"chaucer" "when Blanche Died" Or "at The Time Of Blanche's Death"

So, you've heard of Chaucer, right? He's that old English dude. You know, the one with the fancy poems and the stories that sound like they were written in a really old language. We're talking really old. Like, pre-pizza old.

Most people remember him for his big famous book, The Canterbury Tales. It's full of pilgrims going on a trip. They tell stories to pass the time. It's kind of like a medieval road trip with a talent show.

But there’s this one bit, this one tiny detail, that’s always bugged me. It’s about Blanche. You know, Geoffrey Chaucer’s wife. Well, actually, she wasn't his only wife, but she was the first one. And, importantly, she died.

And when Blanche died, or, you know, at the time of Blanche's death, something funny happened. Or, well, not funny for Blanche, obviously. That would be tasteless. But funny in a, "Oh, Geoffrey, you silly goose" kind of way.

Chaucer, this brilliant poet, decides to write a big, sad poem. It's called The Book of the Duchess. It's a whole memorial for poor Blanche. A big, literary tribute. Very noble. Very poetic.

And the poem? It's a dream. A long, rambling dream. He dreams he's in a forest. He meets a sad knight. The knight is super, super sad. Like, "world is ending, my dog ate my homework and then the homework was also my dog" sad.

And why is this knight so blue? Because his lady love is gone. Yep. His falcon. His hunting bird. His falcon. Not his wife, not his sweetheart, not his dear mother. His. Falcon.

Now, hold on a minute. We're talking about Chaucer, the guy who is supposedly mourning his wife, Blanche. And he writes a poem where the central figure of grief is a lost bird. A bird!

And this isn't just a quick mention of a pet. Oh no. This is a whole, elaborate, agonizing lament for a feathered friend. The knight goes on and on. He talks about how beautiful she was. How she flew so gracefully. How she was the best darn falcon in the whole kingdom.

He misses their hunts. He misses her loyalty. He misses her feathers. Seriously. He talks about her "felle soft and dun." That’s Old English for "skin soft and brown." He's mourning the softness of her bird skin.

And Chaucer, as the dreamer, is supposed to be empathizing with this. He's supposed to be getting the profound message of loss. And, sure, losing a pet is hard. I get it. My goldfish, Bubbles, he was a good fish. I was sad when he went to the big fishbowl in the sky.

But is it the same as mourning your actual human spouse? The person you shared your life with? The mother of your potential heirs? The one who probably knew where you hid the good biscuits? I think not.

And here's where my little, perhaps unpopular, opinion comes in. When Blanche died, or at the time of Blanche's death, I can't shake the feeling that Chaucer was a little relieved.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think he was a monster. He probably did feel some sadness. A polite, socially acceptable amount of sadness. But maybe the elaborate, dream-infused falcon lament was his way of processing? Or, dare I say it, avoiding the actual grief of losing a human partner?

Think about it. Writing about a lost falcon is a lot easier than writing about the complex emotions of losing your wife. A falcon’s loyalty is simple. A wife’s love? That’s a whole different ballgame. Full of nuances and potentially awkward silences.

Maybe the falcon was a metaphor. A safe, fluffy, feathery metaphor. A way to talk about loss without actually getting too close to the messy, human stuff. It’s like saying, "Oh, my favorite pen ran out of ink," when you really mean, "My life feels empty and meaningless."

And the poem goes on and on. The sad knight just keeps recounting the virtues of his dead bird. He even talks about her "rede eyen." Red eyes. He’s really leaning into the details here.

Then there’s this whole bit about the knight’s unrequited love for a lady. But then he quickly shifts back to the falcon. It’s like, "Oh yeah, human love is complicated. Let's talk about the bird again. Much simpler."

And Chaucer, the dreamer, is just there, nodding along. "Yes, yes, a most excellent falcon. Truly a tragedy." He’s a master of deflection, this Chaucer.

So, the next time you’re thinking about Chaucer and his epic poems, remember Blanche. Remember that when she died, or at the time of Blanche's death, he gave us a heartbreakingly beautiful poem about a falcon.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What was really going on in Geoffrey's head? Was he a man burdened by grief, finding solace in poetic allegory? Or was he a man who found a rather convenient way to express sorrow through the death of a well-trained bird?

I’m leaning towards the latter. And if that makes me a bad literary scholar, so be it. I just find it hilariously, endearingly human. We all have our coping mechanisms, right? Some of us write epic poems about lost birds.

It’s a good reminder that even the greatest artists, the ones we put on pedestals, were just people. People with their own quirks, their own awkwardnesses, and their own slightly bizarre ways of dealing with life and, well, death.

So, cheers to Blanche, wherever she is. And cheers to Chaucer, the poet who, at the time of Blanche's death, decided to write a love letter to a falcon. It’s a story that still makes me smile, even centuries later. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real poetry.

"Grief has many faces. Some cry. Some rage. Some, apparently, write sonnets to their deceased birds."

It’s a thought that, dare I say, is rather comforting. It implies that even in the grandest of literary endeavors, there’s room for a little bit of silliness, a little bit of avoidance, and a whole lot of very relatable human behavior.

And who are we to judge? If a lost falcon can inspire such a magnificent piece of literature, then perhaps there’s a lesson in that for us all. Maybe the most profound expressions of loss don't always come in the most direct or expected forms.

So, when you read The Book of the Duchess, try to see it not just as a lament for a wife, but as a testament to the bewildering, often comical, ways we humans attempt to navigate the uncharted waters of sorrow.

And maybe, just maybe, have a little chuckle. Because if Chaucer can find a silver lining, or at least a very pretty feather, in the passing of his wife, then there’s hope for us all. Even when faced with the stark reality of, well, at the time of Blanche's death.