On the Palimpsest:  

Field Notes in Poetics, Prosody, and Prose  

with the companion poem  

The City 

by  

Bradley Andrew Ramsey 

Toronto, Ontario  

2025 

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Abstract 

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Regarding palimpsests metaphorically, they have come to refer to any artefact which has been reused but still bears traces of its original form. By the mid seventeenth century the word had entered the English vernacular, and was etymologically derived from Latin through Greek, palinpsestos; defined as, palin - again + psestos - rubbed smooth. While the cause of palimpsests is only conjectured, historical palimpsests in etymological origin are artefacts which have certainly been 'rubbed smooth' and even erased. The favour among the bearers of these artefacts to carry the motion to rub smooth or erase, is granted in a permissive and prohibitive rule, to which the bearers of these artefacts adhere. While it was always a deliberate decision to suspend, it remained but permissive in law; hence, the motion carried was allowed, but by no means obligatory. To find favour to erase an artefact, otherwise an act, was oftentimes postponed deliberatively and prohibitively, thus indefinitely forbidding or restricting the motion carried. The bearers of these artefacts were Tories and Whigs.  The Tories adhered to the attitudes and values of tradition, and were critical of the Whigs, who valued the new behavior and opinions of the present day, more than the values found in the past or in tradition; therefore, to deny the motion, or to proceed to erase an artefact, was in the check and balance of an equitable law, and in those times when the motion carried, it never was the case that the bearers of these artefacts would lose their past;  since, concerning the most liberal whig, who favoured a radical freedom and break with tradition (and the motion carried) only an artefact was erased, and by no means tradition, which was present in the minds of the bearers that day, who were called upon to lose something they valued in tradition, but never entirely did lose tradition. For, in the values of even our own present day, that past which was completely erased, nevertheless has remained. 
 

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On the Palimpsest:  

Field Notes in Poetics, Prosody, and Prose  

with the companion poem  

The City 

​

To define what a palimpsest is has become very lately a matter of humanistic concern. I can only suggest that Blackie's Etymological dictionary should be examined, as well as all the OEDs for the historical uses of that word.  I cannot satisfy that requisite for myself, but hope to amend this satisfactorily in the near future.  

 

I say this is a humanistic concern, because I conjecture that monks in monasteries still create palimpsests today, which are probably as significant, if not more so, than the recent discovery concerning Archimedes.i  

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To the world that palimpsests reveal to us, I suppose, in our interpretation we are human, and humanist, and humanistic, but I am concerned that too democratic an interpretation is given to our discovery of texts which we conclude were formerly lost. 

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It has been documented, in many results on the web by a Boolean search of prognosis and palimpsest, and again, with "twain" liberal and palimpsest mixed,  that much hopeful discussion is occurring, at least privately, by experts in fields employed, and formerly not sought out, for their own opinions, in virtue of their job description, that perhaps they shall press to advance.ii 

 

I suppose in order to convince modern practitioners of ancient medicine that there is any more to read to aid treatment, a quick reference of dia/pro could be to one who shall ever ask for the name of the ever nameless disease, that in the romantic age was, the plea of the patient - to be diagnosed with at least something Medical Doctor's had ready to cure - and now is the plea of certain MD's for some cause, thereof. 
 

If, nevertheless, we isolate dia/pro, I wonder if Gnostics know palimpsest. I acknowledge Gnostics know and the rest is up to Gnostics, I know.iii 
 

Nevertheless, one modification of a palimpsest that has garnered some outburst, is the dubious result of 'textual palimpsest', and I might have an opinion, as this expert, who, with regards to beauty and ugliness in palimpsests, might see the sublimity of the ruins recalled in Ann Radcliffe's novel, A Sicilian Romance "twained" with the supra-natural process of prognostication that B. A. Ramsey undertakes in uncovering his first chapter of A Sicilian Armour of the 'motion' of the word sublime from ugliness, in a reaction to terror, to beauty, in the freest awe. 

 

It is false to say as far as we know we have read the underwriting of a palimpsest that was text formerly lost, because at least:  
1. A Palimpsest is an effaced and overwritten text 
2. Appointed to be effaced and overwritten by permissive authority, 
3. While respecting its binding appointment to preserve prohibitive authority. 

 

Rubbings were not uncommon in England in the 17th Century and persist into present day. I once had a figure, as a toy, that I used as I was instructed, by placing a piece of paper over it and with anything used for drawing, could take a rubbing, which revealed the figure underneath. I could take as many rubbings as I pleased, so if there is something in common with a 'rubbing' and a palimpsest, I would suggest some master copy that has always kept intact anything we care to erase for a new document, may exist. 

 

The following are definitions of three types of Palimpsests: 

1. Prognosticative Palimpsests: A prognosticative palimpsest is a layered textual or conceptual artefact in which a prior document—whether literal, poetic, or philosophical—is effaced and overwritten through the supra-natural or imaginative process of prognostication. Unlike traditional palimpsests, which preserve traces of the past through physical erasure, the prognosticative palimpsest anticipates future impressions by rewriting the present in light of what is yet to come. 

2. Liberal palimpsests: 'A Liberal Palimpsest' is one which attempts to fully erase a tradition in regards to the old document, in order to promote new opinions and behaviour. Respecting this type of Palimpsest, there is a definite willingness to part with the past or tradition, despite the fact that traces remain of the old document. 

3. Textual Palimpsests: This type of Palimpsest writes over a document by effacing and replacing text observing recognizable methods of criticism in a given field of expertise, thus uncovering a new document, which bears traces of the old document in its text. With regards to this type of palimpsest the source document is unaltered and remains extant.  

 

Palimpsests were originally a paleographic phenomenon, while historically have come to refer to any cultural artefact which has been reused, but still bears traces of its original form. By the mid seventeenth century the word had entered the English vernacular and was etymologically defined from the Latin word derived through Greek, palinpsestos; that is, palin - again + psestos - rubbed smooth. While it can only be a conjecture with regards to prehistorical palimpsests, historical palimpsests in the literal sense are cultural artefacts which have certainly been 'rubbed smooth'. The manner in which the artefact is rubbed smooth is both permissive and prohibative. It is permissive in a very liberal sense that values the new behaviour and opinions of the present day in place of those of the past or in tradition. In this way, what is material to the original artefact is rubbed smooth, bearing no markings, and in effect erased. However, no artefact is rubbed smooth in an entirely permissive way. We know this because we have come to realize that while palimpsests are artefacts in which material has been erased and replaced with new material, we also have come to realize that traces remain of what was there before. No matter how permissive the manner in which an effacement of an artefact occurs, it is the matter of an effacement which is also prohibitive. Indeed, it is the prohibitive manner in which the artefact is rubbed smooth that ensures that while an effacement of the artefact has occurred, that which has been erased has nevertheless not been defaced. In other words, that which has been erased, has never been a defacement of that which is no longer visible. A palimpsest is rubbed smooth, however it is not rubbed away. There remains beneath the surface of the new material a semblance of the previous material that has never been marred or disfigured.iv 

 

A palimpsest, therefore, is an artefact which is rubbed smooth both permissively and prohibitively; and it is rubbed smooth, 'psestos', but also 'palin', or again, implying that it is rubbed smooth twice. In the former instance that the artefact is rubbed smooth, there occurs an effacement of former material; in the latter instance that the artefact is rubbed smooth, there occurs a replacement of latter material; and, it is in the case that the artefact is newly rubbed smooth that it is effected also in both a permissive and prohibitive manner. 

 

We have seen that the old material of the artefact is rubbed smooth in a liberal way that values new behaviour and opinions in place of the past or in tradition, and this is no less true of the new material that is also rubbed smooth; for, the new material necessarily values new behaviour and opinions in place of the past or in tradition. Thus, it is the case that the effect of the artefact which is rubbed smooth has to do with the replacement of new material, as well as the effacement of old material, and it remains the case that both the old and the new material of the artefact are nevertheless rubbed smooth not only in a permissive way, but prohibitively as well. Howsoever permissive of new behaviour and opinion the new material takes resort, it remains prohibitive; for, despite the fact that the former material of the artefact has been replaced, the material of the artefact that endures is never a defacement, neither is it marred or disfigured. It is rubbed down and polished, because regardless of how liberal or unaccountable to the past or tradition the new material of the artefact is, it remains in a state previous or former in place or position alongside the old material.  

 

Among the cultivated crops of our domicile's literature are fastened two sheaves of wheat in binding; namely, poetry and prose. The green cultivated cereal crop of poetics is our study of linguistic techniques, and one single fruit or one single seed of the green grass's grain is our prosody, our study of versification, and the systematic study of metrical structure. Literary prose is a crop of our language that is never ordinary, even without metrical structure. It has a sound of irregular and varied rhythm that corresponds closely to everyday speech. 

 

In the fertile land of our commonwealth, respecting the growth of literary works, there is a time of plenty and a time when we have little; and in the years that pass by us, while the land is ours and always remains, there are times that we must lay fallow our field. We have had our last harvest. We have beat all the stems and husks of our plants with our flail, in order to separate the good grain and the seed. Yet, there are few seeds, and the grain begins to look like straw. So, we must lay fallow our land; and, we must bury our grain; and, store our seeds; and, depart. We only have straw, and to bury the grain of our literary canon that entitles our tradition to our best poetry and prose is hardship.  We plow and harrow. With our plow, we turn over the soil and cut furrows. With our flail, we break up the clods of the field; we remove the weeds; and we bury, level, and smooth out the field. 

 

Yes, fallow we must. We must part with our best poetry and prose and leave the field unsewn. For, it is only by so doing, that we can restore our fertile canon, that it may once again be cultivated in our era. While we continue to write our own poetry and prose in these times, we shall soon have forgotten that field.  

 

A great work of poetry or prose is covered in times of duress and erased or consists of few traces that remain visible through the earth of the field. If only we could return to the field, we lay fallow. Yet in some of that earth there must yet be some seeds, and the wheat that we beat with our flail, all our hard work that went below; replacing a first impression of a book of poetry or a book of prose, that we are now alien toward, shall nevertheless one day return by our revisions, that we may form subsequent impressions of that palimpsest in poetics, prosody, and prose. Let that writing be covered over, indeed! For all writers want to cover their words. In the remaining traces of the first impression that was lost, we return to that first impression through revisions of poetical, prosodical, and prosaic words; and, they have survived epochs and eras, these revisions of poetry and prose, in every field of interest, covering and recovering a harvest of new wheat. Presently, as we beat the wheat to separate the grain, and we throw back the seed. this new poetry and prose that is a staple for our past, and in our tradition; that lively press; and, that storehouse that brought books inside, to be sold on the market; for all of our sheaves fastened by our best binding, shall render a new first impression in our best words. 

 

Indeed, both a poetic and prosodic, as well as a prosaic palimpsest, is covered when under duress,  by an author who effaces, both poetically and prosodically, as well as prosaically, a first impression; and then, replaces that impression with subsequent impressions, that through his  revisions that are governed by the rules of poetry and prose, render a new first impression that is binding, not only for the author's best words, but for those who came before us, also.  

 

 

                               THE CITY 

Still in our lays fond Corydons complain. 

George Crabbe. The Village, 1783.v 
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  The City life, where every care still reigns 

O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; 

What labour yields, and what, that labour past, 

Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; 

What remain the picture of the poor, 

Recall a song – the Muse shall sing once more. 

  Gone are those times, when, in heroic verse, 

Their country's honour or its joys rehearse; 

Few poets laud, in captivating strains, 

The beauty of long industrial plains;  

And, chimera to all the pains we feel, 

The vibrancy the city lights reveal; 

While he, who condemn’d the pastoral lay, 

Might damn a City in our modern day. 

  In ancient Troy, in Priam's bloody reign, 

Around the City walls, and twice again – But, 

Shall this poem the Classical prolong, 

Mechanical tribute to an old song? 

From fair market price do I not soon stray, 

Where homage, not the ev’ning, paves the way?  

  Yes, the Muse sings in the Romantic Age, 

And all since then has fitted to a page; 

She sings of peasants’ pipes; but the throng, now, 

Chase muff around, and like their pleasures low; 

The Muse, for all her masses, has no rhyme, 

As concord lacks in our discordant time; 

Save I – what son of verse would even share, 

In heroic, eighteenth century care? 

Or would the rarer flower of the field, 

Increase the value of the garden's yield?  

  Would land enclosure suit my modern hand, 

With repercussions felt throughout the land? 

Still, a Romantic thought I needn't ask, 

For Rip Van Winkle 'tis an easy task; 

Who went to sleep two hundred years before, 

And dream'd the lower class had won the war, 

He woke today supposing George was well, 

But wonder'd if the vote was worth this hell. 

  I grant, indeed, the Post-Romantic fair, 

When money grows, and there's no other care;  

But when amid this new romance we trace, 

This post-romantic might lose his place; 

As Fortune smiles on some, with fervid ray, 

On some donned heads, some otherwise array’d; 

While some with softer head and fainter heart, 

Deplore their Fortune, but still play their part; 

Then shall I, this most wanted killer hide, 

In H.D., out of some poetic pride? 

  No; my lesson comes from an unique Bard, 

Where groves and happy dales are duly mar'd;  

Where the real endemic cares he relates, 

Exemplify his pastoral's finest traits; 

George Crabbe once wrought a picture of the cot, 

As Truth would paint it, and as Bards had not; 

Nor you, ye rich, a palimpsest disdain, 

Who say my modern song is sung in vain; 

O'ercome with hunger, and still losing time, 

Allow me the example of his rhyme; 

Would George Crabbe deny me a little bread, 

If I, for village life, gave the town's instead?  

Let this passing song distaste o'erpower, 

And make you more enjoying from this hour. 

  Lo! How this City, with steel beams grown o'er, 

Sprawls in its greyness for the rich and poor; 

Like a dark labyrinth the grid appears, 

Where all shall walk their block despite their fears; 

Fortune, that true killer, I dare defy, 

Looks o'er the land, with greyness in her eye; 

Supremely she stands, her arms spread afar, 

She rules this City, her subjects at war;  

With laughter she mocks the hope of toil, 

Success is hidden in her winding coil; 

Her song is a child's in these busy streets, 

Till the music stops all dash 'round their seats; 

O'er brightest hopes, Fortune casts her dark shade, 

Denying to good hearts that light must fade; 

As mingled rays her promises abound, 

And an uncertain splendor shines around; 

For, no certainty can dress or adorn, 

The threads come loose as she stitches with scorn;  

Whose lips, in vain, are like the two-faced rose, 

Whose crimson flush and pointed thorns, disclose; 

Whose only reward is fool's happiness, 

Poverty her fine; so, to deep distress. 

  Here, beaten, roam the poetical class, 

And true, 'tis woe for ev'ry lad and lass; 

Who without clear prospects to markets fly, 

And barter their exchange with wanton eye. 

  Here, too, the lawless merchant of the block, 

Draws from his coat the mind-altering rock;  

To feed the street claims the labour of his day, 

And yes, Vice steals his nightly rest away. 

  Where is the nymph, who, daily tidings done, 

With long kisses, play'd down the setting sun? 

Who, with wide eyes, and in earnest love, shall, 

With forthright feeling, not suffer to fall; 

While a large swain, exciting and strong, 

Engaged some welcome slipping of her thong; 

And fell beneath her, lay'd, while far around, 

Deep thunder rose, and they return'd the sound;  

Where now are these? Their lovemaking a sin, 

A sprite, they each regret, has seen their skin; 

A complaint has been filed with the law, 

The swain was roundly beaten to the raw; 

Exchanging what they shared for what each lost, 

And, charged the unfair fine, they pay the cost; 

No love is offered, only tawdriness, 

Exchanging innocence for bawdiness. 

 Here, wand'ring long amid the downtown core, 

I sought the glamour of the City roar;  

Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurp'd her sass, 

And a bold, conning, sleazy, savage mass; 

Who, only skilled to trap and skin a hide, 

Will murder you unless you take the bribe; 

Wait until late, and, after getting high, 

On the harmless waif, bend their eager eye; 

Who yells confusion, gives them the finger, 

Dead or alive – roll 'em, and don't linger! 

 How lucky is the goose who leaves the land, 

Who aims his wing o'er gentle sun and sand!  

At the least sign of frost his wings are spread, 

Like him I longed to be, but never fled; 

Couldn't fly from the brutal gales that reign, 

But cried, Ah! hapless we who yet remain; 

Who yet remain to trod on slush and snow, 

And curse the floorboard heaters, row by row; 

Till some lamb's month the thaw ensues, 

And kinder thoughts, the tired mind pursues; 

A charity by which our ilk is fed, 

The foodbank, now, a warmer walk ahead.  

  But these are scenes where Fortune's sleight o’ hand, 

Only deals rubbish to the urban land; 

Hers is the fault – if the City complain, 

Of no public funding for those in pain; 

Yet, right! In other scenes more fair in view, 

Where Plenty smiles – alas! she smiles for few; 

And those who have not, who see those with more, 

Are outsiders who don't fit at the store; 

The wealth around them makes them twice as poor. 

  Or will you deem the welfare cheque enough,  

Your tax dollars pay out when life gets tough? 

Go then! Spend time in any rooming house, 

Live with the lazy, and be a good souse; 

See the unemployed, disabled, and cons, 

The adicts, the artists, the wayward sons; 

Behold them each day aloof in the street,  

In the cold winter, in the summer's heat; 

See them thank the Lord for their daily bread, 

And some fresh bread, see them pray they are fed; 

Just down the road, their sluggish steps pursue,  

As their poor clothes imbibe the ev’ning dew; 

Then no further, their time was yesterday, 

Without hope, way does not lead onto way. 

  Amid this class, too oft poetic zeal, 

Takes less pay, for the uncommon ideal; 

Here may you see a youth of solid frame, 

Contend with canoniz'd poets of fame;  

Yet, making some progress, and loath to yield, 

He refuses a more lucrative field;  

As Time's arrow speeds to the very last,  

Less future holds, and more shall hold his past; 

His poetry that once was current dress, 

Reveals his better days and shabbiness. 

  Yet grant us dreams,’tis not for you to tell, 

Though the clothes are poor, the heart is not well; 

Or will you say that dreams take second place, 

Hard work and goals, and steady wins the race! 

Oh! trifle not with Man’s true heart desire, 

Nor criticize his visions by the fire; 

Pleasure, not pain, hope, not despair are such 

As any human being has right to touch. 

  And you, who would love a life without work, 

Who think your hardest task would be the cork; 

Go! if unemploy’d your good comforts make, 

Go look within and see who’s on the take; 

If he works not - that drooping weary sire, 

Or they - if the children’s looks be not dire; 

Or she, who only wants what’s best for all, 

Who can’t bear to see her family fall. 

  Nor yet can labour herself make for these, 

Life’s latest comforts, peace of mind, and ease; 

For you’d still see that hoary swain, whose age 

Can with no cares except his own engage; 

Who sits on a ledge, and begs to receive 

Alms from a young maid - but, here’s no reprieve: 

For as a young man, a maid fair as she, 

Might have given her hand, not her pity. 

  He once play’d soccer on Varsity field, 

Having the spirit to strike and not yield; 

Full many a friend he had, and looks out 

For acknowledgment from people about; 

He greets one or two with hope in his eyes, 

But gains swift rebuke; walks away - nay, flies! 

Living almost alone in constant pain, 

He asks for alms, earning mainly disdain; 

As a young man he was mentally ill, 

But there was no real cure, only a pill; 

Now expressing his regret is in vain, 

No one really wants to hear him complain. 

  Oft may you see him down by our Great Lake, 

In midwinter, when most that place forsake; 

Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow, 

Who demand right reason ‘gainst his sullen woe; 

And roused by his passion, to the depths speaks, 

To ev’ry wave that rises, crests, and breaks. 

  “O! Great Lake, if you were the boundless sea,” 

“You would be unfathomable to me;” 

“You would be ocean in all his measure,” 

“From China to Peru, at your pleasure;” 

“Yet, only a lake, and landlock’d you are,” 

“For all your cares, you have not travell’d far;” 

“Much as I am, you are tied to the shore,” 

“So I fathom, you must at times want more;” 

“Haven’t you wished you were more than a lake,” 

“Who would for Ocean, this City forsake?” 

  “These many waves, all this water I see,” 

“Are no one’s gain, and a sad care for me;” 

“These rushing waves which all rise, crest, and break,” 

“Are like this City, rushing for your sake; 

“For your sake, I rush on the City shore” 

“A wave that has his moment, then no more;” 

“Only Ocean has more powerful waves,” 

“Ocean decides who he destroys or saves;” 

“Would I were not a wave of the Great Lake,” 

“But Tsunami, who could this City quake!” 

 Thus the poetical class thinks aloud, 

When they are fed-up and tired of the crowd.    

  Theirs is yon house that hold the City poor, 

With a lamp lit beside the golden door; 

Herein dwell huddled, yearning to breathe free, 

The masses, the tired, in their Liberty; 

Wretched refuse, and tempest-tossed have come 

From teeming, ancient lands to make a home; 

They are offered shelter and allowance, 

Medication, counselling, and a chance; 

Say ye,there is no such house in our land? 

‘Tis world-wide welcomed by a beacon-hand; 

With eyes that are mild and with silent lips, 

The Mother of Exiles takes all hardships. 

  Here may the sick approach their final doom, 

Here reside, amid scenes of grief and gloom; 

Where low groans from some sad apartment flow, 

Drown’d in the loud noise of the streets below; 

Here men sorrow, who have no next of kin - 

No family - but, a system looks in; 

Whose laws, indeed, for ruin’d age provide 

Care, in any event, life might subside; 

And this service is by tax dollars paid, 

By Charity, the balance owing made. 

  Say ye, the bank has bought your newest home, 

And credit paid the furniture to come; 

Who press the downy couch, while bills advance, 

In glaring print, to catch your sidelong glance; 

Who run from cheque to cheque to make ends meet, 

For without that flat screen, life’s incomplete; 

Who, in relief, that final notice pay, 

With pennies earn’d for such a rainy day; 

How would ye bear verily poor to be, 

A true debtor within society? 

How would ye bear the price of Charity, 

Humiliated by humility? 

  Beyond each golden door four walls divide 

The City’s refuse from the streets outside; 

Here ev’ry man must learn to cook a meal, 

And clean his clothes, and bathe, and fairly deal; 

And tidy up, and learn frugality, 

Become productive in society; 

Here, on a dingy mattress, reclining, 

In self-regard, and in life, declining, 

To melancholy, then to more disease, 

For him no friend his final days shall ease; 

Nothing to get - love can’t be won by stealth - 

So gets nothing - sans happiness and health. 

  But soon as social workers look within, 

Intake ensues with perfunctory din; 

Anon, one enters, her stoic eye replete, 

To turn life unfulfill’d to life complete; 

With looks unalter’d by this scene of woe, 

Stopping bad ways, she bids the system go; 

And bids the whole system around him fly, 

Projecting only qualm within her eye; 

A true Stoic, in perfect self-control, 

Who claims despite passion a bell shall toll; 

Paid by government this message to perfect, 

Whose mandate, by this truth, shall ne’er neglect. 

  Assessment of the client here assign’d, 

Proves whether to his fate he is resign’d; 

Unless, by some social intervention, 

His life remaining might prove worth mention; 

Confidential questions are hurried o’er, 

Lest the obvious need prove something more; 

This drooping client, long inured to pain, 

And long unheeded, makes a social gain; 

He begins now the company to crave 

Of man; before he sinks into the grave. 

     But ere his death some moral doubts arise, 

Some simple fears, support workers excise; 

Fain would they ask the hoary swain to prove, 

His life is more this world’s than that above; 

For this, he’s sent to live in long-term care, 

Where he may, for prolong’d life best prepare; 

And doth not he, his doctor, standing near, 

Know by long life, there’s no more death to fear? 

Ah! yes; a liquor of a different stock, 

And unlike his, ferment’d by a block: 

A jovial youth, who thinks his tireless task, 

As much as God or Man has right to ask; 

No rest he takes, and weighs no labours light, 

To rounds each morning, and on call at night; 

None better skill’d the hoary swain to guide, 

To urge his health, to cheer him or to chide; 

A scholar keen, a cut above the grade, 

Takes all complaints, knows how each pain is made; 

Then, while such honours bloom around his head, 

Shall he sit sadly by the sick man’s bed, 

To bear bad news he knows not, or with zeal, 

To combat fears he does not really feel? 

  Thus fickle Fortune deems he wants no more, 

Her coil has snap’d; his bitter hour is o’er; 

Naked he was born, and leaves this world as poor. 

For each man’s hopes her answer stays the same, 

With this world, we depart as we once came; 

Born in tears, we yet die with as much pain, 

Dust to dust, or only ashes remain; 

No more, O Fortune! thy fools start to hear, 

By your cruel hand, this City made us fear; 

No more shall peasants take a humble bow, 

‘Tis heaven’s riches that you’ve squander’d now! 

   Here, to the church behold no mourners come, 

Sedately prays the priest his prayer dumb; 

No City children shall their games suspend, 

To see the lonely hearse its journey wend; 

Yet he was one, in all their idle sport, 

A true knight honour’d in their little court, 

Who joust’d, like they, for each maiden’s hand, 

And follow’d on their quests across the land; 

Him, none shall follow to his grave, and mourn, 

The chapel is bare, the churchyard forlorn; 

No memorial, no farewell, no wreath, 

No widow, no son, nothing to bequeath; 

No bells toll here, and only birds sing, 

To welcome the worms his garden shall bring; 

The good priest has discharg’d his weighty care, 

And quits the reverence of his silent prayer; 

Save a man of the cloth, who shall atone, 

When one so blameless must need die alone! 

 

Finis​

Appendix 

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I’d like to tell you about where I use to live. While the ideas in “the field of revision under duress” amounted to this mongraph, I shared this on palimpestical.page:   

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Since I was homeless recently, and have a history of mental illness, I was able to be on a waiting list for community housing, which has assigned me an address, here at Clinton St., owned by the company Madison Community Services.   

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The house that I am living in is designated by this company and the Ontario government as “shared accommodation” so that each tenant has his or her own room and shares a bathroom and kitchen, and other common areas.  I currently reside with three other tenants, but there is an empty bedroom, so at some point we can expect another tenant. 

 

I reside with two other males and one female in this house.  We have, under the ownership and direction of Madison Community Housing, house meetings every two weeks, led by an employee of Madison, who ensures that the house is cleaned, by the assignment of regular chores to us, the tenants.  These house meetings are also designed to give an opportunity for each of us to discuss any issues that we care to bring forward regarding our living arrangements. 

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The tenants I live with are named Joe, Chris, and Rerie, the female tenant.  They were all here before me and have each resided together here for more than five years together. When I moved in, in January 2014, there was also another tenant here, who has recently left us.  

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This is not my first residence and they are characterized by the residents in them who demonstrate all individual character and personality, and in the case of all past living arrangements in these types of places, have shared a common attribute of past and ongoing care surrounding mental health issues, or addiction issue history, including at times prior involvement within the criminal or legal system. In these places tenants have little influence over who their housemates are, either male or female, or the nature of their involvement in the mental health or legal system; however, in the case of my present residence, there seems to be some consideration given to who will move in, by an opportunity to be introduced to a prospective tenant, before a final decision is made. 

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When I was a prospective tenant at my current residence, I was told that this type of living arrangement depends upon the cooperation of the tenants, who must necessarily face conflicts with each other, and I was asked how I would resolve a conflict with a hypothetical other tenant. I answered that I would, in the case of conflict, try to reach a common middle ground, and if we failed, I would recourse to make aware the community housing staff who are respective of our immediate supervision, or otherwise, in a criminal matter, report to the police. This seemed to go over as a suitable reply in the housing interview, and upon meeting my fellow housemates, I was invited to reside here. 

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The house is quite nice, and for the most part the people who reside here are considerate of others and peaceful.  For the most part the house is kept clean by the female tenant, Rerie, who voluntarily does the majority of cleaning in the house, as well as all outdoor yard work and winter snow shovelling, for which she is paid some amount of money monthly by Madison Community Housing.  Once I offered Rerie to share in some snow shovelling in case the weather was particularly bad, but she informed me that since she was given money for her work, she would like to do it herself. 

Although Rerie and Joe are peaceful tenants, who I have had no conflict with since I have lived here, the fourth tenant among us and myself have had repeated occurrences of conflict which Madison Community Housing is attempting to resolve.  

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In these types of living arrangements, one must appreciate the particular, and often peculiar nature, of each individual, under one roof.  It has been difficult for me to appreciate the often aggressive and insensitive character of a man like my housemate, Chris.  He seems to suggest to me that he always likes having things his way, and if he does not, feels that becomes his entitlement to use the force of violence in order to make his will known. 

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In the time I have lived here, several personal arguments he has begun with me, have amounted to a result of once an assault committed against me, another time an intrusion into my own private living space with a threat to do more violence, as well as an ongoing general underhanded taunting and bugging toward myself, against which I am often no match, but rather take offense and give him a piece of my mind. In the first case of violent occasion I called the police, who came over but did not lay any assault charge because there was no visible mark of injury on my person, and they suggested that if I was assaulted again that I should try to film what was happening using my phone.  In the next case, when Chris intruded into the personal space of my own bedroom, threatening to “punch me in the face”, I did not then make a police complaint, but took action to report Chris again to Madison Community Housing, who have presently committed to resolve this issue.  As a result of the ongoing situation and in preparation of an upcoming meeting among my case manager, Chris’s case manager, their immediate supervisor, and myself, I chose to seek out a formal charge against Chris with the police through the non-emergency line with the police department.  Two officers came over and spoke to me, and questioned why this man has not been evicted, and I informed the officers that was what I was attempting to do through Madison Community Housing.  The officers then spoke to Chris, and afterwards informed me that he was not going to even speak to me if he could help it, and they informed me that I must recognize that I share this house with that man, so I can’t help it if he bothers me, and that Madison Community Housing, seems to be taking action, and so departed. 

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I have indicated to Madison that I want Chris to be evicted, and the housing manager has taken this under advisement, so the outcome of this matter seems to sway in the balance, presently.  

We will see what happens. 

B. A. R. 

24 Apr. 2015 

Toronto  

 

Works Cited  

 

Crabbe, George. The Village. Edited by [Editor’s Name], Oxford University Press, [Year]. 

 

De Quincey, Thomas. “The Palimpsest of the Human Brain.” The Works of Thomas De Quincey, vol. [Volume Number], [Publisher], [Year], pp. [Page Range]. 

 

Radcliffe, Ann. A Sicilian Romance. Edited by [Editor’s Name], Oxford World Classics, [Year]. 

 

Ramsey, Bradley Andrew. The City. palimpestical.page, https://palimpestical.page.tl/The-City.htm. Accessed 3 Sept. 2025. 

 

Ramsey, Bradley Andrew. “Ten-fold Light.” IGGYDWARF, https://www.iggy-the-dwarf.com/blank. Accessed 3 Sept. 2025. 

 

Ramsey, Bradley Andrew. On the Palimpsest: Field Notes in Poetics, Prosody, and Prose. Unpublished manuscript, 2025. 

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i The Archimedes Palimpsest is a 10th-century Byzantine manuscript containing the earliest known copies of several treatises by Archimedes, including On Floating Bodies, The Method of Mechanical Theorems, and On the Measurement of the Circle. Overwritten in the 13th century as a Christian prayer book, it was rediscovered in the 19th century and underwent extensive conservation after its 1998 auction. It is currently housed at The Walters Art Museum in Baltimore.
 

ii I use quotations of the word, "twain" for I found it in the results of a Boolean search on google of palimpsest and one of either liberal or prognosis. The author of the result had uploaded a manuscript on the web, which I didn't have a chance to attempt to read, but I was struck by her striking use of the word "twain". I hope I will have a chance to come across this result again, and I do not mean to imply she is liberal.
 

iii The above two paragraphs were written in response to a result I found through a google search on the web, that I recall may have been entitled "Ugly Palimpsest", I was struck by the author's humor and great learning she reveals, and her career path in which she suggests she is underappreciated.
 

I offer the prefixes dia/pro with respect to her research in ancient medicine. I am no expert in her field, but I feel that with respect to modern medicine both diagnosis and prognosis in modern medicine bear the need for an ethical scrutiny, that perhaps could be informed from an ancient propspective.
 

It is lately in the news of the day that Ontario, Canada has noted that children who take MRI tests need to lie till for one hour, and now they are attempting to design a video game that could be played by the child while the test is being conducted, to help a child remain motionless.
 

I am cynical sometimes, and can't help recalling that Ontario has stressed the need to have access to more places where MRIs can be conducted. I wonder why the healthiest portion of the population, namely children, would often require MRIs in the first place, and suggest in reference to Ramsey/25 diagnosis/prognosis, doctors of medicine take too invasive an approach in acquiring much data in the name of the progress of science. I fear that there will come a time when practitioners could even make MRI's routine for even healthy patients, even children, simply in order to rule out potential future concerns that may not be presented or apparently indicative of any malady or concern at the time the MRI is conducted. I wonder if I had a child who seemed healthy, if I would trust our family doctor or a specialist with such a detailed portrait of his or her brain, especially because any child's brain as the child grows up is always developing.
 

I have not been able to find this author's website again, but hope to come across it again, in order 
to attempt to read her writing.
 

iv Cf. This reference is relevant also:
CAMBRIDGESCHOLARS.COMING
Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Rewriting Wrongs
Rewriting Wrongs: French Crime Fiction and the Palimpsest furthers scholarly research into French crime fiction and, within that broad context, examines the nature, functions and specificity of the palimpsest. 
 

Originally a paleographic phenomenon, the palimpsest has evolved into a figurative notion used to define any cultural artefact which has been reused but still bears traces of its earlier form. In her 2007 study The Palimpsest, Sarah Dillon refers to “the persistent fascination with palimpsests in the popular imagination, embodying as they do the mystery of the secret, the miracle of resurrection and the thrill of detective discovery”. In the context of crime fiction, the palimpsest is a particularly fertile metaphor. Because the practice of rewriting is so central to popular fiction as a whole, crime fiction is replete with hypertextual transformations. The palimpsest also has tremendous extra-diegetic resonance, in that crime fiction frequently involves the rewriting of criminal or historical events and scandals. This collection of essays therefore exemplifies and interrogates the various manifestations and implications of the palimpsest in French crime fiction.
In-text: (Cambridgescholars.com)Bibliography: Cambridgescholars.com, 'Cambridge Scholars 
Publishing. Rewriting Wrongs'. N.p., 2015. Web. 18 Feb. 2015.
 

v George Crabbe (1754-1832) was an English Writer of poems and verse tales memorable for their 
realistic details of everyday life. Hating his mean surroundings and unsucessful ocupation as a surgeon, 
he abandoned both in 1780 and went to London to be a poet. In 1783, he demonstrated his full powers of verse with The Village, an attempt to portray realistically the misery and degradation of rural poverty, 
while making good use of his detailed observation of life in the bleak countryside from which he came. 
 

First published as The City Being a Pastiche of George Crabbe’s The Village independently, this 2015 
field work pertaining to the palimpsest as both metaphor and method offers a speculative ground of literary practice rooted in impression, erasure, and return.