Three Prose Poems From Medieval Marginalia, by John Riley

Magical beasts in the Rutland Psalter, artist not known (England) c. 1260

Misery

​i am pleased. i come here today with joy. no pain came with me. today is joy. my mountain is strong beneath me. in its joy my mountain threw off its cliffs its trees its rocky crags as i climbed. now i am the peak of the mountain and i am full of joy. joy of the strong. joy of the victorious. i bow my head before you in joy. i wrap my tail in joy. you who are beautiful do not know joy. you who are beautiful have three heads of beauty. i am here to bring you joy and you meet me with misery. misery of the feet misery of the tail misery of the mouth misery of the heads. you are so beautiful only three heads can present your beauty. you are blue when i am the colour of dirt. your legs stand straight and strong while my legs are bent beneath me. now you are beautiful but beauty makes you miserable. sick. sad. ready for death. the beautiful one is ready for death. the beautiful one knew i was coming. the doves were sent ahead to announce my approach. the beautiful could not prepare for my visit. the beautiful one can never escape misery. misery has devoured the heads of the beautiful one and only death can end its suffering. i am here and the beautiful one is here and now we will end suffering.

A nun plucks penises off a phallus tree in the Roman de la Rose, artist not known (France) c. 1325-1353

Gods and Penises

to you watching we once had gods. gods of the storms and gods of the plants. gods of the lilac gods of the kiss placed on thin necks as we knelt and prayed to the gods to come to tell us what we needed what they needed and where we would find the joy to continue. sometimes with scarce food sometimes with rude men not gods. the men who thought they knew the way of the gods. men who know nothing of joy. we who clean and feed the foolish men with robes and gold crescents. we knew the joys of the gods the men could never know. we knew the graceful mornings the sweet nights the cries and murmurs. the explosions. now the gods are gone. all we have is a tree to care for and wait for each season to turn to fall. wait for spring's rains the wet water sluicing down shallow ditches to end. summer's loud storms to end. summer's thunder and wise lightning strikes. we wait through the seasons in silence with soft glances shared across anxious faces. the new god is silent and far away. our gods the gods we loved filled the earth with light and dark and green and arms and kiss soft hands rough hands. this god watches with suspicious eyes. this god is punishment. with the many gods our eyes opened with surprise and closed when spirits flew through windows. flew across fields and followed rivers to their birth and to their end crashing into the dark lakes. now spring has passed and the fields are full. the food is harvested the berries pick sweet apples press them into sweet cider. we alone send one in the dawn before the breakfast and the prayers to go to where joy once lived. where life was once bright. come to see our icon of the gods the icon of gone joy.

Elephant from Chronica maiora, Part II, by Matthew Paris (England) c. 1250s

Town

no more will contain us. we sound bugles ring bells cymbals and songs. our ride is full of cheer. see our eyes smiling forward. see our smiles on long lips. see the light of his walk the strength of his tail. inside the box we are free. inside the straps we are free. we see the rebellion of the one. our heads are turned forward and we see the rebellion of the one. we saw it in the morning and we saw it at noon. we see it now as we cheer and play as the town nears. we sing and cheer the town's gates to open. he is sad angry full of misery and hate. we see all of him. our beast sees all of him. he is foolish to think his spike will end our freedom. we know nothing will contain us. the walls of the box will open. ropes will be untied. we are free and we will not be kept prisoner by a fool with a needle. a fool with a spike. we are safe we are secure in our height we are secure in our music we are secure in our journey. town gates will open. we send music of greetings. music of greetings will welcome our entry. we are not fools and will not be bound by a fool. the gates of the town are empty we enter the town freedom and music enters the town. the fool will never enter. the fool will be left behind.

​John Riley

John Riley lives in North Carolina where he rents his house from two of the most ungrateful dogs he's ever had the misfortune to encounter. He has published work in Literary Matters, Smokelong Quarterly, Litro Review, and other journals and anthologies. 10,000 Words, his book of 100 of his 100-word prose poems was published by EXOT Books in spring 2023.