Tymes Goe By Turnes E-Book
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- Herausgeber: Arachne Press
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
Frustrated by working under lockdown and worried that the 2020 festival might not happen, Arachne Press decided to continue as though everything would be alright, and asked writers to something that responded or reacted to or was inspired by a sixteenth century poem that editor Cherry Potts has always found comforting in a crisis: Robert Southwell's Tymes Goe by Turnes; or that responded or reacted to or was inspired by some concept in it. The poem observes the ebb and flow of fortune, nothing stays bad for ever, nor anything good - so get on with it while you can. And they have. Oh, they have. This isn't exactly a response to Covid-19, but there's an echo there - in Katie Margaret Hall's epic train journey, New Orleans To Vancouver, and Jackie Taylor's Rewilding; but there is also concern for the environment, and relationships and lives in need of nourishment they are finding hard to find. As with Southwell's poem there is a fine balance between dread and hope. stories and poems from: Brooke Stanicki C.L. Hearnden Claire Booker Elinor Brooks Jackie Taylor Jane Aldous Jane McLaughlin Julian Bishop Karen Ankers Katie Hall Keely O'Shaughnessy Kelly Davis Laila Sumpton Linda McMullen Lynn White Margaret Crompton Neil Lawrence Patience Mackarness Pippa Gladhill S. B. Merrow Sean Carney
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Contents
Introduction Cherry Potts
The lopped tree in tyme may grow agayne
A Felled Tree Brooke Stanicki
Bringing in the Fruit Claire Booker
When Naked Plants Renew Keely O’Shaughnessy
Rewilding Jackie Taylor
a memory forgotten Sean Carney
In Dark Karen Ankers
Turner’s World of Twirls Margaret Crompton
Return Neil Lawrence
The sea of Fortune doth not ever floe
For Ellen S B Merrow
In the Rocks Lynn White
Ni de Aquí, ni de Allá A J Bermudez
Beach Clean Ness Owen
Deep Blue Sea Linda McMullen
Piano Lessons Claire Booker
Not allwayes fall of leafe nor ever spring
Slow Burn Julian Bishop
Cronos Laila Sumpton
The Saddest Birdes a Season Find to Singe Kelly Davis
Twelve Point Plan Pippa Gladhill
Sketchbook Jane McLaughlin
A chaunce may wynne that by mischance was lost
Sir Thomas Wyatt’s Cat Elinor Brooks
179cm C L Hearnden
Roots Patience Mackarness
New Orleans to Vancouver: a Railway Journey Katie Margaret Hall
Sirius Jane Aldous
Introduction
Cherry Potts
Before I ran Arachne Press, I did many things, including, for a while, a job I hated. While in that job, I had as my screensaver/lock/background the words
Tymes Goe By Turnes, and Chaunces Chang by Course
I felt better every time I saw them.
Looking back, it’s obvious I should have left the job, rather than comfort myself with the fact that something else would cause a change.
The lines are from Robert Southwell (c.1561 – 21 February 1595), who had plenty to be worried about. Look him up if you want to feel better about your current situation by comparison. If that’s not the sort of comfort that moves you, (me neither) read the poem, which follows at the end of this introduction; it’ll work better, promise.
With the arrival of Covid-19 and lockdown, I decided I could worry myself to death, or take a leaf from Southall’s tree and look beyond to better times that might, if we do something about it, reappear. I am a planner by nature, so I planned the bits I could, and waited to see what chances changed by which courses. At the time of writing we think this year’s Solstice Shorts Festival will have to be online, but there will be a festival, and there is a book; and Southall’s poem provided an excellent Covid-haunted time theme for the festival and the book.
We asked for stories and poems that responded or reacted or were inspired by the poem or some concept in it.
We wanted change, finding balance, release… and we got them.
Tymes Goe By Turnes by Robert Southall
The lopped tree in tyme may grow agayne;
Most naked plants renew both frute and floure;
The soriest wight may find release of payne,
The dryest soyle suck in some moystning shoure;
Tymes go by turnes and chaunces chang by course,
From foule to fayre, from better happ to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever floe,
She drawes her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tyde hath equall tymes to come and goe,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest webb;
No joy so great but runneth to an ende,
No happ so harde but may in fine amende.
Not allwayes fall of leafe nor ever spring,
No endless night yet not eternall daye;
The saddest birdes a season find to singe,
The roughest storme a calm may soone alaye;
Thus with succeding turnes God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise yet feare to fall.
A chaunce may wynne that by mischance was lost;
The nett that houldes no greate, takes little fish;
In some thinges all, in all thinges none are croste,
Fewe all they neede, but none have all they wishe;
Unmedled joyes here no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
The lopped tree
in tyme may grow agayne;
Most naked plants renew
both frute and floure;
The soriest wight
may find release of payne,
The dryest soyle suck in
some moystning shoure;
Tymes go by turnes and
chaunces chang by course,
From foule to fayre,
from better happ to worse.
A Felled Tree
Brooke Stanicki
The morning after he left, she was empty dirt, a space where a person used to be. He had lopped off pieces of her from the minute that he knew she had fallen in love. Like a felled tree, he didn’t have use for her leaves, the frontiers of her mind growing into empty space in her once boundless sky. No need for new frontiers, he wanted utility from his wife.
She would never forget the first time his threats turned into wounds. the time when he had too much to drink and burned bits of her personality to keep his ego warm. No need for her to grow, he was a blanket over her. He kept her warm and safe and airless.
How could she breathe again, without his strict instructions on how to breathe and when?
How could she learn to live when most of her years had been lived on her behalf? He said that only he could possibly love her, only he could love her naked; so, of course, she didn’t love herself.
She hated mirrors almost as much as she hated the plants in her window box, they got to grow in beautiful colours. Each season, they got to die, and renew, and start over.
She was constrained to live in the bounds of black and white because both she and her dreams needed to be paused for his ambitions.
In return, she got the fruit of his labour and a side of his bed and every poisonous drop of his private hatred and public compliments.
A generous husband, he would say.
He would never let her speak or grow or flower; a generous husband, he would say, would never let her make the mistake of living.
The funny thing was that she agreed. Who was she to know what exactly was best for her? Her, the sorest charity case that he saw, and so generously, so selflessly, took. The lucky, chosen, blessed wight that got his attention, that got his last name.
Her family was shocked, they had thought that she would never find someone to love her. And to them, he looked like love, because how could they know what was happening behind closed doors? How could they know that her soul was begging for release, when her words never said such a thing?
She needed him to breathe, remember?
