Poetry about Faire
Inspired by a thread on alt.fairs.renaissance
All poems here belong to their respective authors.
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"We" (Lady Sylvre) | "Ode
to Revel Grove" (Bob Millard)
"Revel Without A Grove" (Steve Kimball)
we are the festies: they who knew while they were yet young
that one night a year was never going to be "enough" for playing
dress-up.
we are the privateers--children who ran through fields of tall grass,
brandishing wooden swords, knowing for certain we sailed the high seas, and
only plundered in the name of the throne.
we are the royal court--the guiniveres and valiants who never outgrew the
longing for velvet, cloaks, and finery, even when the book was finished.
we are the merchants and entertainers, who have always lived "somewhen
else"
in our hearts.
we are the rogues and wenches, who longed for a passionate life in our
youth, and can now look on the 'danes with mirth, knowing none can hold a
candle to us!
we are the knights and ladies, bards and scribes, whose dragons never faded
with our childhood; whose quest only gained urgency with maturity.
we are the lovers of the day of wrong, the wielders of the cluestick, the
clan sarcastica; those who crossdress and never think of it as out of
sync--we are women in doublets, and men in skirts and bodices: common
royals, and royal commoners. we love and care for our own, we open our arms
to the new, we chastise our "family", and remain loyal to the last.
we are the class clowns who took on jesterhood, the science club who adopted
astronomy.
we are the physics whizkids who can design, build, and man a
trebuchet; the theater arts club enfolded in our hearts and let bloom.
we are the serious children who finally learned how to play; we are the
wounded, learning to heal. we are the timid, finally able to fly.
we are the ones who never quenched the heart of the child, and who still
cherish
the serious business of nonsense.
we are ivanhoe, we are mab. we are lancelot, we are nimue.
we are the only sensible people left on the earth, i think.
we are ren.
"Ode to Revel Grove"
by Bob Millard
I am too early for opening gate,
The First, save a gaggle of Goth kids,
At 4, night before, I had dozed for a spell,
But dawn marked the curse of wide eyelids
Brought on by this village that opens each year,
For me, then, little else matters,
So off I had sped in my Tudor sedan,
Ten patient months had been shattered.
My eyes keep a watch at the crenelles on high,
For faces I've seen through the years,
Too few of them know me, I'm quiet at faire,
(I've no tongue 'cause I'm all eyes and ears!)
In trickles, the fancy of Renaissance fashion,
The patrons in garb, as you say,
Advance on the gate for their fairever passes,
The Faire fans are here, dressed to slay.
The doublets are sumptuous, the bodices thrilling,
(So boring's our modern suits),
The plumes and the pouches, the bracers and brooches,
(What bills went unpaid for THOSE BOOTS?!)
Trumpets! The Kings! There's two here this year,
I am told by a crowd-clearing wench,
The courts travel past, and the theme is made clear
For this season, it's "Let's Trash the French!"
The fountain first greets me, and standing beside it,
A robber, a sheriff, and mayor,
Kiss hands as they enter, of fair ladies waiting,
'Tis love's sweet (and comical) labour.
The fiddles and dulcimers chime a bright reel,
The psaltrey is vexed by the beat,
I'm grabbed at the wrist (!) by a frolicsome miss
For a dance that's unknown to my feet.
The merchants are happy to see me, I think,
Or is it the pence in my purse?
I'm off to buy garb for the very first time
- Advice I had better get first.
The boothies are too diplomatically nice,
"At Maryland, anything goes,
No colors do clash in our rainbow, good sir,
Feel free to wear bracers with hose."
Sandscrafter fits me for leather appointments,
Moresca, a shirt and fine breeches,
Those boots have to wait 'til the '98 faire,
When I'm kept by some fine lady's riches.
All Revel Grove is a stage, I proclaim,
So unto their fare I go hence,
The Lyric, it proffers a foole we call
"O," he of ingenious reticence.
The Royal features messieurs Hack, Slash and Fox,
Such consummate handling of steel!
The Market's a home to the derring of Broon,
And Whipflash's perilous Wheel.
The Globe is a most worthy structure where mirth
Is a-waiting for all who would come,
The Bard serves up two merry flavors onstage,
Original and (Shakespeare's) Skum.
I love most of all just to walk 'long the paths,
There's shade and good food and good folks,
It's people that make Revel Grove come alive,
Their stories, their tunes, their bad jokes!
There's stilted Mimi and jilted Maude,
Pray, who ordained Sinnius Vice?
Croaker and Strum, the Ditties and Pluck,
Queens Katherine and Claude to delight,
Mistress Andreini is always well met,
Chance risks his limbs for the people,
From Maggoty Mullet to Henry our King,
I deem every one of them regal.
I sit with the Sister on Mary's Dale Way,
The Southwarks would fain entertain us,
Any Bard's play in a nutshell, they boast,
(Next year I shout, "Coriolanus!")
The mug on my belt's ringing out to be filled,
The White Hart is there for my pleasure,
The bawds are a-singin', (this year, two by two),
Women of Whimsey! Full Measure!
"Health to the company," Pyrates do toll,
Jack draws a draught for each King,
Mugs and our spirits are raised to the heights
Then it's solemn - so goes the Pub Sing.
The cannon's a bittersweet sound to my ears,
It opens and closes the faire,
When next it's sounded, I'll heed its call,
Today, tomorrow, next year.
"A Revel Without A Grove"
A Seusian poem of MDRF
by The Black Fox (Steve Kimball)
It's 9:30 and you stand
and you wait and you wait,
you wait at the gate,
for you've learned not to be late.
You know that's early,
almost an hour before,
the opening of Revel Grove,
a village you adore.
For ten months you have waited,
right here in this spot.
You can tell by the looks,
and the smell. . oh, and the cot.
What would drive such a person
to enact such a plan?
"It's MDRF" you reply,
"You just can't understand."
The cast mounts the keep,
the show soon begins.
Here come the Royals,
It's King Henry again.
He stands and gives notice,
He yells out at the crowds.
He commands us to make merry,
The cannon then sounds.
The gates are now open,
sardine-like we shuffle.
Then into the arms of Stupina,
you huggle.
The atmosphere envelopes you,
like a comfortable quilt.
. . . and you just saw a wench,
with her hand up a kilt.
Ahhhh, the ale booths are open
and you've a tankard of meade.
"It's 12 0'clock somewhere,"
You rationalize the need.
You're grabbed by a Pyrate,
a Royale kiss from small Peg.
You blush and you stumble,
"umm. . . I need a Scotch Egg."
She gives you a wink
and waves you away.
RenFolks are incredible,
and your day has been made.
Another great fortune,
you're first in the line.
But you'veemptied your tankard,
you're ready for wine.
With grape in your cup,
the royals you see.
They're meeting and greeting,
but you have to pee.
On to the porta-pots,
what luck you must have.
They're clean and they're spotless,
and don't smell quite too bad.
With a slam of plastic,
the door upon box.
You wash with some Wipey™,
to keep away "pox."
You gather yourself,
and head to the crowd.
Your friend Fred is King Henry,
you share a hug after a bow.
With a smile you leave him,
but you'll see him again soon.
At the Royale Feast's banquet,
an hour and half past noon.
You walk by the shops,
and gaze through the doors.
At the leather, ceramics,
wood, pewter, and swords.
Wood chips cover
the path at the faire
and kicking them up:
a sunlit cloud in the air.
You love this whole place,
and each nook and cranny.
From the goop-filled mudpit,
to the Girls of O'Danny.
(Daisy, Dee-Dee, and Fanny)
From the Chapel of St. George
and its mundane-ridden stocks,
To the agape-mouthed crowds
watching the adams apple of Johnny Fox.
Along comes mime Mimi,
on seven foot stilts.
and look there's more wenches,
with more hands up more kilts.
A small rodent, it hits you,
on the back of your head.
Emrys Fleet gives a laugh,
"Don't worry, she's dead."
By Three of the clock,
you're watching Squire Rosman walk cable.
Then you grab a smoked turkey leg,
a Renaissance Faire staple.
Ahhh Fight School's the thing,
You learn while you laugh.
It's an amazing display,
and an ale you now quaff.
Feeling quite chipper,
but not over the edge.
You take in some theatre,
Shakespeare's Skum from a ledge.
It's a vantage point,
across from the Globe,
Where you can see the whole stage
and the strolling crowds below.
A break was whats needed,
you stare at the folks.
Whether garbed or in street clothes,
there's smiles on most.
At a quarter-till-six,
you must with the haste be make-ed.
It's off to the White Hart,
for Pub Sing and get waste-ed.
"One for the company,
and one for my lass. . ."
You know all the words,
from the first to the last.
You gaze a bit tearilly,
as the lamps are soon lit.
but a large wench's large corset
has just popped out a large. . . uh. . . bit.
As dusk starts to settle,
and your tankard's now dry.
But Pub Sing's not over,
till Amethyst cries.
A hush takes over,
as it get's closer to seven.
As we remember those passed,
like Bill Huttel in heaven.
Our Royal King Henry,
gives his Royal good bye.
Jack Rackham and Pyrates,
soon finish with Ald Lang Syne.
Nymblewyke breathes fire,
and the cannon booms more.
A bag-piped progress,
as we head for the door.
It's a triumphant end,
to a glorious day.
And it's best if it's Maryland,
. . . the Renaissance Way.
Illustrated version here
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