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"Give me a stage and I'll cut form on it / give me a page and I'll perform on it. / Give me a word / any word", concludes Patience Agbabi's manifesto poem, 'The Word'.

She is one of the most dynamic black British performance poets to have emerged in recent years, and perhaps the most radical. She has been on the London club circuit since about 1995, doing at least a hundred events per year; she appears at Poetry Society events, Gay Pride rallies, in Glastonbury's cabaret tent before an audience of 4,000, at jazz festivals and nightclubs. The poly-vocal experimental piece FO(U)R WOMEN was performed with partners at the I.C.A. in London during 1996. As a solo performer she has delivered her hard-hitting, relatively explicit poems many times on radio and television, at the Edinburgh Festival, college lecture theatres, even at French metro stations. They are now available on the whole range of modern media, websites, videos, and on CDs such as Poetry in Performance. Her residencies have also been unusually various: The Poetry Café, at Oxford Brookes University where she ran creative writing workshops for health staff, and even at The Flamin' Eight, a tattoo and piercing parlour in London.

She is, however, an unconventional performance poet: a formalist, often adapting traditional forms such as sonnets and sestinas to her own gender-bending sexual politics. As Kwame Dawes has noted, Agbabi "likes to tinker and toy with language, with metre and with sound". This concern with form makes her work different from contemporaries such as Jackie Kay and Zena Edwards or Lemn Sissay. Like them, she may have been inspired by the 'dub' poetry heard in Britain from the 1970-80s onwards, by Kwesi Johnson and Zephanaiah, addressing issues of race or social comment, and by the melodic song-like poems of Jean Binta Breeze. But influence by other poets cannot fully explain her work's dynamism. Agbabi straddles boundaries, collaborating with others, just as she takes techniques from other art forms, most obviously the wordplay, rhythms and rhyming effects of rap music. (For three years from 1995 she was a member of Atomic Lip, a group of female rappers whose act incorporated video with live performance). R.A.W. (1995), her first publication, was essentially a rap poem. Rap, as a pop music form, originated with young black American men; Agbabi and others have helped feminise it.

When Transformatrix appeared in 2000, it was hailed for its flamboyant formal variety, as well as being "a telling commentary on the realities of modern Britain". In truth, her work seems more personal than political, with a distinctively shifting sense of cultural identity - across race, gender and especially sexuality. Her best poems create a tension between their urgent contemporary concerns and 'dangerous' subject matter (including S&M practices) and the formal poetics. Many of the poems are, Kwame Dawes further pointed out, "tensely contained in form and the masking of personae". There are also poems in prose, a 'concrete' poem (ingeniously taking off on sculptor Carl Andre's notorious bricks), and a 'List Poem' comprising 50 rhyming questions. There are interpolations of pop song lyrics; her verbal acrobatics can include words taken from computer-speak or soap operas. She calls herself 'bi-cultural', telling us "I was raised on Watch with Mother / The Rime of the Ancient Mariner / and Fight the Power".

These are the dramatic monologues of 'High-Flying Femmes', 'Devils in Red Dresses', 'Seven Sisters' and 'Mothers of Inversion'. 'The Joyrider' is a young girl, "Mad Maxine on amphetamine", imprisoned "in the damp womb of the Women's Wing", but still defiant: "I ram raid man-made rules, / accelerate into the sunset". There's a good deal of teenage angst, as when a schoolgirl is jealous about a boy "getting off with that butters Charmaine" ('Buffalos and Silver Stillettos'), and the interior alienation of drug-taking is captured in 'That Four Four Trip' and 'Ajax'. 'The Wife of Bafa' re-tells Chaucer's tale with a Nigerian woman who has had five husbands: "I cast a spell with my gap-toothed smile / and my bottom power". 'Bitch' is far more edgy humour, its rhyming quatrains spoken by a man whose wife confesses to an unusual affair, while on a Jerry Springer-type TV chat show: "They bring him in on a lead. / The crowd scream. / He's tugging at the leash, she's stroking his head / and she's kissing him".

There are indeed a few relatively explicit sexual poems, though details are usually metaphoric, as in '69 BPM': "connecting with her / as she hits that top note twice in one bar". The oddly comical scenario of 'Hans' is a "big, black and butch" lesbian falling for a petite manicurist. But sexual metaphor is brought effectively into play in the brilliant closing title poem, a tightly controlled sonnet in which fetish sex and the act of writing come together. By its title poem, 'Transformatrix' turns the Muse into a lesbian dominatrix: "A pen poised over a blank page, I wait / for madam's orders, her strict consonants / .... She trusses up / words, lines, as a corset disciplines flesh".

'The Tiger' is spoken by a woman whose life revolves around tattoos, ending up with "Cruella de Ville, who stitched hot dark / ink into my taut flesh as time / flowed free into a corset of glass". And during Agbabi's 15-day residency at The Flamin' Eight, her objective was to create poems suitable to be tattooed, including a twenty-six syllable acrostic poem 'published' on the upper arm of a friend of hers. Agbabi herself went under the needle, as she related in Poetry Review (Spring 2000): "In two hours' time, my entire back was transformed except for a blank space in the small of it, just enough room for a haiku". 'In Invisible Ink', one of the poems that emerged out of the residency, makes clear the erotic dimension of the tattoo: "Imagine the tip of my tongue's a full / Needle and your back's my canvas.... / Vibrating its delicate, intimate Braille". As Agbabi has observed, "there's something irrevocable about making a literal statement on the body". Tatooing thus takes its place as part of her mission to create a kind of 'poetry of the body', linked to poetic form, and the dynamics of performance. Significantly, her current work-in-progress is called Body Language.

Dr Jules Smith, 2003

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"Give me a stage and I'll cut form on it / give me a page and I'll perform on it. / Give me a word / any word", concludes Patience Agbabi's manifesto poem, 'The Word'. She is one of the most dynamic black British performance poets to have emerged in recent years, and perhaps the most radical.

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE TED HUGHES PRIZE 2015

Tabard Inn to Canterb'ry Cathedral,
Poet pilgrims competing for free picks,
Chaucer Tales, track by track, it's the remix
From below-the-belt base to the topnotch;
I won't stop all the clocks with a stopwatch
when the tales overrun, run offensive,
or run clean out of steam, they're authentic
and we're keeping it real, reminisce this:
Chaucer Tales were an unfinished business.

In Telling Tales award-winning poet Patience Agbabi presents an inspired 21st-century remix of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales retelling all of the stories, from the Miller's Tale to the Wife of Bath's in her own critically acclaimed poetic style.

Celebrating Chaucer's Middle-English masterwork for its performance element as well as its poetry and pilgrims, Agbabi's newest collection is utterly unique. Boisterous, funky, foul-mouthed, sublimely lyrical and bursting at the seams, Telling Tales takes one of Britain's most significant works of literature and gives it thrilling new life.

"The liveliest versions of Chaucer you're likely to read - every page a virtuoso performance of language, character and story"
Simon Armitage

See more reviews

"The language is every bit as Chaucerian as Chaucer - ripe, rollicking and humorous - and Agbabi's redesigned pilgrims are as much a mixed bag as the originals"

"Inventive, innovative and ingenious - Agbabi's take on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales zooms right into the 21st Century"
Jackie Kay

"Her poems draw on rap, jive and disco rhythms as much as the formal subtleties of free verse. Agbabi is a fine poet, and her linguistic wit carries satirical fire"
daily Telegraph

"Anyone giving a poetic echo to The Canterbury Tales needs exceptional imagination, human warmth and rhythmical energy; without them, the echo is doomed to fade. But Patience Agbabi has all these things and more: a completely appropriate sense of variety, fun, seriousness and good humour. Stirred all together, they make Telling Tales a compelling collection of story-portraits, at once contemporary and time-honoured. It's a wonderful achievement"
Andrew Motion

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Telling Tales by Patience Agbabi - Canongate Books

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE TED HUGHES PRIZE 2015 Tabard Inn to Canterb'ry Cathedral,Poet pilgrims competing for free picks,Chaucer Tales, track by track, it's the remixFrom below-the-belt base to the topnotch;I won't stop all the clocks with a stopwatchwhen the tales overrun, run offensive,or run clean out of steam, they're authenticand we're keeping it real, reminisce this:Chaucer Tales were an unfinished business.

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There's no doubt that grime music has firmly hit the mainstream, as Stormzy walked away with the Brit Award for best male last night.

Drake is signed to Skepta's label Boy Better Know, and the British Phonographic Industry reported that grime sales had risen over 100% in the past year, proving that it's certainly not a niche genre.

Grime originally came about in London in the early noughties.

It emerged from other styles including garage, jungle, and hip hop.

Some specific features of grime, however, include a rapid breakbeat of around 130bpm, rapping, and an electronic sound in places, which AllMusic calls 'where the legacies of hardcore rap and hardcore techno collide.'

The genre was originally popularised on pirate radio stations such as Rinse FM.

Wiley is considered one of the pioneers of grime, and it was often in the beginnings called Eskibeat after his nickname Eskiboy.

Him, Dizzee Rascal, Kano, and Lethal Bizzle brought grime out of just pirate stations. Dizzee's album Boy in da Corner won the Mercury Prize in 2003.

It's taken until now for the music style to be recognised across the board, however, with the internet and radio shows like Fire in the Booth helping spread the word.

The MOBO Awards has also given grime artists a larger platform, paving the way for other awards committees to take notice.

Current famous grime artists include those mentioned above, and Ghetts, Jme, Skepta, Stormzy, The Streets, Chip, Bugzy Malone, Novelist, and Akala.

Boy Better Know is one of the more famous grime crews, but others include Newham Generals, Roll Deep and Ruff Sqwad.

Stormzy's album Gang Signs and Prayer was the first grime album ever to reach number one on UK charts, signifying how far the style has come.

Songs like Pow! by Lethal Bizzle were banned from airplay for having controversial lyrics, but it's safe to say that stations and labels are now more aware of the cultural significance of grime and ready to take notice of the power of the genre.

The hard-hitting lyrics and enaging performances from artists make grime a real movement, rather than simply a music style, and the connection many people feel to it is not to be ignored.

It's a genre made by young people that tells the stories of their lives, whether these stories are tragedies, triumphs, or comedies.

Grime is here to stay, and there are plenty more stars to be born in the process.

MORE: Jeremy Corbyn praises Stormzy Grenfell rap at 2018 Brit Awards as star takes aim at Theresa May

MORE: Rumoured hot new couple Skepta and Naomi Campbell hit up star-studded Milan Fashion Week

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What is grime music? Definition and most famous artists

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There's no doubt that grime music has firmly hit the mainstream, as Stormzy walked away with the Brit Award for best male last night. Drake is signed to Skepta's label Boy Better Know, and the British Phonographic Industry reported that grime sales had risen over 100% in the past year, proving that it's certainly not a niche genre.

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Patience Agbabi performs "Prologue" (Grime Mix)"

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Patience Agbabi performs "Prologue" (Grime Mix)"

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Patience Agbabi's "Prologue (Grime Mix)"  

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Patience Agbabi's "Prologue (Grime Mix)"  

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When my April showers me with kisses
I could make her my missus or my mistress
but I'm happily hitched - sorry home girls -
said my vows to the sound of the Bow Bells
yet her breath is as fresh as the west wind,
when I breathe her, I know we're predestined
to make music; my muse, she inspires me,
though my mind's overtaxed, April fires me,
how she pierces my heart to the fond root
till I bleed sweet cherry blossom en route
to our bliss trip; there's days she goes off me,
April loves me not; April loves me
with a passion, dear doctor, I'm wordsick
and I got the itch like I'm allergic
but it could be my shirt's on the cheap side;
serenade overnight with my peeps wide,
nothing like her, liqueur, an elixir,
overproof that she serves as my sick cure,
she's as strong as a ram, she is Aries,
see my jaw-dropping jeans, she could wear these,
see my jaw dropping neat Anglo-Saxon,
I got ink in my veins more than Caxton
and it flows hand to mouth, here's a mouthfeast
verbal feats from the streets of the South-East
but my April, she blooms every shire's end,
fit or vint, rich or skint, she inspires them
from the grime to the clean-cut iambic,
rime royale, rant or rap, get your slam kick
on this Routemaster bus: get cerebral
Tabard Inn to Canterbury Cathedral,
poet pilgrims competing for free picks,
Chaucer Tales, track by track, here's the remix
from below-the-belt base to the topnotch;
I won't stop all the clocks with a stopwatch
when the tales overrun, run offensive,
or run clean out of steam, they're authentic
cos we're keeping it real, reminisce this:
Chaucer Tales were an unfinished business.
May the best poet lose, as the saying goes.
May the best poet muse be mainstaying those
on the stage, on the page, on their subject:
me and April, we're The Rhyming Couplet
I'm The Host for tonight, Harry Bailey,
if I'm tongue-tied, April will bail me,
I'm MC but the M is for mistress
when my April shows me what a kiss is . . .

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PROLOGUE (GRIME MIX) (poem) - Patience Agbabi - United Kingdom - Poetry International

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When my April showers me with kisses I could make her my missus or my mistress but I'm happily hitched - sorry home girls - said my vows to the sound of the Bow Bells yet her breath is as fresh as the west wind, when I breathe her, I

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Chaucer's Prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Middle English

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Chaucer's Prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Middle English

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And bath e d every veyne in swich licóur

Of which vertú engendr e d is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swet e breeth

Inspir e d hath in every holt and heeth

That slepen al the nyght with open y e,

So priketh hem Natúre in hir corag e s,

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimag e s,

The hooly blisful martir for to sek e,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seek e.

Bifil that in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymag e

To Caunterbury with ful devout corag e,

At nyght were come into that hostelry e

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaigny e

Of sondry folk, by áventure y-fall e

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they all e,

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryd e.

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,

To take oure wey, ther as I yow devys e.

Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun

To tell e yow al the condicioun

Of ech of hem, so as it sem e d me,

And whiche they weren and of what degree,

And eek in what array that they were inn e;

And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynn e.

A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,

That fro the tym e that he first bigan

Trouthe and honóur, fredom and curteisi e.

And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferr e,

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonn e;

No cristen man so ofte of his degree.

In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be

Of Algezir, and riden in Belmary e.

At Lyeys was he, and at Sataly e,

Whan they were wonne; and in the Gret e See

At many a noble armee hadde he be.

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiften e,

And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssen e

This ilk e worthy knyght hadde been also

Agayn another hethen in Turky e;

And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.

And though that he were worthy, he was wys,

And of his port as meeke as is a mayd e.

He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayd e,

In al his lyf, unto no maner wight.

He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght.

But for to tellen yow of his array,

His hors weren good e, but he was nat gay;

Of fustian he wer e d a gypon

Al bismóter e d with his habergeon;

For he was late y-come from his viag e,

With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squiér,

A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gess e.

Of his statúre he was of evene length e,

And wonderly delyvere and of greet strength e.

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachi e

And born hym weel, as of so litel spac e,

In hope to stonden in his lady grac e.

Embrouded was he, as it were a meed e

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day;

He was as fressh as is the month of May.

Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and writ e.

He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngal e.

Curteis he was, lowely and servysábl e,

And carf biforn his fader at the tabl e.

A Yeman hadde he and servántz namo

And he was clad in cote and hood of gren e.

Under his belt he bar ful thriftily-

Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly;

And in his hand he baar a myghty bow e.

A not-heed hadde he, with a broun viság e.

Upon his arm he baar a gay bracér,

And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,

And on that oother syde a gay dagger e,

A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheen e.

An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of gren e.

A forster was he, soothly as I gess e.

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioress e,

That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy;

Hire gretteste ooth was but by seint e Loy,

And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,

For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknow e.

Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kep e

Thát no drope ne fille upon hire brist;

In curteisie was set ful muchel hir list.

That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sen e

And sikerly she was of greet desport,

And ful plesáunt and amyable of port,

Of court, and been estatlich of maner e,

And to ben holden digne of reverenc e.

She was so charitable and so pitous

She wold e wepe if that she saugh a mous

Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledd e.

With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed;

But soor e wepte she if oon of hem were deed,

Ful semyly hir wympul pynch e d was;

Hire nose tretys, her eyen greye as glas,

Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed;

But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;

For, hardily, she was nat undergrow e.

Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war;

Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar

And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheen e,

On which ther was first write a crown e d A,

And after, Amor vincit omnia.

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistri e,

A manly man, to been an abbot abl e.

Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stabl e;

And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heer e

Gýnglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleer e,

And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel bell e,

Ther as this lord was kepere of the cell e.

The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit,

By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,-

He yaf nat of that text a pull e d hen

That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men,

Ne that a monk, whan he is recch e lees,

Is likn e d til a fissh that is waterlees,-

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystr e.

And I seyde his opinioun was good.

What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood,

Upon a book in cloystre alwey to pour e,

As Austyn bit? How shal the world be serv e d?

Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserv e d.

Therfore he was a prikasour aright:

Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight;

Of prikyng and of huntyng for the har e

Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spar e.

I seigh his sleves y-púrfiled at the hond

With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;

And for to festne his hood under his chyn

He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn;

A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.

His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,

And eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt.

He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt;

His eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed,

That stem e d as a forneys of a leed;

His boot e s souple, his hors in greet estaat.

Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat.

He was nat pale, as a forpyn e d goost:

A fat swan loved he best of any roost.

His palfrey was as broun as is a bery e.

A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a mery e,

A lymytour, a ful solémpn e man.

So muchel of daliaunce and fair langag e.

Unto his ordre he was a nobl e post.

Ful wel biloved and famulier was he

With frankeleyns over al in his contree,

And eek with worthy wommen of the toun;

For he hadde power of confess i oun,

As seyde hym-self, moor e than a curát,

For of his ordre he was licenciat.

And plesaunt was his absoluc i oun.

He was an esy man to yeve penaunc e

There as he wiste to have a good pitaunc e;

For, if he yaf, he dorst e make avaunt

He wiste that a man was répentaunt;

For many a man so hard is of his hert e

Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyér e s

And certeinly he hadde a murye not e:

Wel koude he synge and pleyen on a rot e;

Of yeddynges he baar outr e ly the pris.

His nekk e whit was as the flour-de-lys;

Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.

He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,

And everich hostiler and tappester e

Bet than a lazar or a beggester e;

For unto swich a worthy man as he

Acorded nat, as by his facultee,

It is nat honest, it may nat avaunc e

Fór to deelen with no swich poraill e,

But al with riche and selleres of vitaill e.

And over-al, ther as profit sholde aris e,

Curteis he was and lowely of servys e.

Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.

He was the best e beggere in his hous;

[And yaf a certeyn ferm e for the graunt,

Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;]

So plesaunt was his In principio,

Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he went e:

And rage he koude, as it were right a whelp e.

For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer

With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scolér,

But he was lyk a maister, or a pop e;

That rounded as a belle, out of the press e.

To make his Englissh sweete upon his tong e;

And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe,

His eyen twynkl e d in his heed aryght

As doon the sterr e s in the frosty nyght.

This worthy lymytour was cleped Hubérd.

A Marchant was ther with a fork e d berd,

In mott e leye, and hye on horse he sat;

Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat;

His resons he spak ful solémpn e ly,

Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng.

He wolde the see were kept for any thing

This worthy man ful wel his wit bisett e;

So estatly was he of his gouvernaunc e,

With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunc e.

For sothe he was a worthy man with-all e,

But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym call e.

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,

That unto logyk hadd e longe y-go.

And he nas nat right fat, I undertak e,

Ful thredbare was his overeste court e py;

For he hadde geten hym yet no benefic e,

Ne was so worldly for to have offic e;

For hym was lévere háve at his bedd e s heed

Twénty book e s, clad in blak or reed,

Of Aristotle and his philosophi e,

But al be that he was a philosophr e,

Of hem that yaf hym wher-with to scoley e.

Of studie took he moost cure and moost heed e.

And that was seyd in forme and reverenc e,

And short and quyk and ful of hy senténc e.

Sownynge in moral vertu was his spech e;

And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly tech e.

A Sergeant of the Law e, war and wys,

That often hadd e been at the Parvys,

Ther was also, ful riche of excellenc e.

Discreet he was, and of greet reverenc e -

Justice he was ful often in assis e,

By patente, and by pleyn commiss i oun.

For his science and for his heigh renoun,

Of fees and rob e s hadde he many oon.

So greet a purchasour was nowher noon:

Al was fee symple to hym in effect;

His purchasyng myght e nat been infect.

Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,

And yet he sem e d bisier than he was.

That from the tyme of kyng William were fall e.

Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng,

Ther koud e no wight pynche at his writyng;

And every statut koude he pleyn by rot e.

He rood but hoomly in a medlee cot e,

Of his array telle I no lenger tal e.

Of his complex i oun he was sangwyn.

Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn;

To lyven in delit was evere his won e,

That heeld opin i oun that pleyn delit

Was verraily felicitee parfit.

An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;

Seint Julian he was in his contree.

His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon;

A bettre envyn e d man was nowher noon.

Of fissh and flessh, and that so plent e vous,

After the sondry sesons of the yeer;

So chaung e d he his mete and his soper.

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muw e,

And many a breem and many a luce in stuw e.

Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his geer e.

His table dormant in his halle alway

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sir e;

An anlaas, and a gipser al of silk,

Heeng at his girdel, whit as morn e milk.

A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;

Was nowher such a worthy vavasour.

An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter,

A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer,-

And they were cloth e d alle in o lyveree

Of a solémpne and a greet fraternitee.

Ful fressh and newe hir geere apik e d was;

But al with silver; wroght ful clene and weel

Wel sem e d ech of hem a fair burgeys

To sitten in a yeldehalle, on a deys.

Éverich, for the wisdom that he kan,

Was shaply for to been an alderman;

It is ful fair to been y-cleped Madame,

And have a mantel roialliche y-bor e.

Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun al e.

Máken mortreux, and wel bake a py e.

But greet harm was it, as it thought e me,

That on his shyne a mormal hadd e he;

For blankmanger, that made he with the best e.

A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by west e;

For aught I woot he was of Dert e mouthe.

He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouth e,

In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.

A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he

Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun.

The hoot e somer hadde maad his hewe al broun;

And certeinly he was a good felaw e.

Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he y-draw e

Fro Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep.

If that he faught and hadde the hyer hond,

By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.

But of his craft to rekene wel his tyd e s,

His herberwe and his moone, his lode-menag e,

Hardy he was and wys to undertak e;

With many a tempest hadde his berd been shak e.

From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynyster e,

And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayn e.

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik;

In all this world ne was ther noon hym lik,

To speke of phisik and of surgery e;

For he was grounded in astronomy e.

He kepte his pac i ent a ful greet deel

In hour e s, by his magyk natureel.

Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent

Of his ymáges for his pac i ent.

He knew the cause of everich malady e,

Were it of hoot, or cold, or moyste, or dry e,

And where they engendred and of what humour.

He was a verray, parfit praktisour;

The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the root e,

Ful redy hadde he his apothecari e s

For ech of hem made oother for to wynn e,

Wel knew he the old e Esculapius,

And De{"y}scorides, and eek Rufus,

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galyen,

Serapion, Razis, and Avycen,

Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn,

Bernard, and Gat e sden, and Gilbertyn.

Of his diet e mesurable was he,

For it was of no superfluitee,

But of greet norissyng and digestíbl e.

His studie was but litel on the Bibl e.

In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al,

Lyn e d with taffata and with sendal.

And yet he was but esy of dispenc e;

For gold in phisik is a cord i al;

But she was som-del deef, and that was scath e.

Of clooth-makyng she hadd e swich an haunt

In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon

That to the offrynge bifore hire shold e goon;

And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she

That she was out of all e charitee.

Hir coverchiefs ful fyn e weren of ground;

That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed.

Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed,

Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste and new e.

Boold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hew e.

She was a worthy womman al hir lyv e;

Withouten oother compaignye in youth e;

But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowth e.

And thri e s hadde she been at Jérusalem;

In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloign e.

Upon an amblere esily she sat,

Y-wympl e d wel, and on hir heed an hat

As brood as is a bokeler or a targ e;

In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carp e;

Of remedies of love she knew per chauncé,

A good man was ther of relig i oun,

And was a povr e Person of a Toun;

But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk.

He was also a lern e d man, a clerk,

His parisshens devoutly wolde he tech e.

Benygne he was, and wonder diligent,

And in adversitee ful pac i ent;

Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tith e s,

But rather wolde he yeven, out of dout e,

Of his offrýng and eek of his substaunc e;

He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunc e.

Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder,

But he ne laft e nat, for reyn ne thonder,

In siknesse nor in meschief to visít e

The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lit e,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf.

This noble ensampl e to his sheep he yaf,

That first he wroghte and afterward he taught e.

And this figure he added eek therto,

That if gold rust e, what shal iren doo?

For if a preest be foul, on whom we trust e,

And shame it is, if a prest tak e keep,

A shiten shepherde and a clen e sheep.

By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde lyv e.

To seken hym a chaunterie for soul e s,

Or with a bretherhed to been withhold e;

So that the wolf ne made it nat myscari e;

He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenari e.

And though he hooly were and vertuous,

He was to synful man nat despitous,

But in his techyng díscreet and benygn e.

To drawen folk to hevene by fairness e,

By good ensample, this was his bisyness e.

But it were any persone obstinat,

What so he were, of heigh or lough estat,

Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys.

A bettr e preest I trowe that nowher noon ys.

He waited after no pompe and reverenc e,

With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother,

That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a fother;

A trew e swynkere and a good was he,

Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee.

For Cristes sake, for every povr e wight,

Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght.

Bothe of his propr e swynk and his catel.

In a tabard he rood upon a mer e.

Ther was also a Reve and a Miller e,

A Somnour and a Pardoner also,

A Maunciple, and myself,-ther were namo.

The Millere was a stout carl for the non e s;

Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bon e s.

That prov e d wel, for over-al, ther he cam,

At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram.

Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harr e,

Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed.

His berd as any sowe or fox was reed,

And therto brood, as though it were a spad e.

Upon the cop right of his nose he had e

A werte, and thereon stood a toft of herys,

A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syd e.

His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys;

He was a janglere and a goliardeys,

And that was moost of synne and harlotri e s.

Wel koude he stelen corn and tollen thri e s;

And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.

A whit cote and a blew hood wer e d he.

A bagg e pipe wel koude he blowe and sowne,

And therwithal he broghte us out of town e.

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a templ e,

For to be wise in byynge of vitaill e;

For, wheither that he payde or took by taill e,

Algate he wayted so in his achaat

That he was ay biforn and in good staat.

Now is nat that of God a ful fair grac e,

The wisdom of an heep of lern e d men?

That weren of lawe expert and curious,

Of whiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous

Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond

Of any lord that is in Eng e lond,

In honour dettelees, but if he were wood,

Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desir e;

And yet this Manciple sette hir aller capp e

The Rev e was a sclendre colerik man.

His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan;

His heer was by his erys round y-shorn;

His top was dokk e d lyk a preest biforn.

Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sen e.

Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynn e;

Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynn e.

Wel wiste he, by the droghte and by the reyn,

The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn.

His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultry e,

Was hoolly in this rev e s governyng;

And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng

Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of ag e;

There koude no man brynge hym in arrerag e.

There nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyn e,

That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyn e;

They were adrad of hym as of the deeth.

His wonyng was ful fair upon an heeth;

His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly,

To yeve and lene hym of his owen e good,

And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.

In youthe he hadd e lerned a good myster;

He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.

This Rev e sat upon a ful good stot,

That was al pomely grey, and hight e Scot.

A long surcote of pers upon he had e,

And by his syde he baar a rusty blad e.

Of Northfolk was this Reve of which I tell e,

And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure rout e.

A Somonour was ther with us in that place,

As hoot he was and lecherous as a sparw e,

Of his visag e children were aferd.

Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon,

Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartr e noon,

Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lek e s,

And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood.

Thanne wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood.

And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,

Than wolde he spek e no word but Latyn.

That he had lern e d out of som decree,-

No wonder is, he herde it al the day;

And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay

Kan clepen "Watte" as wel as kan the pope.

But whoso koude in oother thyng hym grope,

Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophi e;

Ay " Questio quid juris" wolde he cri e.

He was a gentil harlot and a kynd e;

A bettr e felawe sholde men noght fynde.

A good felawe to have his concubyn

And priv e ly a fynch eek koude he pulle.

And if he foond owher a good felaw e,

He wold e techen him to have noon awe,

But if a mann e s soule were in his purs;

For in his purs he sholde y-punysshed be:

Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him dred e,

For curs wol slee, right as assoillyng savith;

And also war him of a Significavit.

In daunger hadde he at his owen e gise

And knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed.

A gerland hadde he set upon his heed,

A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cak e.

With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner

Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer,

That streight was comen fro the court of Rom e.

Ful loude he soong, "Com hider, lov e, to me!"

This Somonour bar to hym a stif burdoun;

Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun.

This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,

But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex;

But thynne it lay, by colpons, oon and oon;

But hood, for jolitee, wer e d he noon,

For it was truss e d up in his walét.

Hym thoughte he rood al of the new e jet;

Dischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bar e.

Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an har e.

A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his capp e.

His walet lay biforn hym in his lapp e,

Bret-ful of pardoun, comen from Rome al hoot.

A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

As smothe it was as it were late y-shav e;

I trowe he were a geldyng or a mar e.

But of his craft, fro Berwyk into War e,

Ne was ther swich another pardoner;

For in his male he hadde a pilw e-beer,

Which that, he seyd e, was Oure Lady veyl;

He seyde he hadde a gobet of the seyl

Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hent e.

He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of ston e s,

But with thise relik e s, whan that he fond

A povr e person dwellynge upon lond,

Upon a day he gat hym moore money e

He made the person and the peple his ap e s.

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiast e;

Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a stori e,

But alderbest he song an offertori e;

He moste preche, and wel affile his tong e

Therefore he song the murierly and loud e.

Now have I toold you shortly, in a claus e,

Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the caus e

In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelry e

How that we baren us that ilk e nyght,

Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght;

And after wol I telle of our viag e

And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimag e.

But first, I pray yow, of youre curteisy e,

That ye narette it nat my vileyny e,

Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateer e,

For this ye knowen al-so wel as I,

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,

He moot reherce, as ny as evere he kan,

Everich a word, if it be in his charg e,

Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrew e,

He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother;

He moot as wel seye o word as another.

Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ,

And wel ye woot no vileynye is it.

Eek Plato seith, whoso kan hym red e,

Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,

Al have I nat set folk in hir degree

My wit is short, ye may wel understond e.

Greet chier e made oure Hoost us everichon,

And to the soper sette he us anon,

Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke us lest e.

For to been a marchal in an hall e.

A large man he was with eyen step e,

A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chep e;

Boold of his speche, and wys, and well y-taught,

Eek thereto he was right a myrie man,

And after soper pleyen he bigan,

Ye been to me right welcome, hert e ly;

For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat ly e,

I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaigny e

At on e s in this herberwe as is now.

Fayn wolde I doon yow myrth e, wiste I how;

And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght,

To doon yow ese, and it shal cost e noght.

"Ye goon to Canterbury-God yow speed e,

And wel I woot, as ye goon by the wey e,

Ye shapen yow to talen and to pley e;

For trew e ly confort ne myrthe is noon

To rid e by the weye doumb as a stoon;

And therfore wol I maken yow disport,

As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.

And if you liketh alle, by oon assent,

For to stonden at my jugg e ment,

And for to werken as I shal yow sey e,

Now, by my fader soul e, that is deed,

But ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed!

Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys,

And graunted hym withouten moore avys,

And bad him seye his verdit, as hym lest e.

"Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the best e;

But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn;

This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,

To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,

And homward he shal tellen other e two,

Of aventúres that whilom han bifall e.

And which of yow that bereth hym beste of all e,

That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas

Tal e s of best sentence and moost solaas,

Shal have a soper at oure aller cost,

Heere in this plac e, sittynge by this post,

Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.

I wol myselven gladly with yow ryd e,

Shal paye al that we spenden by the wey e.

And if ye vouch e-sauf that it be so,

Tel me anon, withouten word e s mo,

With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also

That he wolde vouch e-sauf for to do so,

And that he wolde been oure governour,

And of our tal e s juge and réportour,

And sette a soper at a certeyn pris;

And we wol reul e d been at his devys

In heigh and lough; and thus, by oon assent,

We been acorded to his jugg e ment.

And therupon the wyn was fet anon;

We dronken, and to rest e wente echon,

Withouten any lenger taryyng e.

Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok,

And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok;

And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas,

Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas;

And there oure Hoost bigan his hors arest e,

Ye woot youre foreward and I it yow record e.

Whoso be rebel to my jugg e ment

Shal paye for all that by the wey is spent.

Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynn e;

He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynn e.

Sire Knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord

Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord.

Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady Prioress e.

And ye, sire Clerk, lat be your shamefastness e,

Ne studieth noght. Ley hond to, every man."

Anon to drawen every wight bigan,

And, shortly for to tellen as it was,

Were it by áventúre, or sort, or cas,

The sothe is this, the cut fil to the Knyght,

Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght;

And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun,

By foreward and by composic i oun,

As ye han herd; what nedeth word e s mo?

And whan this goode man saugh that it was so,

As he that wys was and obedient

To kepe his foreward by his free assent,

What, welcome be the cut, a Godd e s name!

Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I sey e."

And with that word we ryden forth oure wey e;

And he bigan with right a myrie cheer e

His tale anon, and seyde in this manér e.

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The Canterbury Tales: General Prologue by... | Poetry Foundation

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Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,

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Chaucer's Prologue in Modern English:  The Host at the Tabard Inn and the Story Proposal

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Chaucer's Prologue in Modern English:  The Host at the Tabard Inn and the Story Proposal

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Now have I told you briefly, in a clause,
The state, the array, the number, and the cause
Of the assembling of this company
In Southwark, at this noble hostelry
Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell.
But now the time is come wherein to tell
How all we bore ourselves that very night
When at the hostelry we did alight.
And afterward the story I engage
To tell you of our common pilgrimage.
But first, I pray you, of your courtesy,
You'll not ascribe it to vulgarity
Though I speak plainly of this matter here,
Retailing you their words and means of cheer;
Nor though I use their very terms, nor lie.
For this thing do you know as well as I:
When one repeats a tale told by a man,
He must report, as nearly as he can,
Every least word, if he remember it,
However rude it be, or how unfit;
Or else he may be telling what's untrue,
Embellishing and fictionizing too.
He may not spare, although it were his brother;
He must as well say one word as another.
Christ spoke right broadly out, in holy writ,
And, you know well, there's nothing low in it.
And Plato says, to those able to read:
"The word should be the cousin to the deed."
Also, I pray that you'll forgive it me
If I have not set folk, in their degree
Here in this tale, by rank as they should stand.
My wits are not the best, you'll understand.

Great cheer our host gave to us, every one,
And to the supper set us all anon;
And served us then with victuals of the best.
Strong was the wine and pleasant to each guest.
A seemly man our good host was, withal,
Fit to have been a marshal in some hall;
He was a large man, with protruding eyes,
As fine a burgher as in Cheapside lies;
Bold in his speech, and wise, and right well taught,
And as to manhood, lacking there in naught.
Also, he was a very merry man,
And after meat, at playing he began,
Speaking of mirth among some other things,
When all of us had paid our reckonings;
And saying thus: "Now masters, verily
You are all welcome here, and heartily:
For by my truth, and telling you no lie,
I have not seen, this year, a company
Here in this inn, fitter for sport than now.
Fain would I make you happy, knew I how.
And of a game have I this moment thought
To give you joy, and it shall cost you naught.

"You go to Canterbury; may God speed
And the blest martyr soon requite your meed.
And well I know, as you go on your way,
You'll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;
For truly there's no mirth nor comfort, none,
Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone;
And therefore will I furnish you a sport,
As I just said, to give you some comfort.
And if you like it, all, by one assent,
And will be ruled by me, of my judgment,
And will so do as I'll proceed to say,
Tomorrow, when you ride upon your way,
Then, by my father's spirit, who is dead,
If you're not gay, I'll give you up my head.
Hold up your hands, nor more about it speak."

Our full assenting was not far to seek;
We thought there was no reason to think twice,
And granted him his way without advice,
And bade him tell his verdict just and wise.
"Masters," quoth he, "here now is my advice;
But take it not, I pray you, in disdain;
This is the point, to put it short and plain,
That each of you, beguiling the long day,
Shall tell two stories as you wend your way
To Canterbury town; and each of you
On coming home, shall tell another two,
All of adventures he has known befall.
And he who plays his part the best of all,
That is to say, who tells upon the road
Tales of best sense, in most amusing mode,
Shall have a supper at the others' cost
Here in this room and sitting by this post,
When we come back again from Canterbury.
And now, the more to warrant you'll be merry,
I will myself, and gladly, with you ride
At my own cost, and I will be your guide.
But whosoever shall my rule gainsay
Shall pay for all that's bought along the way.
And if you are agreed that it be so,
Tell me at once, or if not, tell me no,
And I will act accordingly. No more."

Now have I toold you soothly, in a clause,
Th' estaat, th' array, the nombre, and eek the cause
Why that assembled was this compaignye
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye
That highte the Tabard, faste by the belle.
But now is tyme to yow for to telle
How that we baren us that ilke nyght,
Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght;
And after wol I telle of our viage
And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage.
But first I pray yow, of youre curteisye,
That ye n' arette it nat my vileynye,
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere,
To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere,
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely.
For this ye knowen al so wel as I,
Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,
He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan
Everich a word, if it be in his charge,
Al speke he never so rudeliche and large,
Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,
Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe.
He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother;
He moot as wel seye o word as another.
Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ,
And wel ye woot no vileynye is it.
Eek Plato seith, whoso that kan hym rede,
The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede.
Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,
Al have I nat set folk in hir degree
Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde.
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Greet chiere made oure hoost us everichon,
And to the soper sette he us anon.
He served us with vitaille at the beste;
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste.
A semely man oure hooste was withalle
For to han been a marchal in an halle.
A large man he was with eyen stepe --
A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe --
Boold of his speche, and wys, and wel ytaught,
And of manhod hym lakkede right naught.
Eek therto he was right a myrie man,
And after soper pleyen he bigan,
And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges,
Whan that we hadde maad oure rekenynges,
And seyde thus: now, lordynges, trewely,
Ye been to me right welcome, hertely;
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,
I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye
Atones in this herberwe as is now.
Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how.
And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght,
To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.

" Ye goon to Caunterbury -- God yow speede,
The blisful martir quite yow youre meede!
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;
For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon
To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon;
And therfore wol I maken yow disport,
As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.
And if yow liketh alle by oon assent
For to stonden at my juggement,
And for to werken as I shal yow seye,
To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye,
Now, by my fader soule that is deed,
But ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed!
Hoold up youre hondes, withouten moore speche."

Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche.
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys,
And graunted hym withouten moore avys,
And bad him seye his voirdit as hym leste.
"Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the beste;
But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn.
This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,
That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye,
In this viage shal telle tales tweye
To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,
And homward he shal tellen othere two,
Of aventures that whilom han bifalle.
And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle,
That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas
Tales of best sentence and moost solaas,
Shal have a soper at oure aller cost
Heere in this place, sittynge by this post,
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
And for to make yow the moore mury,
I wol myselven goodly with yow ryde,
Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde,
And whoso wole my juggement withseye
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.
And if ye vouche sauf that it be so,
Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo,
And I wol erly shape me therfore.

"

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Now have I told you briefly, in a clause, The state, the array, the number, and the cause Of the assembling of this company In Southwark, at this noble hostelry Known as the Tabard Inn, hard by the Bell.

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Dr. Masullo reads the first 18 lines of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English

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Dr. Masullo reads the first 18 lines of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English

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The first 18 lines of the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Middle English

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"Robert Knightly: is Professor of Creative Writing at UEA, a poety who has represented the British Council in Egypt, Turkey, Lithuania, Russia, Spain, Morocco and Algeria.  Hi s work is translated into 15 languages.  His third collection, Truth, Honour, Freedom and Courtesy (Carcanet Books, 2010) was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize."
From Telling Tales, p. 117

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Frankie Lynn:  once upon a time, there was a wee girl who grew up in an open house with open books that opened minds.  They grew their own food and ran a vegan cafe in Edinburgh, Tatties and Neeps, giving free food to the homeless.  One day, she found a magic pen.....
From Telling Tales, p. 117

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Soul Merchant:  was converted in Wigan Casino in '74 and hasn't looked back.  Became Northern Soul record dealer and for years ran massive stall in Affleck's Palace, Manchester.  Specialised in rare imports, white labels.  Been DJ for 20 years.  Now has regular spot at the Twisted Wheel.  This is his first published piece."
from Telling Tales, p. 118

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Yejide Idowu-Clarke: I am a poet and publisher of academic books, educated at Queen's College, Lagos.  I read PPE, specializing in Philosophy, at Magdalen College, Oxford, gaining a First Class Honours.  I completed my master's degree in Creative Writing at Oxford Brookes University in 2009.  I am based in London and Lagos."
from Telling Tales, p. 117

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"Huw Fryer Jones: is from Colwyn Bay, North Wales.  Studied music at Liverpool and did busking whilst a student for beer money and to impress the ladies. Brilliant! A born matchmaker, he makes his living singing at weddings.  His lyrics are romantic:  his verse is comic.  Has published a poetry pamphlet with Siren."
From Telling Tales, p. 117

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"Mrs. Alice Ebi Bafa: I was born in Nigeria, married at 12 and lived in Ghana until Kwesi died.  Then I married a man from Sierra Leone who died on our wedding night.  Then I married an Englishman who died. Then a Nigerian who died also.  My fifth husband is toyboy, alive and kicking.
From Telling Tales, p. 115

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So Iff the water genie told Haroun about the Ocean of the Streams of Story, and even though he was full of a sense of hopelessness and failure the magic of the ocean began to have an effect on Haroun.  He looked into the water and saw that it was made up of a thousand thousand thousand and one different currents, each one a different colour, weaving in and out of one another like a liquid tapestry of breathtaking complexity; and Iff explained that these were the Streams of Story, that each coloured strand represented and contained a single tale.  Different parts of the Ocean contained different sorts of stories, and as all the stories that had ever been told and many that were still in the process of being invented could be found here, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in fact the biggest library in the universe.  And because the stories were held here in fluid form, they retained the ability to change, to become new versions of themselves, to join up with other stories and so become yet other stories; so that unlike a library of books, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was much more than a storeroom of yarns.  It was not dead but alive.
Rushdie, Haroun and the Sea of Stories, pp. 71-72