The most awesome thing ever seen
by Arthur, his court and his queen
was a freak at their feast
(six-eleven at least)
and, weirdest of all, he was green.
Astride a humungous great horse
which (you guessed it) was green, too, of course,
he proffered no name,
but suggested a game,
or that’s what it says in the source.
The game he proposed they should play
was really quite wild in its way:
first, you hacked off his head,
then he struck yours instead
when you met in a year and a day.
Gawain was the most gentle knight
(With Launcelot barely in sight);
so he did the deed,
and the stump and the steed
and the head then hove out of the light.
Time passed – spring, summer and fall.
How the sweet is seasoned with gall!
Our life goes so fast,
we know nothing will last,
and Gawain could no longer stall.
The hearts of the folk were full sore
as though Gawain were going to war.
He left with the lot:
a shield with The Knot;
and his armour – well, that was to die for.
So off he set into the wild
with a faith as firm as a child.
What with wodwos and all,
he missed Arthur’s hall;
and the weather was not very mild.
His spirits had sunk pretty low
when a castle appeared all aglow.
They invited him in
and gave him a gin.
Or was it a wine? I don’t know.
The lord of the place was a sport:
big, bearded ̶ you’ve all met the sort.
He knew the Green Chapel
where Gawain had to grapple
with fate, and confront his own morte.
‘How’s this for a game we could play?’
said the lord. ‘I’ll be hunting all day.
Why don’t we both trade
any gains that we’ve made?’
All Gawain could say was ‘Okay’.
Next morning (the lord out of sight),
the lady laid siege to the knight.
He defended his honour
but looked like a goner
till accepting one kiss as all right.
A deer for a kiss was the score.
Day two, the hunt was for boar.
The lady leaned harder;
Gawain curbed his ardour
and settled for two, but no more.
Day three saw a much tougher test:
the magical sash that she pressed
and he took, out of terror,
was an ethical error,
though it seemed to be all for the best.
He arrived at the fell rendezvous
at sharpening time for guess who.
Gawain didn’t choke
but knelt to the stroke.
What else could the best of knights do?
So twice there down-whistled the axe;
his mettle was melting like wax.
Stroke three, a small nick,
he bounded up quick,
alive and relieved to the max.
And that was the end of the game.
The Green Knight and the lord were the same.
He was untold impressed
how G. stood the test,
but the latter left lathered in shame.
(There’s much that is rum in this lay
– though it’s wonderful too in its way –
such as G.’s sexist guff,
not to mention the stuff
that demonised Morgan La Fay.)
When G. told his story, the laughter
resounded from rushes to rafter.
The knights were so awed
all they did was applaud
and wear a green sash ever after.