I Would, Too.

here iiis a small sketch of taliesin from a story of mine (also if you wanna get your oc or favorite character drawn like this i offer commissions)

Stained glass by Heaton, Butler & Bayne, depicting the female knight Britomart from Spenser's The Faerie Queene, at Cheltenham Ladies' College.

In The White Goddess, Robert Graves quotes an old Irish triad as saying, “It is death to mock a poet, to love a poet, to be a poet”. As a source of information, Robert Graves is slightly more reliable than Sir Breuse Sans Pitie, and while I’ve seen references to this triad elsewhere, I can’t find an original source for it. Regardless of that, I rather like it.

(From Athletics and Manly Sport by John Boyle O'Reilly)

Words to live by: Fear Celtic Poets

Obscure Arthurian text which everyone should read #2: The Awntyrs off Arthure at the Terne Wathelyne

The name is a bit misleading, since Gawain and Guinevere (here referred to as Dame Gaynour) feature more in the story. The first part concerns their lakeside encounter with the terrifying ghost of Guinevere’s mother, who bemoans her fate, gives Guinevere advice, and doles out prophecies of doom, predicting the death of Gawain and the fall of Camelot to Mordred. The second part is about a fight between Gawain and Galeron, which is more mundane in subject but suggests some of the factors which will make the ghost’s prophecies come to pass.

I don’t put my own propaganda on the poll blog, but this is technically a separate blog, so I think I’m allowed to show some bias here. 

I think it would be excellent if the neglected siblings won. Some of them are awesome and powerful, like Ganieda, Merlin‘s clever seeress sister. Others never get a break, like Lucan, who worked hard to keep things running in the castle while he lived and died in the most selfless and/or ridiculous way. Some of them are just sort of there in the corner, hoping for a scrap of attention. I know nothing about Daniel, but he might be interesting if I got to know him. 

Then there’s this:

Arthur has a biological (half?) brother who is known for his battle skills and excellent sense of humor, swears some sort of cryptic oath before dying, and is not featured in any adaptation I’ve heard of. Why isn’t he in adaptations? Because almost no one has heard of him.

In conclusion, these characters are fascinating, and I think it would be great if they got a moment in the spotlight and some symbolic comeuppance on their attention-hog siblings. If they do, then it’s been several centuries in coming.

Alleged A-Listers: Arthur, Bedivere, Galahad, Gawain, Guinevere, Kay, Lancelot, Merlin, Morgan le Fay, Percival, Tristan

Neglected Siblings: Aglovale, Agravaine, Clarissant, Daniel son of Brunor, Dornar, Elaine of Cornwall, Ganieda, Gaheris, Hector de Maris, Kay, Lucan, Madog son of Uther, Safir

They could have snuck parts of Jaufre into Monty Python and the Holy Grail and no one would have noticed a stylistic difference.

--A wicked knight describing to Jaufre (Griflet) what a knight who touches his lance can do to obtain his mercy as an alternative to being killed after a fight

It was supposed to be Mordred as he’s described in my writing. A friend and I couldn’t find any art which matched our headcanon of his appearance, so I decided to try to draw him myself, but my attempts to make him stop looking like me just made him look like an elven version of my mother. There are several characters who this sort of looks like it could be depicting, especially if you ignore the pointy ear (not quite sure where it came from), but I don’t think it quite fits anyone in particular.

Ah, well. At least it’s clear to everyone that it’s not Lancelot. I think Mordred would hate people mistaking him for Lancelot and kill anyone who did or vastly abuse (and maybe destroy) his borrowed reputation.

Maelgwn is also important in the story of Taliesin, in an incident which doesn't leave him or Taliesin looking great and is Part 2 of my beef with men named Rhun. We do get an impression of Maelgwn as a patron of the arts but not necessarily a discerning one, though it may just be that he didn't have the good fortune to come across as talented a nuisance as Taliesin—he has 24 bards and none of them are very good, or if they are, they can't compare, since no one can. (They end up cursed to say nothing but "blwerm, blwerm" while Taliesin waxes poetic).

Someone once told me that after defecting from Arthur (Cullwch and Olwen plot point), Cai/Sir Kay became a leader in Maelgwn's army, but I am 99% certain there's no source for this and he made it up. All the same, it could be narratively interesting.

Maelgwn Gwynedd

(The lad himself. He looks how I look when confronted with any question at all. An expression of surprise mixed with apprehension. Note the tiny sword and orb.)

Entering the final stretch of 2024 with Arthuriana's favourite 'sodomitical grape' as Gildas called him. Seriously, Gildas has beef with him, almost as much as he has with dubious historical personage, King Arthur.

Not much is known about Maelgwn's reign considering how big of a guy he's become in the Arthurian mythos but what we do know of him is cool!!!

His great-granddad was Cunedda, who was the first king of Gwynedd, and from whom all others were descended. Cunedda had conquered Gwynedd after the fall of Roman Britain. His title, Wledig, is obscure and I won't go into it too much, but Cambrian Chronicles has done a video about it which I will link to at the end! It means 'of a country' but it's more likely it was an expression of some Roman title.

And his great-great-grandad was Edern - yes, the basis of THAT Edern in Welsh mythology - who was a romano-briton. Maelgwn's dad, Cadwallon Lawhir* (long-hand), was *maybe* king but there are also questions about that. Mainly from Gildas. He suggests that his brother, Owain Danwyn (White Tooth), was King and Cadwallon was his right-hand man - which perhaps would fit with him being the guy who drove the last of the Irish from Ynys Môn - and suggests that Maelgwn murdered his uncle to gain the throne. Peter Bartrum also suggests this but does caveat that the term used, 'avunculus' is normally only applied to a maternal uncle.

(Fun fact: Owain Danwyn was the father of St. Seriol who gave his name to Ynys Seriol otherwise referred to as Puffin Island in English. Maelgwn would later be buried here after he died of, well, we'll get to that.)

Regardless of who was and wasn't king, Maelgwn was the first to reap the rewards of his great-granddad's conquest.

He is normally regarded as the House of Aberffraw's founder from which all other kings of that line were descended. (Yes, including Law Lad, Hywel Dda) This would make them one of the oldest royal lineages until the English chopped off the last king of Gwynedd and Wales, Llywelyn Ein Llew Olaf's head. Gwynedd is the territory that they ruled over. Basically near enough to the whole of North Wales. At its biggest, would've stretched from Anglesey to Ceredigion. Maelgwn - like Owain Gwynedd - was referred to as 'Maelgwn Gwynedd' because Maelgwn ap Cadwallon was a v common name at the time and it would be fuckin confusing.)

Now, sorting fact from fiction with Maelgwn is... um, difficult, shall we say. Gildas himself said that Maelgwn killed his uncle as previously mentioned, killed his nephew so he could marry his wife, and killed his wife to ensure that she wouldn't object to her husband sharing her bed with another woman. I'm not going into that because I want to keep it short but IT'S WILD.* What we do know suggests that Maelgwn was a deeply religious man, and I'm not being funny, but Gildas smeared like five kings - including Maelgwn's nephew, Cynlas, otherwise known as Cuneglas.

Anyways, while the seat of Aberffraw was traditionally the village of Aberffraw - as the name suggests - Maelgwn's llys (court) was held in Deganwy and where Llywelyn Fawr would later build another llys many years later. 'It is supposed,' Timothy Venning writes, 'that his fort was 'Dinerth on the Clwyd coast, due to which the owner might have been nicknamed 'Artos.' But there is no clear evidence that he was called that but there is plenty of Arthurian sites in Gwynedd! Also, there's a Dinerth in Llandrillo-yn-Rhos near me, and like I like to think maybe there was a fort there somewhere.

He's also known to have given money to many churches and saints which puts Gildas assertions that he was a bad dude in doubt but, I mean, you can make up your mind. In Historia Brittonum, Nennius, remarks, 'the great king Mailcun reigned among the Britons, i.e., in Gwynedd,' and further adds that Cunedda, Maelgwn's ancestor arrived in Gwynedd 146 years ago and slaughtered the Irish living there. He also appears only once in the Welsh Triads in the 'The Tribal Thrones of the Island of Britain' each ruled by King Arthur. Maelgwn was Arthur's Chief of Elders in Mynwy (St. David's, itself a major religious site both for Celts and Christians.)

Honestly, Maelgwn's intertwining with saints is fascinating. It's known, as I've said previously, that he gave to various churches in Gwynedd, while the Book of Llandaff (written in 1125) says he was a benefactor of the Diocese of Llandaff when that first started. Also, his nephew, St. Seriol's, bestie was St Cybi, otherwise known as the lad who gave his name to the Welsh name for Holyhead, 'Caergybi,' which means Cybi's Fort. Maelgwn was, by all accounts, the one who gave the fort to him!

Now, Historium Brittonum is of further interest to us because it, in Kari Maund's words, 'reflects the 9th-century context in which it was written when the rulers of Gwynedd advanced claims of primacy all over Wales.' It would've been, within the rulers of Gwynedd's interests to present Maelgwn and his pedigree as 'pan-Welsh figures,' and many pedigrees further reflect that. (See, when I said sorting fact from fiction was difficult I meant it!)

HB says: 'These are the names of the sons of Cunedda who numbered nine. Tybion was the first-born who died in the land of Manaw of Gododdin and thus did not come with his father and aforesaid brothers. Merrion his son divided the possessions amongst Tybion's brothers: Oswael the second-born, the third Rhufen, the fourth Dunod, the fifth Ceredig, the sixth Afloeg, the seventh Einion Yrth, the eighth Dogfael, the ninth Edern.' The names of these sons became attached to territories within Gwynedd I.e. Dunoding, Rhufeniog, Ceredigion, and, therefore, the divisions (or Cantrefi) of Gwynedd with them. This is propaganda by other monarchs who wanted to show that the Gwyddelian line were the rightful rulers of Ceredigion but it also shows what a Big Fuckin Deal Cunedda and therefore Maelgwn are both as a historical figure and as a propaganda piece. Timothy Venning also suggests that the 'parcelling out' of Gwynedd to members of Cunedda's family was presented by Nennius as 'justification for its reunification by his patron King Merfyn.' Some even say that Owain Gwynedd (him again!) used the legend to 'provide an earlier precedent for its [Gwynedd's] current division' between his sons.' I'm telling u this cuz a) it's of interest because it shows just how embedded this family are in Welsh mythology and culture. Like u cannot go five fuckin mins without seeing them, and b) Maelgwn comes from a fighting pedigree. (And also because I think this is fun.)

Now, Maelgwn's death is pretty confusing. Reports say he died from the 'Yellow Plague or Justinian's Plague' which had made its way over from Byzantium. My school and grandad both said to me when I was little that Maelgwn died from yellow fever passing through a keyhole and infecting him that way which I think is very scary. I would cry if I was confronted with that. Thank you, Ysgol Nant-y-Coed and Grandad Barry, you gave me nightmares about a yellow fog coming to claim me late at night. That's why I now have to block the keyhole of my room door up with blutac. He was buried off Ynys Seriol so yeah. The throne would eventually pass to Maelgwn's son, Rhun, otherwise known as that 'hot lecher of women' himself.

As for Maelgwn, he's bound up in Arthuriana as are his family. Many kings of his line claimed descent from Arthur further down the line and it's not a stretch to think that maybe that's why he's such a big part of Arthuriana. Also, he's such a cool character in his own right that it would be a disservice not to include him. Edern, Maelgwn's great-grandad, is sometimes said to be Guinevere's lover in Welsh mythology, and that would make him and his line have the genes of the wife defender of Britain and the literal Lad Everybody Gets Their Knickers In A Twist Over, Arthur. It's not a stretch to think that later chronicles went fuckin Mad with this info. I would!

*The video about the term 'Wledig' is here.

YouTube

The Royal Title that No One Can Remember

What makes something untranslatable? How about a royal title, or epithet, given to kings and fictional characters for two centuries... befor

* If you want to learn more about these events can I suggest this web page which explains it far better than I ever could:

https://www.ancientwalesstudies.org/id166.html

Tagging people I think might get a kick out of this: @dullyn @gwalch-mei @gawrkin @crwbannwen @believerindaydreams @queer-ragnelle @cesarescabinet

Okay, hwyl fawr! I'll be back next year to chew your ears off about the Mabinogion in the context of ladies or something.

WIP Amnesty - This Well-nightingaled Place

This is a fic for Tom Stoppard's The Invention of Love, so it isn't wholly about Oscar Wilde and A.E. Housman, it's more about Stoppard's heavily fictionalised, definitely surreal take on them.

Fog. Twilight. A boat, with two men sitting back to back, gazing statue-still in opposite directions.

The world awakens, the fog is lit by a greenish glow. Sounds of sloshing water, birdsong, faraway churchbells, maybe baa-ing sheep, whatever is necessary to give the impression of a nondescript but idyllic English dawn.

One of the men startles, then the other. They both stand up, the boat rocks, they both hurry to sit down.

A moment of silence as they consider their situation.

One of them moves carefully, and without fully straightening up, turns around, and sits back down, on the other bench. Then the other – they are now on opposite ends of the boat, staring at one another. WILDE is dressed in somewhat ostentatious velvets, HOUSMAN in a deliberately boring suit. They are of a similar, but indeterminate age.

WILDE Mr Housman?

HOUSMAN Yes, I believe so. Mr Wilde?

WILDE Delighted to make your acquaintance again. We’ve met before, but we may not quite have been ourselves, that is to say, not these selves, and not in this place.

HOUSMAN This place?

WILDE Just a moment.

He peers around. Shields his eyes with his hand, looks again.

The light is morning light, but it comes from no particular direction.

Sniffs the air.

Sage and fresh-cut grass.

Licks his finger and holds it up to feel the wind.

The breeze is fresh, and westerly.

Dips his hand in the water to feel the current, then as an afterthought, brings his hand to his mouth and takes a sip, then splashes the remainder on his neck.

The waters of Isis, but clearer than they ought to be.

HOUSMAN Where are we then?

WILDE I would say we are where all writers end up sometime after they’re dead.

HOUSMAN (sceptical) Elysium?

WILDE I’m afraid not. We are in the Public Domain.

HOUSMAN

Why do you reckon?

WILDE I’ve been here before, many times. Mostly miserable biographies, and even more miserable fictionalized biographies, but not exclusively. It is fortunate that my creation, Dorian Grey, stands in for me when the writer merely wants to make a point about beauty or decadence or carnal sin, and I am left in peace. I am only here when they want me in person. A clever young man made an exquisitely drawn comic book about my final days before moving on to woefully mischaracterize Hemingway. I’ve been here in a story about Bosie wearing a green carnation, fighting for my last lost book against a host of batlike tyrants who have stolen the very city of London. There was a radio play of sorts that gave me a government job, impressive magical powers, and a handsome young man in plate armour to grovel at my feet. EMPIRE STAR And of course there was the business with young Mr Stoppard, where unless I am mistaken we last met.

HOUSMAN We did.  It has been a long time.

WILDE It has been no time at all. HOUSMAN Maybe not for you – my sleep is deeper. I am not here unless they sing one of my poems, and even then, I only walk these hills as if in a dream. Most days I am only here to the extent the Shropshire Lad is myself, that is to say, hardly at all.

WILDE So we are in Shropshire?

HOUSMAN The Shropshire I wrote is not the Shropshire you may have been to.

WILDE I have been to your Shorpshire more times than I have been to the Shropshire outside your pages. I have no objection to this Shropshirish, Oxfordish, Arcadia-ish place. It is a little dull, maybe, a little too pastoral, but there are worse places to be.

HOUSMAN What- ah, Reading.

WILDE And Paris, and Naples, and Berneval-le-Grand, and every jewel-bright city one visits as an exile and not as a guest.

Silence.

WILDE Don’t be quite so glum, you are souring the English countryside for me, although I suppose that is the highest and truest aim of all your poetry. To hang murderers from every tree, bury suicides at every crossroads and fill the churchyards with dead heroes, which ultimately seem to be the only sort of hero you really care about. To hell with it, show me what’s in that basket!

Housman looks around, and finds a wicker basket underneath his seat. Brings it out, looks into it, slides the whole thing over to Wilde. He rummages through it.

WILDE Cheese sandwiches. Sponge cake. Strawberries. What are these supposed to be?

He holds up a red metal cylinder.

HOUSMAN (glad to have something to explain) This is an anachronism. A deliberate one at that. I’ve seen prototypes at the Patent Office, but they didn’t start manufacturing stay-tab drinking cans like this until the sixties. Nineteen-sixties, that is.

Wilde still looks nonplussed. Housman takes it from his hand.

HOUSEMAN Here, you push the tab, and you drink from there.

Hands it back. Wilde takes a careful sip from the can, considers it, then takes a longer pull.

WILDE Gin and lemonade, with some spice to it. Pimms, maybe. I suppose absinthe would be too much to ask for.

He picks up a piece of sponge cake, eats it. Housman has not yet touched the food.

HOUSMAN There remains the question of why we’re here.

WILDE Someone clearly thinks we have something of relevance to say to one another. Or at least that my fictionalized, much-distorted form has something to say to your fictionalized, much-distorted form.

HOUSMAN So you have noticed.

WILDE What.

HOUSMAN That you’re not quite yourself.

WILDE I feel like myself, but I cannot do myself justice. I am slower, my words less exact. We are diminished, flattened in the hands of an inferior author.

HOUSMAN A corrupted text?

WILDE Worse. An interpolation.

HOUSMAN We might escape the worst of the corruption by limiting ourselves to things we have said before – things we had the time and means to edit beforehand, whenever possible.

WILDE Agreed. Now, why do you suppose you are here with me?

HOUSMAN I cannot think of anything. Not that I mind this boat on this river in this early morning light…

WILDE But you would much prefer to share it with someone else, or, failing that, much rather spend it alone.

HOUSMAN Quite. I am a textual critic first and a poet only by chance. You are an aesthete first and a poet only by circumstance. We have very little common ground.

WILDE You are too polite to mention that I whole-heartedly believe in a Christ that you find at best slightly ridiculous. I am rude enough to remind you that you declare your devotion to a queen and country that I can no longer bring myself to even jest about.

HOUSMAN So it is going to be…

WILDE There’s nothing else.

HOUSMAN It’s not what I wanted to be remembered for. I do not deny it, but I do not want my life’s work overshadowed by one quirk of my temperament. You too deserve better than to have your name tied permanently to scandal.

WILDE I don’t. I gave my own name to scandal, so now people have something to call it, the poor unnameable thing.

*

And that is how far I got with this story - if you want to get a sense of how it would have continued, I suggest you read all of Housman's poems (there aren't very many, it's three slim volumes), read the Ballad of Reading Gaol and De Profundis, they say anything I could have wanted to say much better than I can say it.

Apparently, Camelot of Staten Island Inc. is a branch of a counseling service for people whose lives have been impacted by addictions, either their own or their loved ones’. I would say that some of the people of Arthurian Camelot could have used the services of their Staten Island counterparts were it not that the reviews are very few and several are terrible. I have no more intention of finding out whether Google’s exclusively one-star reviews are accurate than I have an understanding of why someone chose to name a street Arthur Kill Road.

Camelot Ballroom (Overland Park, KS) vs Camelot of Staten Island (Staten Island, NY (on Arthur Kill Road (I am not making that up))