Areley Kings

Pier’s art, a medieval poet, and the Stack of the Week

“Trees of Life” Diptych, by Pier Hardin, oil on canvas

Check out Pier’s work at Pierhardinart.com.

A poem about a medieval poet

Layamon was the first poet (or at least the first whose work is preserved) to write about King Arthur in the English language, in his immensely long and (for modern readers) impenetrable poem, The Brut. It’s difficult to date, because his language is intentionally antiquarian, to the point that the scribes of the two extant manuscripts of the poem don’t really know what to do with him. One of the scribes attempts to “modernize” his language and, as a result, the two manuscripts are radically different from each other. My best guess is that the manuscripts date from the late thirteenth century, and the poem itself was probably written at least fifty years before that.

We do, however, know something about Layamon, even if we don’t know his dates, because he tells us about himself in his poem. We know that he was a priest at a parish church in the village of Areley Kings, which is about ten miles north of Worcester on the River Severn. His church, St. Bartholomew’s, is still there, though much of it was rebuilt in the later Middle Ages. There is a stained-glass representation of Layamon in one of the church windows; I used to have a picture of it, which my father took for me on a trip there many years ago, but I can’t seem to find it.

St. Bartholomew’s, Areley Kings

I wrote about Layamon in the final chapter of my dissertation, way back in the early 2000s, and I became a bit obsessed with him. I wrote this poem around that time. The italicized parts are paraphrases from Layamon’s eccentric variation of early Middle English.

Areley Kings

His church still stands,

though he would not

know it—red stone

steeple.  He wrote

of himself:

*

A priest named Layamon         came to this land,

Leovenath's son         —God have mercy on him!

He lived at Areley,         at a noble church

by the Severn's bank         —he thought it fine there—

near Redstone;         there he read books.

*

Stained glass in the

evening's gloaming

finds him reading,

writing, alone

with Bede, with Wace:

*

Layamon traveled         widely across the land,

sought learnéd books         to guide his thoughts.

He chose the English book         of Saint Bede.

He chose another,         this one in Latin

by Saint Albin         and the blessed Augustine,

who brought baptism         to the English.

He placed a third         amongst the others,

by a French cleric         named Wace,

who could write well.

Wace had given         his own book

to Queen Eleanor         (muse of Bernart),

bride of Henry,         the high king.

*

Victorian

plaque claims him as

England's eldest

poet.  Inscribed

in steel—but wrong:

*

Layamon took         a feathered pen

with fingers and wrote         on fine pages,

and he joined together         words of truth,

and the three books         he made into one.

*

Antiquarian

cipher of a

poet—our scribes

can't make heads or tails

of him.  We know

of him only

what he tells us,

when he prays from

Areley Kings:

*

Now Layamon bids         all virtuous folk,

for the sake of         almighty God,

to read this book         and learn these writings,

and repeat for others         these truthful words

for his father's soul,         who brought him forth,

and for his mother's soul,         she who bore him,

and for his own soul,         so that it will be better for it.

Amen.

The Stack of the Week

For the first time, I’m following a new Substack from its very beginning. My friend and colleague

Ellen Wilson

launched I Would Prefer Not To this past week, and she has already covered topics ranging from the difficulty of making friends as an adult to the challenges of middle age to the ideal form of fried pickles. Her posts range freely in order to form, as she describes it, a sort of commonplace book in newsletter form.

Ellen is a brilliant librarian, and so her newsletter, named for the memorable, repeated phrase of Melville’s Bartleby, is sort of like an enjoyable stroll in the stacks, taking down a book here, a journal there, and perusing with pleasure.

Get in on the ground floor! Here is a good place to start:

Making friends as an adult

Thanks for reading, from my fancy internet typewriter to yours.

Photo by Peter Pryharski on Unsplash