Brother Gregor never spoke and often spooked the neophytes with his appearance, but he was a gentle soul and a phenomenal cook and knew more ways to prepare a fish than the abbot knew hymns
FLEUR DE LYS-SHAPED BOOK OF HOURS, in Latin, use of Rome (Paris, c. 1553). Illuminated manuscript on paper.
180 x 80mm. i + 117 leaves, each page with 24 lines written in a 'roman' hand in black ink within a liquid gold border in the shape of a half fleur de lys, spaces infilled with liquid gold fronds on blue or red grounds, line-fillers and one- and two-line initials of the same colours, eleven lobe-shaped miniatures. Nineteenth-century brown morocco gilt, sem茅 with fleur de lys, doublures of red morocco gilt, edges gauffered and gilt (upper cover detached). [Christies Auction House, 2006 catalog]
The prompt was "a poem that starts at the ending of something and works backward to the beginning". I really wanted to write about a story with a tragic ending and the beauty along the way, but instead all I could come up with were refrains about the subject that I worked into these poetry forms.
*
Is the story not worth telling
If there's sorrow at the ending?
If the journey is compelling
Is the story not worth telling?
Those whose days with life were swelling
Could not know the doom impending
Is the story not worth telling
If there's sorrow at the ending?
*
If at the end the hero fails
Does it destroy the other tales?
Are there not moments of glory
Though a failure ends the story?
We still care for those first details
If at the end the hero fails.
The sorrow, striving, hope and love
Before the doom falls from above
Worth much more than the final win
Or failure from his fatal sin
(If at the end the hero fails
From following forbidden trails)
Are all the virtues so hard-won
That linger when the tale is done
What's beautiful and true prevails
If at the end the hero fails
The beauty of the whole ''don't tell the reader things, let them make things up" philosophy is if I'm not telling readers things, I don't have to make them up. Unless I want to.
Look, it's basic science. If the fairies don't paint the flowers with their tiny little paintbrushes full of dewdrops and rainbows, they won't attract pollinators and there will be famine. Do you want famine, Bob?
Suddenly struck by the need for a story about a Victorian lady naturalist who studies those cutesy Victorian flower fairies, but like, as a completely dead-serious scientific endeavor--just because they're adorable and feminine and impossibly twee doesn't mean they're not a vital component of the ecosystem, Bob.