The other night, I woke up with the title line in my mind and it surprised me a bit. I may be just on the wrong side of 70, and I can already see that Alzheimers is going to be an obnoxious, if mildly educational (about memory function) and entertaining challenge (for certain frustrational values of “entertaining”), but I am otherwise in great physical shape: robust, at fighting weight, and an active Energizer bunny. And while none of us gets out of here alive, I feel reconciled to my eventual death as a concept, seriously enough that I expect that position to remain solid even in the face of inevitable mental decline (and eventually I’ll stop caring, I imagine).

So… I decided to reexamine my memory of the poem by William Dunbar that provides this line, starting with its source in the Catholic litany, which I had forgotten. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timor_mortis_conturbat_me

Timor mortis conturbat me is a Latin phrase commonly found in late medieval Scottish and English poetry, translating to “fear of death disturbs me”. The phrase comes from a responsory of the Catholic Office of the Dead, in the third Nocturn of Matins:^[1]

Latin	English
Peccantem me quotidie, et non poenitentem, timor mortis conturbat me. Quia in inferno nulla est redemptio, miserere mei, Deus, et salva me.	Sinning daily, and not repenting, the fear of death disturbs me. For there is no redemption in Hell, have mercy on me, O God, and save me.

This strikes me as a precautionary principle — repent while you still can, before it’s too late.

Well, Catholicism (and religion in general) didn’t take for me (I blame Belgian nuns and convent schools at a tender age). And my above toughness re: eventual demise is not impressed by this sort of prudence as a precaution.

So, I proceeded on to dig more into the actual poem, where the phrase is most likely learned by all of us, even if at second (or tenth) hand. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lament_for_the_Makaris

“I that in Heill wes and Gladnes“, also known as “The Lament for the Makaris“, is a poem in the form of a danse macabre by the Scottish poet William Dunbar. Every fourth line repeats the Latin refrain timor mortis conturbat me (fear of death troubles me), a litanic phrase from the Office of the Dead.

Apart from its literary quality, the poem is notable for the list of makars it contains, some of whom are historically attestable as poets only from Dunbar’s testimony in this work. After listing Lydgate, Gower and Chaucer, the makars invoked are Scottish. All but two are cited as having died by the time of the composition. The two exceptions are the courtier Patrick Johnston and known poet Walter Kennedy, the latter of whom died c. 1508. From internal evidence, the lament is generally thought to have been composed c. 1505.

Most of the names can be traced to either the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries.

What I had forgotten was the bolded portion above about the “makars”, that is, the “authors/poets” who are lamented, where this poem is the only known reference to their names.

Now this was beginning to make sense to me as a night terror. I have a whole series-of-the-heart as yet un-completed, with notes/outlines for at least 5-6 entries, at a minimum, and room for more to go. I fabulate plot events when I drift off to sleep, and record notes at bedside. I want to get it done (if it’s the (literal) last thing I do), but I find myself conscientiously busy doing “better write down how stuff works for finances/wills/etc. while I still can”. That’s the prudent approach I was scoffing at above.

I took a hard look at that revealed truth, and discovered that I would rather write and finish my big (last?) series, and not be an unfulfilled “makar”, than dot every “I” and cross every “T” on good-enough brain cudgeling planning. (In my defense re indulgence, I don’t have children to accommodate, just a husband in a similar predicament, with his own plans to make.)

I’d rather leave my mark and possibly influence others, to their greater good or at least entertainment, than take the prudent path and let that wait, if I have to choose. I’ll have to try harder for both.

I stand by the last two stanzas, to live in the memory of readers at least, if not in a literal heaven. (The “He” in the second line is Death.)

Sen he has all my brothers sane,
He will nocht let me live alane;
Of force I mon his next prey be:
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone
After our death that live may we:
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Have you given this sort of thing much thought yet?

---

Here’s the text of the full poem: https://poets.org/poem/lament-makaris

And here a Scotsman reads it with appropriate diction.

Lament for the Makaris

William Dunbar

I that in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound. now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me.
 
No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world's vanitie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Unto the Death gods all Estatis,
Princis, Prelattis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He spairis no lord for his piscence
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee.
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Art-magicianis and astrologic,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis and physicianis,
Themself from Death may nocht supplee:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis is here their padyanis, syne gods to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Holland and Barbour he has berevit ;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
That made the aventeris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nocht flee:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He has reft Mersar his endite
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Cortorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrasit has he:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

And he has now sane, last of a,
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw.
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Dedth lies verily;
Great ruth it were that so suld be:
Timor Mortis conturbat me 

Sen he has all my brothers sane,
He will nocht let me live alane;
Of force I mon his next prey be:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone
After our death that live may we:
   Timor Mortis conturbat me. 

ca 1460 – ca 1525

Thoughts?