The Solitary Student

A blissfully quiet working day on the Arts reception desk (thanks be for university holidays) gave rise to this piece of arrant nonsense, herewith shared for your amusement with apologies to William Wordsworth's The Solitary Reaper:

The Solitary Student

Behold her, single at her desk,
Yon solitary student for a PhD!
Writing and weeping by herself,
Stop here, or quickly flee!
Alone she sits to tax her brain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the halls profound
Are overflowing with the sound.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, forgotten, far-off things
And drama long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Target word count not met today?
Article rejected? Feedback causing pain?
University computer just died (again)?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her thesis had no ending,
I saw her groaning at her work,
And o'er the keyboard bending;
I listened, motionless and in thrall;
And, as I tiptoed down the hall,
The keyboard tapping continued still
Sapping mind and heart and will!

PhD update: six months in

When I started this blog its avowed purpose was to be a forum for my research and academic work. Looking back over my posts from the last few months, it seems to have turned into more of a Pop-up Globe photo fest. (Sorry-not-sorry;  je ne regrette rien.) So, without further ado, here is a brief roundup of my recent much ado about nothings; or, my accomplishments in academia since starting my PhD.

• writing and presenting my first conference paper; attending my first conference 

• presenting at the university's School of Humanities PhD students' seminar series

• writing up my Blackburn conference presentation as a paper and submitting it to the Cerae journal (it made it past the desk-reject stage and is currently under review)

• being invited to contribute a chapter proposal to an edited collection of essays on the family networks of medieval/early modern merchants (go the Blackburns!)

• writing to This England magazine with a plea to those who have seen any productions of the York Mystery Plays since the 1950s, asking them to get in touch if willing to share any memories or information. (NB this request still stands, so anyone reading this who has been involved in any way with the mystery plays and has stories to share, please leave a comment!) So far this has yielded email contact from two lovely people who have sent me information about the Hastings mystery plays, a Times article reporting the £500,000 loss made on the 2016 York Minster production of the plays (what a shame), a copy of the 1957 York Festival Programme, a copy of the Exodus pageant performed in that production, and one very grateful PhD student with a renewed faith in the kindness of strangers.

• applying to, and being accepted for, the University of York's visiting PhD student programme for a year; then balking at the prospect of paying £16,000 in tuition fees and having to decline the offer!

• volunteering as a reader/reviewer for the Hortulus journal

• attempting to learn French, which is pretty much indispensable for working with Middle English; and also, as it turns out, with early 20th century avant-garde drama. Alas, so far this has not been an unqualified success. My working knowledge of the French language is still largely restricted to what I have picked up from watching Henry V at the Globe. Couper la gorge!  

And looking ever onwards and upwards, here are my goals-still-in-progress:

• passing my provisional year review (eek).

• getting to York for the 2018 production of the mystery plays, and to explore the archives and city records there and at Lancaster and Bristol, as a 'visiting academic' (no fees required) as opposed to a 'visiting student' (large fees required).

• ditto getting to Toronto University, where productions of the full cycle were staged in the 1970s and '90s.

• submitting a paper proposal to the 2018 International Medieval Congress (IMC) in Leeds – and being accepted! 

And so, back to work...

Manchester 22.5.17

 Tony Walsh's This is the place, performed for Manchester after Monday's bombing:

Happy days at the Pop-up Globe

Blue skies over the Pop-up Globe. Sometimes the skies look like this:

Globe carpark under water! It takes a certain amount of enthusiasm? dedication? madness? to get out of a nice warm dry car into this...

Hugh and Sebastian come for the Shakespeare but also for the ice-creams :)

Two dedicated fans!

Daniel Rowe, Playhouse Manager, in action

Stage front, and heavens above (note the cannon!)

The Globe standard flies over the yard

The Auckland Philharmonic Orchestra takes over the stage for Shakespeare's birthday

Henry V vs. the High Constable of France

"My soul is in the sky"

Kudos to whoever can spot the Pop-up Globe in this photo 😊

Conversations at the Pop-up Globe

Well-heeled gentleman in the middle gallery: Who are all those people down there?
Me: Those are the groundlings, the cheap tickets and the best view in the house.
Well-heeled gentleman: Are they part of the play? Or can anyone buy those tickets?

*

During a school matinee of Othello:

Schoolboy 1: [whispers earnestly and at length the plot of Othello to his chum]

Schoolboy 2: Oh, thankyou... I understand now.

*

Lady [peering at my lanyard]: Why are you volunteering here?

Me: Because it's fun!!

Lady: Oh...

*

And, without fail, every time I volunteer there will be a version of this conversation:

Friendly fellow volunteer/audience member: So, what do you do?

Me: I'm-a-PhD-student-in-English-Literature-looking-at-medieval-drama-in-the-modern-context.

Friendly fellow volunteer/audience member, light suffusing their features: Ah! So that's why you're here! Living research!

At first I tried earnestly to explain that Shakespearean drama is not medieval but Elizabethan/Jacobean, i.e. early modern, and that I am at the Globe first and foremost because I love it... now I just smile sweetly and say, "Indeed."

I am also asked fairly regularly if I am an actor; I have no idea why (perhaps the 'dancer's posture'?) And someone asked me today how I do my hair. Life is never dull at the Pop-up Globe. 😊

Dream of the Rood

For Good Friday, here is an extract from one of my favourite poems, the Anglo-Saxon Dream of the Rood, thought to be one of the oldest poems in the English language. Rood is the old word for cross or crucifix.

Hwæt! Ic swefna cyst secgan wylle,
hwaet me gemætte to midre nihte,
syðþan reordberend reste wunedon!
þuhte me þæt ic gesawe syllicre treow
on lyft lædan, leohte bewunden,
beama beorhtost. Eall þæt beacen wæs
begoten mid golde. Gimmas stodon
fægere æt foldan sceatum, swylce þær fife wæron
uppe on þam eaxlegespanne. Beheolden þær engel drythtnes ealle,
fægere þurh forðgesceaft. Ne wæs ðær huru fracodes gealaga,
ac hine þær beheoldon halige gastas,
men ofer moldan, ond eall þeos mære gesceaft.
Syllic wæs se sigebeam, ond ic synnum fah,
forwunded mid wommum. Geseah ic wuldres treow,
waedum geweorðode, wynnum scinan,
gegyred mid golde; gimmas hæfdon
bewrigene weorðlice wealdendes treow.
Hwæðre ic þuhr þæt gold ongytan meahte
earmra ærgewin, þæt hit ærest ongan
swætan on þa swiðran healfe.

It loses something in translation, but because the Old English is so hard to read, here is a rough version in modern English:

Listen! I will tell the best of visions,
What came to me in the middle of the night,
When the speach-bearers took their rest!
I thought that I saw a most wondrous tree,
Lifted on high, wound round with light,
Brightest of beams. That same beacon was
Shining with gold. Gems stood
At the corners of the earth, and five were there also
Upon the crossbeam. All there beheld the angels of the Lord,
Fair through creation. This was no wicked gallows,
But beheld there by holy spirits,
By men over all the earth, and by all creation.
Wondrous was the victory-tree, and I stained by sin,
With guilt wounded. Saw I this wondrous tree,
Arrayed in garments, with joys shining,
Gilded in gold; gems had
Gloriously covered this tree of the forest.
Yet, through the gold, I perceived
The age-old battle of good and evil, so that
On the right side the cross began to bleed.

Old English should really be spoken aloud, so here is a reading of the poem I rather like; it also has the words to the poem in both Old and modern English, which is handy:

Popule meus, quid feci tibi? aut in quo contristavi te? Responde mihi. Quia eduxi te de terra Aegypti: parasti crucem Salvatori tuo.

 ~ Reproaches from the Good Friday liturgy