The Walled Garden

The Hague, KB, 74 G 37a April

Gentle listener, this is a tale of the heartsick singer outside the walls of the hortus conclusus.

In there my lady picks primeroles and lilyflowers, her heart a blooming rose.

But my heart sits in a cage of bone, a lark that cannot fly to peck its rose’s nectar.

I am so beset with sorrow that I must vow to leave off singing, for if she will not hear me, then my songs are but air.

…And yet, wretched as I am, I hesitate to cease my songs. 
For they are air that tastes of her.

Click here to listen to a collection of medieval songs (plus some pleasant instrumental interludes) ~ all dedicated to falling in love in the gardens of springtime.


Below are the best links I can find to the medieval song lyrics included in the playlist, with translations where available. Songs are in a variety of languages, with many in medieval French.

Hortus Conclusus

Can Vei La Lauzeta

Que Pourroit Plus  [page 5]

Lilium Floruit

Fowles In The Frith

Ma Dame, Trop Vous Mesprenés  [page 7]

Rose, Liz, Printemps, Verdure

Ara Non Vei Luzir Solelh

Ecco La Primavera

Pictured above: A lady picking flowers in April. MS The Hague, KB, 74 G 37a

The Illustrations of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, as translated by Edward FitzGerald, was first published in 1859 and subsequently illustrated more times perhaps than any other book. Illustrated editions flourished particularly in the earlier 20th century. An edition of the Rubáiyát frequently involves not just random illustrations here and there, but lavish decorative features, often including an entire book design by the artist. So here is a little taster of some of the nicest illustrators of the poem that I’ve found…

dulac rubaiyat of omar khayyam edward fitzgerald vision

Edmund Dulac (1882-1953)

The ultimate fairy tale master, Edmund Dulac must be one of the most influential and purely gorgeous illustrators around. His version shows a sensitivity to the ‘Oriental’ feel of the poem whilst providing a ‘Occidental’ fairy-tale spirit as well.

Willy Pogany (1882-1955)

Willy Pogany (1882-1955)

Originally Hungarian, Pogany’s illustration here shows a greater interest in realism in the human figures and a desire for a striking pastel atmosphere.

René Bull (1872-1942)

René Bull (1872-1942)

René Bull expresses what to me is perhaps the ideal mood, colour-scheme and imagination for this poem – there is a richness, detail and passion to his art that I cannot resist.

Hossein Behzad (1894-1968)

Hossein Behzad (1894-1968)

A Persian illustrator who knew more than the translation of the poem at hand, Behzad’s art is strikingly colourful, the human figures very much in an eastern style and the lively patterning and decorative features in the scenes bring the illustrations to life.

Elihu Vedder (1836-1923)

Elihu Vedder (1836-1923)

There is something slightly serious and slightly yearning about Elihu Vedder’s work on the Rubáiyát, with its lush full-book design. He lost several children in a short time before working on this book and Khayyam’s message struck him deeply and personally, lifting his spirits. It is also the first full illustrated edition of the book, published in 1884.

Arthur Szyk (1894-1951)

Arthur Szyk (1894-1951)

Arthur Szyk’s pictures seem to reflect a fascination with Persian design (e.g. the rug-like borders) and lavishness of colour – perhaps a little lacking the strength of colour-focus and light/dark contrasts that I personally prefer, but a distinctive approach nonetheless.

Charles Robinson (1870–1937)

Charles Robinson (1870–1937)

I find Charles Robinson’s borders charming and imaginative. His illustrations are less on the symbolic or allegorical side of things and quite immediate, with some lovely detail all over.

Adelaide Hanscom (1875-1931)

Adelaide Hanscom (1875-1931)

Adelaide Hanscom’s is certainly an interesting one – fusing some art nouveau decorative features with photographic images brings a unique approach to illustrating the Rubáiyát. Personally, I find there to be a stiff self-consciousness about the work that detracts from the liquid, lush and layered effect of the poem.

Ronald Balfour (1896–1941)

Ronald Balfour (1896–1941)

Too little of the Persian origin of the poem is remembered in Ronald Balfour’s Beardsley-esque interpretation but there is a whimsical abstraction about the approach.

Sarkis Katchadourian (1896-1947)

Sarkis Katchadourian (1896-1947)

Katchadourian on the other hand is vividly inspired by Persian art, being Persian/Armenian himself. There is a masterful fluidity about his style.

himmapaan (


The most recent artist I’ve chosen to include can be found at this livejournal. Clearly inspired by Dulac and René Bull, the artist also brings a distinctive vibrancy of fabric movement and colour (the use of blues throughout the illustrations for this edition remind me of the recurrent use of that unforgettable blue in Giotto’s Arena Chapel).

I think it is obvious that the Rubáiyát inspires visual artists in exciting, nostalgic, yearning and intriguing ways. I can’t really pick a favourite, although I am partial to Dulac and Bull in particular. I’d be interested which illustrators others favour.

Cimmeria: Land of Mist and Myth

mistSun then set, and shade
All ways obscuring, on the bounds we fell
Of deep Oceanus, where people dwell
Whom a perpetual cloud obscures outright,
To whom the cheerful sun lends never light,
Nor when he mounts the star-sustaining heaven,
Nor when he stoops earth, and sets up the even,
But night holds fix’d wings, feather’d all with banes,
Above those most unblest Cimmerians.

– from Homer’s Odyssey, trans. George Chapman (Book XI)

Immediately after, Odysseus arrives at the dusky entrance to the Underworld.

The real people of Cimmeria (pronounced and sometimes spelt Kimmeria) are almost as cloaked in mystery as their land is in Homer. It is hard to find decent, non-racially motivated or Conan-related material on the internet about the Cimmerians. I use ‘Who were the Cimmerians?’ by Tim Bridgman for much of my information.

The first mentions of these ancient people (who existed largely from the 8th to 7th centuries BC) are in Assyrian texts. They are depicted as a powerful and mobile military threat to the Assyrians and to the proto-Armenian empire of Urartu. Durnig the 7th century, the great Assyrian king Ashurbanipal writes of a Cimmerian enemy. Ashurbanipal is known for collecting a vast library at Nineveh (which includes the Epic of Gilgamesh), for his popularity and for his cruelty to enemies (including putting a dog-chain through an enemy king’s jaw and forcing him to live in a kennel).


Ashurbanipal by Damnans

Ashurbanipal has some stern things to say about his Cimmerian enemy, a leader called Tugdamme. Ashurbanipal’s inscription is found in Babylon and addressed to the god Marduk:

Tugdamme…disregarded the oath of the gods…not to sin against the border of my land, and he was not in awe of thy honoured name. I overthrew him, according to your divine message which you did send, saying: ‘I will destroy his power’.

Being a mighty Assyrian, I’m sure he probably destroyed Tugdamme. The Cimmerians didn’t have all that much luck, historically.


Marduk; teaching a lesson some fool like a Cimmerian who doesn’t keep his promises

No one is quite sure of the Cimmerians’ origins but with a little help from Herodotus, we can piece together a narrative. The Cimmerians were probably a settled people, not nomads, and lived around the northern Black Sea area. The Cimmerians moved south across rivers, across the Caucasus and harried the borders of the Assyrian and Urartian empires. But the Scythians of the east ultimately expanded into the Cimmerians’ home territory and drove them away, perhaps assimilating some of them in the process.



Before the Cimmerians lost their homeland to the Scythians, Herodotus describes how the leaders chose not to flee with the rest. Instead, they fought with each other in equal numbers until all had slain each other. That way, they could all die and be buried in their native soil.

Konstantin Bogayevsky

Painting by Konstantin Bogayevsky

It is possible, although not universally accepted, that Cimmerian migrations after the Scythian expansion led to the Cimmerians moving much further into Europe and making them ancestors to Celtic or Germanic people. It is possible this connection was in Robert E. Howard’s head when he created his own version of the Cimmerian people, the barbarian race of Conan. Howard’s Cimmerians live in harsh, gloomy and mountainous conditions. They are uncivilized but they are generally noble and just.

conan the cimmerian by brom 2

Conan the Cimmerian by Brom

Perhaps Conan isn’t all that bad a way to at least start remembering the Cimmerians, since we have such meagre historical/archaeological evidence of the people. Howard’s Cimmerians and Conan are completely fictional, taking only inspiration from history. But then, so was Homer’s vision of the Cimmeria, right at the gateway to the Underworld. So shrouded in history’s silence and literature’s fancy, I suppose the Cimmerians are better remembered through myth and mist than not at all.

Foggy Mountain by leventep

Foggy Mountain by leventep

It was so long ago and far away
I have forgotten the very name men called me.
The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream,
And hunts and wars are like shadows. I recall
Only the stillness of that sombre land;
The clouds that piled forever on the hills,
The dimness of the everlasting woods.
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.

– from ‘Cimmeria’ by Robert E. Howard

The Life and Poetry of Li Bai (李白)

li bai toasts the moon 2

The bright moonlight
in front of the bed
appears like frost
on the ground. I look up
at the fair moon, and
lowering my head,
I think of home.
‘Night Thought’

Li Bai () is perhaps the most famous poet of the Chinese Tang Dynasty. He was probably born in 701 and from the start, he was a lively and exceptionally clever person. He wasn’t the type of poet who sits in a dark corner composing, either. He travelled the land. Li Bai (who is also frequently known as Li Po) was also a fan of chivalric deeds and definitely a fan of wine. Eventually, ended up at the emperor’s court, composing poems that praised the emperor’s favourite consort, Yang Guifei.

yang guifei charming women

Waiting, she finds her silk stockings
soaked with the dew drops
glistening on the marble palace steps.
Finally, she is moving
to let the crystal-woven curtain fall
when she casts one more glance
at the glamorous autumn moon.
‘An Imperial Concubine’

Li Bai was not one for over-thinking the decorum of the imperial court. He was regularly drunk, even when composing and performing his poems. But that was all part of the joy of life…

li bai entertains

So times present and ancient
meet and follow one another,
I sing long and think tenderly
back to outings in the past.
‘The Pavillion Of Master Xie’

Then, perhaps unsurprisingly, Li Bai managed to offend an important court eunuch after he made the eunuch perform a menial task for him. Poisoning the ear of Yang Guifei against the poet, the eunuch managed to have Li Bai dismissed from court – although, admittedly, he was packed off with plenty of silver and gold for his future travels. And so Li Bai began to wander again. He became a Taoist, which probably suited his outlook on life rather well.

li bai

One jug of wine
a thicket of flowers,
A solitary drunk
no friends around.
I raise my cup
urge Moon to drink,
But Moon has no stomach for wine!
‘Solitary Moonlight Drunk’

Then, when the chaos of the An Lushan revolts swept China, Li Bai got caught up in the disputes over the imperial succession. He managed to find himself sentenced to death, then luckily pardoned. He wandered some more, although Li Bai was a slow wanderer – in no hurry and with no particular drive for a destination. He was a man who enjoyed the journey above all, who enjoyed the pleasant stopping points at friends’ houses along the way, who enjoyed the nights on the road when he might hear a passing flute whisper to him on the wind. Before he could officially return to court when a new emperor invited him, Li Bai died of natural causes.

drinking alone li bai

The spring grasses seem to have an intention,
Growing into a weave in the shade of the jade pavillion.
The east wind blows sadness here,
And so, white hairs encroach.
‘Drinking Alone’

However, natural causes are never as interesting as legend. So for the sake of poetry, Li Bai died when one night he sat in a boat on the Yangtze River. He caught sight of the reflection of the moon in the water and leaned down towards it…falling through the reflected moon and drowning. Li Bai died, perhaps soaked in a few cups of solitary wine, for the admiration of and attraction to a reflection. If poetry is a reflection of life, at once more intense and less real, just as the moon is within grasp and yet is nothing at all, then Li Bai died for poetry.


I pour alone, but urge my lonely shadow to join me,
And idly sing as I face the fragrant woods.
But, you, tall pines, what do you understand,
For whom do you whistle and hum?
My hand dances with the moon on the rock,
Across my knees rests a zither among flowers.
That which lies beyond this wine goblet,
Placid and deep, is not my heart.
‘Drinking Alone’

I am indebted to this wonderful website for texts and translations of Li Bai’s poetry

Patient Griselda

(c) The National Gallery, London; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Spalliera Panels, Story of Patient Griselda Part 1 – Marriage, by Sienese Painters c. 1490

Boccaccio (along with Petrarch, Chaucer, Perrault, etc) told the tale of Patient Griselda. It is one of the most infuriating, disturbing, mind-twisting stories I know. Griselda is a poor peasant maiden and one day the nobleman Gualtieri (so-called in Boccaccio) is pressured to take a wife so he chooses her. He proceeds to put her through trial after trial, testing her patience, loyalty and fortitude to withstand his tyrannical abuses.


Spalliera Panels – Exile

This includes taking away their children and telling her they have been killed. Meanwhile, he secrets the children away to be educated outside the court. Then he banishes Griselda, who all the while is suffering hugely but puts up with this horrific husband. Put back to her base roots and humiliated, she is then called to play bridesmaid to her husband’s new bride! She dresses helps the young girl ready for the wedding and returns to court, only to find out that the girl is one of her children and that the trials are finally over, she can live in peace with her husband.

All’s well that ends well…?

(c) The National Gallery, London; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Spalliera Panels – Reunion

The tale has been read from the beginning as allegorical, perhaps for the seemingly arbitrary torments that God may inflict upon us. Griselda represents the outstanding example of a human soul coping with those trials. If read on a literal level, the husband is the vilest of creatures and Griselda an idiot for suffering in silence. But Griselda is one of those tales where the interplay between the surface level and the allegorical level is tenuous, tense and oh-so-difficult to navigate.

The Spalliera Sienese panels depicting the tale of Griselda are an interesting interpretation of the folktale that truly captures the public humiliation of the girl, the sense of courtly atmosphere that is so alien to her peasant birth and the pomp and ceremony of the husband’s trials…Griselda is mentally tortured and yet, should we truly feel sorry for her? Is our natural reaction of horror and pity too natural, too easy? As Griselda is being tragically exiled on the other side of the panel, this fellow’s jaunty buttocks say ‘read and look with a pinch of salt’:


Bernini’s Louis XIV

Louis XIV by Bernini (1665)

Louis XIV by Bernini (1665)

Some aristocrats were lounging around Louis XIV’s court, watching the old Italian artist, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, sculpt their king.

‘You are a great talent, sir,’ said one of the aristocrats, ‘but here, you have made the eyes too big and the forehead too high. Your depiction of my king is surely not accurate!’

Bernini turned to the aristocrat and shrugged. ‘My king will last longer than yours,’ he said.

Descending from the Cross

Rogier van der Weyden, The Descent from the Cross (c. 1435)

Rogier van der Weyden, The Descent from the Cross (c. 1435)

Christ’s descent from the cross was a very common theme in medieval art and continued to be so in the Renaissance. Rogier van der Weyden (1399 or 1400 – 1464) was an Early Flemish painter who created the above version of the deposition, as the descent is often known. Here, in the burgeoning Northern tradition, there is a sense of harsh humanity to the skeletal figure of Christ and the deeply moving expressions on the other figures’ faces. The striking thing about this painting, at least from a wider view, is the placement of the swooning Madonna and Jesus, whose poses mirror each others’ in a vision of empathy and symmetry.

deposition_of_christ raphael

Raphael (1483 – 1520) is of course one of the most celebrated Italian Renaissance artists, although he died at only 37. What is significant about Raphael’s version of the deposition is how it takes clear inspiration from classical art. Raphael had been observing Roman sarcophagi and modelled much of the vibrant fluidity of the scene from those, as well as taking cues from Michelangelo’s massively influential Pietà for the Christ figure.

Jacopo Pontormo, The Deposition from the Cross (1528)

Jacopo Pontormo, The Deposition from the Cross (1528)

A little later in Italy, we find this deposition of Christ in the Mannerist style by Jacopo Pontormo (1494 – 1557). When I first saw Pontormo’s deposition, having been immersed in Italian Renaissance art for some time, I was jolted awake in every way – it hit me as fresh and alarming and aesthetically mysterious all at once. The first thing to notice (inescapably) is the use of colour; pastel, light, airy, almost insubstantially ethereal so that the painting looks as if it might fly away in a breeze. This is only compounded by the lack of strong lines and the use of meandering, silken textures with limbs and yearning faces that seem to flow into each other in a cloud of melting grief.

Rosso Fiorentino, Deposition (1521)

Rosso Fiorentino, Deposition (1521)

In Rosso Fiorentino (1494 – 1540), the deposition draws from the Mannerist style of Pontormo but the colour scheme is markedly more sombre and the figures are busier than in Pontormo. Instead of melting into each other in grief, they are at work in Rosso Fiorentino – the cross itself is a major architectural backdrop for the figures who grapple, jump, twist and reach all around its impervious stature. The ‘squareness’ of fabrics and figures strike me as a great contrast to Pontormo and the positions of the attendants on Christ seem less fluid and and elegant than those in either Raphael or Pontormo. There is also something absolutely remarkable about the placement of the figures and ladders, with the woman at the bottom stretching across, the near-symmetrical (compare this to van der Weyden) imagining of the scene with the impatient emotion of it all… Although Pontormo’s Mannerist pastel explosion struck me with the hardest impact of all the deposition paintings I have seen, I think in the long run Rosso Fiorentino’s will haunt me.