I Will Not Be Silent

I, William Ebesham, a true man
And scrivener to Sir John Paston,
From whom so much monies owed
That I must to sanctuary.
Thus, for these ills
I will have this page.

At sundry times I beseeched,
For old gowns, a yard of cloth,
For I, not yet so old
That I can live on air,
Must, with no choice left to me
Have my page.

Letters dictated by the score,
All instructions duly set;
A brace of Privy Seals,
Witnesses in parchment,
With such arrows for the lawyer’s bow,
Am I not worthy of this page?

So grows his ‘Great’ Miscellany
And between these crafted leaves
Of all that Sir John remembereth,
Is this, from one he hath forgot
Who seeking only recompense
Justly seized his page!

Rob Knee

Margaret Paston’s Ghazal

I’m bathing the children and baring my arms
I’m waiting for you to come back to my arms

You’ve left me for London while I hold the fort
But I brave bigger battles and burnish my arms

You don’t seem to notice how hellish the war is
With crossbows and quarrels encumbring my arms

You play with your papers and draft your defence
While I’m being pole-axed for our coat of arms

So send me some strength and some courage and ale
To gird up my loins and encompass my arms

Or the children are gone and the battles are lost
I won’t wait forever for John in my arms.

Adrian Ward

Sir John's Ghazal

I am cold in my body and need you my dear
I am longing to have you and hold you my dear

I want tippets of Worsted for doublets and hose
So send me these wraps to embrace me my dear

I was prisoned in Fleet for not paying our debts
I am sorrowful now and need comfort my dear

Our claim may yet fail although even success
Might be misery snatched from rejoicing my dear

Our son is a scoundrel and I won't allow
You to offer him help should he vex you my dear

Take heed of your gates both by night and by day
For these thieves will climb in and dispatch us my dear

But now I'm in trouble and fear for the worst
Which is why John is hasting back home to my dear.

Adrian Ward

These words, never written.

Right worshipful husband,
I recommend me unto you.
I make these words at Oxnead,
May you find;
Carried upon their eager backs,
Cargoes of information,
Between their lines,
Value
And in all the other spaces round
May you find
My love.
By yours M.P.

Rob Knee

A Tribute to John Fenn

They cause me to forget to eat or sleep,
These images of those so like to me
Beneath the skin

Curses and blessings with no artifice,
And paintings that uncover truth
Beneath the skin.

The skin of cobwebs, wood and damp green stone,
A grinning skull, a lovers tomb, a life
Beneath the skin.

"They cause me to forget to eat or sleep" is a quotation from the thank-you letter W Hutton wrote to John Fenn on reading the first edition of the Paston Letters. The letter is in the collection of Fenn's correspondence a the Norfolk Record Office.

Lucy Care

60 words about letters.
 
Address:

I greet you well. 
I recommend
me to you.
Heartily well beloved.
Dear.

Content:

A brief, middling or lengthy interlocution with you, a distant companion,
to explain my state of mind or some other things
through these coded, symbolic shapes.
Even lines
In rhymes.
 
Closure:

From me
Your wife, mother, daughter,
cousin, husband, son.
Or none of these.

Seal.

There

Rob Knee

LATIN COMPLINE, 2008

Pulling back night’s blanket
and piercing deep dark February,
figures flit down forgotten paths
to an ancient, holy place

where secrets hide
behind the mud and gravestones

Inside, candles like fallen stars
frame long-lost rites
out of that other world

Iube, Domine, benedicere:
footsteps pass the font

Cold stone carries memories:
a knife through time

Tim Lenton

Words in the present
tense spoken with intent
though there be no
witness except the other all but half
a bond not even
Church can break
the strength in words
a marriage make

Lisa D'Onofrio

Post Script

I observe my letter:
Swallowed by the leather pouch,
Hoisted on the saddle,
Ridden away,
Vanishing down a Norfolk lane,
Honour guarded by Alexander and Poppy,
Finally lost to sight.

From here, where the sea breeze
Slips up over the crumbled cliff to sail
These words to you,
Floating from our place
Like soft seed stars of Dandelion
Eased from the tap root  home.
All the ways to London.
All the ways to London.

Rob Knee

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