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My wife has finally gotten her new music blog Mi Contra Fa (I'm told this is quite witty, but I'm strictly an a cappella performer who can barely read music. Also, I'm a philistine) up and running. It will focus on her early music research for the SCA, which is what she's doing when she's not working on satellites for the US Navy. There are a few posts up already, so check it out.
1). What do I actually need to create them? Hardware, software, whatnot.
2). What does it, you know, cost?
This was the other piece. One of my household members was inducted into the SCA's Order of the Pelican (Service award), which is pretty much as high as you can go without winning a Crown Tourney or something. He had no idea that the award was coming; heck, he had no idea that I was showing up to give him this poem, which made the look on his face all the funnier.
The verse form is Anglo-Saxon: the answer is after the fold.
What comes now to hall / Keeping company
New thing, we find it / Though no surprise, this
Beast of Wonder / Brave-flown from South-lands
Not found without purse / Prepared for all things!
Blushes not at praise / But to soothe chick's calls;
To heal war and peace / It works its virtue.
Service is its cry / and idleness its foe!
From its willing heart / Have we made physick;
It is service strong / And soaring flight
If you know this beast / Be not shy to name!
This was written to commemorate an old friend of mine's entry in the SCA Kingdom of the East's Order of the Silver Crescent (kingdom-level service award). It was one of two pieces that I presented during my day trip to Pennsic, and I'm pleased to say that she had no idea that it was coming.
The verse form is 14th Century French, and can be found after the fold.
And this, in some ways, is the most cheerful of all. I wrote for ... never mind ... and, now that it's turned out not to be needed for that, I offer it here.
(Below the fold)
This one, on the other hand, is a bit more cheerful. It was written in honor of my wife's birthday: see if you can guess the answer.
Fit for all praise / Prince's best gem;
Got in exchange / Gold will hold it,
Bought not, nor reaved / But freely found.
Ring-gift, precious / Rightly desired.
Bounty it grants / Best of all wealth;
Lacking its warmth / Would man's hope fail.
Kings that own none / Call them beggars!
Beggars with it? / Bright are their days.
Not to be sold / Sure way to loss,
Shadow it lacks / Still it can die.
Say I its worth; / Speak you its name!
(Answer below the fold)
Because I haven't posted anything in a bit, and because I've been working on ... related stuff, here's one of what will be a few poems. I wrote this one in memory of a friend of mine, now departed.
(Below the fold)
...while doing something else entirely I came across Marlowe's The Tragedie of Doctor Faustus. I remember taking a class in college where the teacher - who was also a theater director* of no little skill - gave us a fairly graphic demonstration of why this play kicks serious ass.
I can still hear the quiet, desperate whispering of the end...
Moe
*The kind of guy who belonged to the Richard III Society, which should give some of you an idea (for the record, I flirted with the idea of joining, but never committed to it).
PS: Text below the fold.
...we'll start with an old favorite: the latest iteration of the Digital Tradition Folksong Database. You have to search for it at the top, but it still has the goods. (You can also download it here)
...can't say that I blame the judges, either: my documentation was ehh. It was an A&S (Arts and Sciences) competition, not a bardic, so that sort of thing was important. Jaymiel (my fiancee, for those tuning in late*) won her (and my, darnit) category for best Poetry with her translation of and exhaustive commentary on a rather interesting Old English poem that may be about two separated lovers, unless of course it's about two wolves. It's hard to tell, what with all the spelling errors in the original; remember, kids, use spellcheck or risk giving some poor frazzled researcher a millenium down the line heartburn. You might be a primary source, someday: don't make the archivists regret it.
Anyway. Good event, nice shade, we went over to Michael and Rivka's afterwards and saw their new daughter, who we all agreed was the most wonderful baby ever born. Which has nothing to do with anything in the previous paragraph, but it's my blog and I don't need an excuse.
Other than that, not much. Updated bloglinks - did I mention that Dead Inside was nifty? - and am now trying to figure out where I packed my copy of Tim Power's The Stress of Her Regard, or even if I did. Since I apparently have actual readers, if one of you fine folks who happens to have your own copy (and if you don't, well, get one. And pretty much the rest of Tim Powers, post-but-including-Drawing of the Dark) can look up the term "eiserne bresche" and tell me how it's actually spelled, I'd be ever so grateful.
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