer veils, gossamer veils.
Nothing can hide the grim clash of the angels.
Michael and Gabriel, Raphael and Raguel,
Dance to the tune of the gossamer veils,
Uriel, and Ramiel, and Sariel too,
The host of God’s angels, and many more,
They cast the bright morning star upon the sweet earth.
For Satan, old whore, it’s the end of all mirth.
Gossamer veils, gossamer veils,
Nothing protects us but gossamer veils,
Let us all dance to the gossamer veils,
Gossamer veils, gossamer veils.

“Now salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of His Christ have come, for the accuser of our brethren, who accused them before our God day and night, has been cast down. And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death” (Revelation 12:10-11).

The Ages of Love

In March, before us lay the ocean wide
The wind danced along the sandy dunes,
Salt seaweed, gulls swooping in graceful glide,
Hands clasped, our merry hearts laugh playful tunes.
In hot July, sun rolls sweat down our backs
As we drill earth with a post hold digger,
Guiding the handles of an iron auger,
Building together our place to relax
The Autumn leaves fall in many colours
But true beauty’s never fading glories
Are deeper than all our human dolours
While our laughter is told in many stories.
With age comes the time for new activity,
Now is the time for generativity.

FIVE PASSIONS SONGS

I

Love is a flame poem.
Its heat sparkles in our hearts.
Brightly leaps its words.

II

Fire embers fanned
By bold, word spat memories,
Quick fierce angry strokes.

III

Hallelujah love!
God fire in your brilliant eyes.
Passion burns our dross.

IV

Bite deep, jab, counter.
Mouth wounds with realistic pain.
Eyes in sorrow mist.

V

Flash fire love again,
Flame rage, love rage, make us one.
Souls meld in sharing.

Radish So Red

Poetry. Either you get it, or you don’t. I was seven, perhaps eight and waiting with dread in the dentist’s office. The dentist was a friend of the family, and in later years when I went to him in an emergency I discovered the reason for the dread. Ouch! A long sustained and very painful ouch.

The advantage to this particular dentist’s office was a round table with a number of children’s books spread out, heaped up, and piled upon the table. In the midst of the pile was a book featuring Sir Giles and the Reluctant Dragon. I was enchanted by the tale of a little boy, my age, who struck up a friendship with a gentle and poetic dragon who lived in a cave above the town.

The townsfolk, a savage and narrow minded lot, also discover the dragon and called on the aging Sir Giles to deliver them from the dragon. (Sir Giles in the original Kenneth Grahame story was actually St. George).

I remember it this way: Sir Giles and I set off up the hill to find a resolution to this crisis. We three of course enjoy a fine picnic, cold chicken upon the grassy lawn before the dragon’s lair. As a child I often rejoiced to enter into a good story. I still do. Being an uncommitted bystander just isn’t very exciting, especially when waiting with dread in the dentist’s office.

A central problem arises. The dragon is a very gentle fellow, hard to anger, and can only puff out a little smoke. He explains it this way:

The Dragon: You've got to be mad to breathe fire, but I'm not mad at anybody.
Myself as the Boy: But try real hard. Concentrate.
[the dragon tries, but all he can muster is a puny smoke ring]
The Dragon: Not very good, is it?
Myself as the Boy: Nope. Too bad you're not a real dragon, instead of a punk poet.
The Dragon: [Angry] "Punk poet"?
[Now fire is coming out of his mouth]
The Dragon: Ooh, say that again.
Myself as the Boy: Punk poet.
The Dragon: Again.
Myself as the Boy: Punk poet.
The Dragon: Again.
Myself as the Boy: Punk poet.
The Dragon: [Delighted] Ooh, I'm mad! I'm mad! I'm mad!
Myself as the Boy: Punk poet! Punk poet! Punk poet!

Sir Giles, not to be outdone professes to be a bit of a bard himself. Then comes the high moment, that electric moment when I discover poetry. Sir Giles begins to reach towards a dish of radishes on the picnic spread before him and intones his poem.

Radish so red
Radish so red
Plucked from the heart of your warm little bed
[ he plucks a radish from the bowl and holds it up]
Sprinkle some salt on the top of your head
[he sprinkles some salt on the radish and eats it with loud crunching sound: crunch, crunch]
Delicious.

Now that’s the way I remember it, and I ought to know for I was there.

Two Sonnets for a Cranky Old Man

Aging Not So Gracefully

Smiling, nodding, comprehending, and agreeing;
but in truth not understanding, nor agreeing,
But unpredictable, tearful, even wrathful,
worrying about his honor and his past
struggling for some fleeting honor that would last,
a place in the eternal sun where worries blend
one by one into an flimsy peaceful end.
Smiling, nodding, sitting in the sun alone
Worrying over liver spots upon his brow
and knees that forbid him kneeling even now,
even where kneeling may desiréd be for one
not humble, but prideful, even spiteful now
when his glorious recognition doesn’t come
because the infernal teller won’t pay off the chips.

How crass, he thinks now, not to remember me,
not to hear me, not to see me, not to heed me,
sitting almost invisibly in the sun
casting no shadow, which is a dangerous thing
for one whose course is run, whose day is done
who has no final bow, no final song to sing
and no applause before the final curtain call.
Is he a wraith robed only in a linen pall?
Is he like his shadow, a vague ephemeral thing
wishing he could have one last everlasting fling,
something bold, something striking, something fun
for one miserable being who has forgotten fun,
shivering in isolation on his chair
in Bitter Haven Nursing Home, enjoying his despair?