the Henningham Family Press present

The Erroneous Disposition of the People

poetry and prose derived from
the Table of Contents of
Sir Thomas Browne’s
Pseudodoxia Epidemica,
1646

henningham family press

First published by Henningham Family Press 2007
© 2007 Henningham Family Press, David Barnes, Wade Bradshaw, David Henningham
The editors and contributors assert their moral right to be recognised as authors of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
 in any form or by any means without prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9563166-4-6

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Typeset, and e-bound by the Henningham Family Press, Hackney, London
With thanks to Gary McIlwaine and Sparks Studio for their help.

www.henninghamfamilypress.co.uk

Of authors who have most promoted popular conceits:

David Barnes
Wade Bradshaw
David Henningham

Of others indirectly effecting the same:

Poetry kindly edited by
Christopher Twigg

Table of Contents:

That a Kings fisher hanged by the bill sheweth where the winde is (dh)
Of the musicall note of Swans before their death (db)
That Misseltoe is bred upon trees, from seeds which birds let fall thereon (wb)
That Storkes will onely live in Republicks and free States (dh)
On the ominous appearing of Owles and Ravens (db)
That Flyes make that humming noyse by their mouths or wings (wb)
That an Elephant hath no joynts (wb)
That a Wolfe first seeing a man begets a dumbnesse in him (dh)
Of East and West, and properties respectively ascribed unto countries (dh)
Of refraining to kill swallows (dh)

where (dh), (db), and (wb) denote David Henningham, David Barnes, and  Wade Bradshaw respectively.

That a Kings fisher hanged by the bill sheweth where the winde is

From a sinew
over water
we hang
King fisher

The beak-blade bends to the
gusts,
Wind plays on its guts,
Gut-strings plucked,
A note produced
by pressing on its ducts

It eructs;
North!
North!
North-East!

Nothing eats King fisher.
Its fish-spear spears fish,
It is a potentate
not a Tudor dish.

We go West instead,
and leave King fisher dead.

Of the musicall note of Swans before their death

standing
on the shore
the boy lingered,
watching the man
from Australia
feed the ducks.

an anglicised enthusiast,
all tweed and green barbour,
crouching down,
at the water
with his crumpled
paper bag
of bread
and a carton of milk
in the other hand.

“you need to wet
the bread
for the little ones;”
he’d said,
reaching
to beckon
the miniature ducks

as they waddled
out from the water
over the mud-flats.

they were
speckled green
and brown.
their movements
hesitant,
learning to walk.

the boy crouched down,
wondering at this world
of ducklings;
at their fledgling steps,
and the small tinny sounds
that came out
of their beaks.

one of them
was at his feet,
smaller than the rest
it seemed,
following
its siblings,
searching for bread.
but
the child was clumsy,
arms and legs
out of control,
a manic puppet,
his foot too big
for the body.
too big
to understand
how it was

he hit the duckling.

it faltered and fell,
and the boy stood there
waiting