Lemurian City of Ladies

The carved stone high cross stood outside the scriptorium, my favourite room in all the monastery because here I worked alone for hour after hour, with none to disturb the writing and decorating of the manuscripts. I loved everything about this job — the parchment and vellum backgrounds; the goose feather quills; the coloured inks mixed from berries, crushed acorns, metals, and even African beetles. The manuscripts which are carefully worked copies of the gospels, epistles and prayers are all written in Latin. The page borders and capital letters are elaborately decorated in colourful Celtic designs. As I finish the books I sew them together and bind them with leather covers. Time passes by quickly up here in this room, where my cat Pangur Bán, and I spend as much of the waking hours as we possibly can away from the rest of the monastery work. Still sometimes the close work and copying becomes a little tedious. It was on a night such as this that the restlessness entered my bones and there was no way in God’s heaven that I could concentrate on the work at hand. So I began to write the following poem, something I did more often than I should. But on this night I forgot my self and found later that the entire poem had been written in the margins of the manuscript. Ah, as long as my superiors didn’t discover the lapse of attention and the consequent irreverence, no matter.

I and Pangur Ban my Cat

Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight

Hunting words I sit all night

Better far than praise of men

‘Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will,

He too plies his simple skill.

‘ Tis a merry thing to see

At our tasks how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray

In the hero Pangur’s way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.

‘ Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

‘ Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade;

I get wisdom day and night

Turning darkness into light.

(“Pangur Bán” This poem was written by an Irish monk and was found in the margins of a manuscript which was written sometime around the 8^th or 9^th century.)

Original Irish version:

Mise agus Pangur bán,

Ceachtar again lena shan-dhán; Bíonn a mheanma-san le seilg,

Mo mheanma féin i mo shain-cheird.

Caraimse fos, forereach clú

Ag mo leabhrán, ag tuiscint go dícheallach;

Níl sé faradic liom, Pangur bán:

Carann sé féin a mhac-dhán.

Nuair a bhímid, scéal gan scís,

Inár teach, sinn araon go haonarach,

Tá cluiche éigríochta again,

Rud a dtugaimid ár mbeartaíocht dó.

De ghnáth ar uairantaibh, tar éis greasaibh galacha

Gleanann luch ina líon-san;

Agus mé, titeann i mo líon féin

Dlí doraidh is deacair a tusking.

Greamaíonn sé i bhfraigh fáil

A rosc geal comhlán;

Greamaín féin i hedge an fheasa

Mo rosc réil, cé go bhfuil sé an-lag.

Tá átha air a dhul go tapa

Nuair a ghleanann luch ina chrúb ghéar;

Nuair a thug aim ceist dhoraidh dhil

Tá átha ormsa féin.

Cé go mbeimis go deimhin ar uaireantaibh

Ní bhodhraímid a chéile:

Is maith le ceachtar a dhán;

Subhaigh gach aon fúthu.

Is é féin máistir dó

Na hoibre a dheineann sé gach aon lá;

A thabhairt doraidh do shoiléireacht

Is í m’obair féin.

This is an illustration from a very famous old Irish manuscript called The Book of Kells. (Although Pangur Bán did not appear in this book!)