Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Steve Ely

JOHN BALL

JOHN BALL

JOHN BALL

Wycliffe’s words and Langland’s gave the Englisc
back their tongue. Manor french and church latin,
cut-off in the throat, battening behind
the buttresses of keeps and cathedrals,
parsing and declining. Johon Schepe
proclaims his hedgerow gospel, singing
from the furze like a yellowhammer: 
Johan the Mullere hath ygrounde smal, smal, smal. 
The Kynges sone of hevene schal pay for al.
Be war or ye be wo; Knoweth your freend
fro your foo. Haveth ynow, and seith ‘Hoo!’  
There were no lords in Eden’s commune. 
Scythes sharpened on whetstones, gente non sancta
War will follow the Word.
Close

JOHN BALL

Wycliffe’s words and Langland’s gave the Englisc
back their tongue. Manor french and church latin,
cut-off in the throat, battening behind
the buttresses of keeps and cathedrals,
parsing and declining. Johon Schepe
proclaims his hedgerow gospel, singing
from the furze like a yellowhammer: 
Johan the Mullere hath ygrounde smal, smal, smal. 
The Kynges sone of hevene schal pay for al.
Be war or ye be wo; Knoweth your freend
fro your foo. Haveth ynow, and seith ‘Hoo!’  
There were no lords in Eden’s commune. 
Scythes sharpened on whetstones, gente non sancta
War will follow the Word.

JOHN BALL

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Nederlands Letterenfonds
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