Doggerel

"Namoore of this, for Goddes dignitee,

Quod oure Hooste, "for thou makest me

So wery of thy verray lewednesse

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This may wel be rym dogerel," quod he.

—Geoffrey Chaucer, "The Tale of Sir Thopas" in The Canterbury Tales

“Doggerel” in French is vers de mirliton—a kazoo, you know.

In Spanish, it’s copia de ciego.

Knüttelvers is its German name,

An Arzneimittel (drug), I've read,

It'll wack you upside the head

And brain. In Dutch, alas, it’s kreupelrijm,

Putting legs into this crowded game.

It’s poesia burlesca, though, in Portuguese,

A language ever sure to please!

In Russian, it's нескладный

In Mandarin, 打油诗

Andドゲレル in Japanese.

If you can’t tell how these last three rhyme,

I pray you not to waste my precious time!

Your frontal lobes are quite unfit to scan

—a tragic case of unpoetic man.

And if you dare call my verses “doggerel,”

I shall in retaliation yell: “Why, go to Hell!

'Stand not upon the order of your going

[so Macbeth begs], but go at once,'

Not fit, as Auden said, 'to teach your grandmama to suck eggs,

much less critique her arts-and-craftsy sewing.'”

Honi soit qui mal y pense!

Little Old World

Poster for Mario Soldati's 1941 film Piccolo mondo antico, based on Antonio Fogazzaro's 1895 novel of that title, which I saw at the Pacific Film Archive with the director—who had become a friend of ours—when he was teaching at Berkeley in the 1970s.

They mean no harm by it, of that I’m sure,

The silent ones, we plunging on, the unknown future

Already 2025! Who’d have thought I’d still be alive,

So far now from the piccolo mondo antico.

Receding further every day into the depths of time,

There’s nowhere left to go, nothing to do, although

I, for some reason, go on writing, line by line

Emerging as from the air; I note the things down,

Then edit them a bit, wondering whether today’s the day to quit.

Will there be a signal, do you suppose? Some firm gentle voice that says,

Be quiet now: there’s no one left who knows.

The Lines and the Beast

"The fate of little writings accords with the capacity of the reader."*

—Terentianus Maurus

I can’t control

These rabid lines

They’ll have their way

Such are the times

The rhyming beast

Must have its feast

I don’t know why

Much though I try

*Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli, verse 1286 of De litteris, de syllabis, de metris by Terentianus Maurus (ca. second century CE). We may deduce from his name that the author was an African from Mauretania, the western half of the ancient Maghreb.

The Saint and the Emperor

Although identified by the Metropolitan Museum in New York as "African Magus, one of the Three Kings from an Adoration Group. German, before 1489," it seems to me that this perhaps rather (or also) represents the African soldier–saint Maurice, or Maurikios, whose image was common in Germany prior to the global rise of African slavery.

There was also an East Roman general and emperor of that name, who was likely of North African ancestry, although evidently a native Greek speaker. He and his family were brutally put to death by a usurping general, murders that Maurikios's friend the Iranian ruler Khosrow II went to war to avenge.

Solidus issued by the Byzantine emperor Maurikios (582–602 CE)

Saturday, January 4, 2025

Aphorisms

Beatrix Potter, Three Blind Mice (1922)

Freely imitated from Chamfort

“If it weren’t for me, I’d be a great success.”—Nicolas Chamfort

Stupidity is not complete without a little intelligence, just as a gin and tonic calls for a slice of lime or a dash of bitters.

Philosophy, like Big Pharma, prioritizes the most expensive drugs.

Happiness makes happiness, just as money makes money.

Swallow a toad for breakfast and you may fast all day.

Love is better than marriage—novels are more fun than biographies.

I have three kinds of friends: those who like me, those who love me, and those who never answer my e-mails.

Bachelors’ wives are better than old maids’ children.

Be fair before you are generous—jeans are more necessary than underpants.

There are parts of the soul that must be made tipsy before we can live happily in this world.

The barque of one’s conscience is worse than its bite.

In order that nothing should be lacking from the contentment of the fortunate, society grants them a clear view of the sufferings of those less lucky.†

Anticipation is the most powerful antioxidant.

Minimalists threaten the rich—they have more than is good for them.

Tragedy exaggerates the importance of life and death; comedy underestimates it.

Disaster repeats itself, first as farce, then as history.

False modesty is the kindest lie.

S/he who quits the game wins.

† Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas in the Summa Theologica: "That the saints may enjoy their beatitude more thoroughly, and give more abundant

thanks for it to God, a perfect sight of the punishment of the damned is granted them."

Friday, January 3, 2025

Sébastien Nicolas de Chamfort (1741–94). A playwright and member of the Académie française, known for his epigrams and aphorisms, Chamfort was among the first to enter the Bastille when it was stormed during the French Revolution. He became the secretary of the Jacobin club, but was briefly arrested after the execution of the Girondins who had called for an end to the revolutionary reign of terror. Expecting then to be arrested again, he attempted suicide, but botched it badly and lived on, mutilated, for some months, looked after, it is said, by a gendarme. See https://en.m.wikisource.org/wiki/1911_Encyclop%C3%A6dia_Britannica/Chamfort,_Sebastien_Roch_Nicolas.