#Anglo-Saxon poetry

[thefugitivesaint]

Eric Fraser (1902-1983) ''Anglo-Saxon Poetry'', Selected and Translated by Robert Kay Gordon, 1976 Source

[lumi-waxes-poetic]

The Wanderer: an Old English Poem

Often the solitary one experiences mercy for himself,

the mercy of the Measurer, although he, troubled in spirit,

over the ocean must long

stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,

travel the paths of exile – Fate is inexorable.”

So said the wanderer, mindful of hardships,

of cruel deadly combats, the fall of dear kinsmen –

“Often alone each morning I must

Bewail my sorrow; there is now none living

to whom I dare tell clearly my inmost thoughts.

I know indeed that it is a noble custom in a man

to bind fast his thoughts with restraint,

hold his treasure-chest, think what he will.

The man weary in spirit cannot withstand fate,

nor may the troubled mind offer help.

Therefore those eager for praise often bind a sad mind

in their breast-coffer with restraint.

So I, miserably sad, separated from homeland,

far from my noble kin, had to bind my thoughts with fetters,

since that long ago the darkness of the earth

covered my gold-friend, and I, abject,

proceeded thence, winter-sad, over the binding of the waves.

Sad, I sought the hall of a giver of treasure,

Where I might find, far or near,

one who in the meadhall might know about my people,

or might wish to comfort me, friendless,

entertain with delights.

He knows who experiences it

how cruel care is as a companion,

to him who has few beloved protectors.

The path of exile awaits him, not twisted gold,

frozen feelings, not earth’s glory.

he remembers retainers and the receiving of treasure,

how in youth his gold-friend

accustomed him to the feast. But all pleasure has failed.

Indeed he knows who must for a long time do without

the counsels of his beloved lord

when sorrow and sleep together

often bind the wretched solitary man–

he thinks in his heart that he

embraces and kisses his lord, and lays

hands and head on his knee, just as he once at times

in former days, enjoyed the gift-giving.

Then the friendless man awakes again,

sees before him the dusky waves,

the seabirds bathing, spreading their wings,

frost and snow fall, mingled with hail.

Then are his heart’s wounds the heavier because of that,

sore with longing for a loved one. Sorrow is renewed

when the memory of kinsmen passes through his mind;

he greets with signs of joy, eagerly surveys

his companions, warriors. They swim away again.

The spirit of the floating ones never brings there many familiar utterances.

Care is renewed for the one who must very often send

his weary spirit over the binding of the waves,

Therefore I cannot think why throughout the world

my mind should not grow dark

when I contemplate all the life of men,

how they suddenly left the hall floor,

brave young retainers. So this middle-earth fails and falls each day;

therefore a man may not become wise before he owns a share of winters in the kingdom of this world.

A wise man must be patient,

nor must he ever be too hot tempered, nor too hasty of speech,

nor too weak in battles, nor too heedless,

nor too fearful, nor too cheerful, nor too greedy for wealth,

nor ever too eager for boasting before he knows for certain.

A man must wait, when he speaks a boast,

until, stout-hearted, he knows for certain

whither the thought of the heart may wish to turn.

The prudent man must realize how ghastly it will be

when all the wealth of this world stands waste,

as now variously throughout this middle-earth

walls stand beaten by the wind,

covered with rime, snow-covered the dwellings.

The wine-halls go to ruin, the rulers lie

deprived of joy, the host has all perished proud by the wall.

Some war took, carried on the way forth; one a bird carried off

over the high sea; one the gray wolf shared

with Death; one a sad-faced nobleman

buried in an earth-pit.

So the Creator of men laid waste this region,

until the ancient world of giants, lacking the noises

of the citizens, stood idle.

He who deeply contemplates this wall-stead,

and this dark life with wise thought,

old in spirit, often remembers long ago,

a multitude of battles, and speaks these words:

“Where is the horse? Where is the young warrior? Where is the giver of treasure?

Where are the seats of the banquets? Where are the joys in the hall?

Alas the bright cup! Alas the mailed warrior!

Alas the glory of the prince! How the time has gone,

vanished under night’s helm, as if it never were!

Now in place of a beloved host stands

a wall wondrously high, decorated with the likenesses of serpents.

The powers of spears took the noblemen,

weapons greedy for slaughter; fate the renowned,

and storms beat against these rocky slopes,

falling snowstorm binds the earth,

the noise of winter, then the dark comes.

The shadow of night grows dark, sends from the north

a rough shower of hail in enmity to the warriors.

All the kingdom of earth is full of trouble,

the operation of the fates changes the world under the heavens.

Here wealth is transitory, here friend is transitory,

here man is transitory, here woman is transitory,

this whole foundation of the earth becomes empty."

So spoke the wise in spirit, sat by himself in private meditation.

"He who is good keeps his pledge, nor shall the man ever manifest

the anger of his breast too quickly, unless he, the man,

should know beforehand how to accomplish the remedy with courage.

It will be well for him who seeks grace,

comfort from the Father in the heavens,

where a fastness stands for us all."

[maddyaddy]

Beowulf says to Hrothgar's face: "It's ok if I die, because you won't have to see my corpse get eaten by Grendel".

Statements by the utterly deranged.

[hesy-bes]

Wanderer of the World

Even when I am distant, wandering amidst the past, mimicking your mind, focused on finding my Truth, you guide me back home. Wanderer, O’ Woden, you hold a place deep in my heart. I feel the beat of your staff on earth, in time with the rhythm in my chest. Your runes are my comfort, your wisdom is my well. No matter how far I stray, O’ Woden, I always wander home.

[poeticnorth]

Northumbrian Rune Poems is now officially available for purchase. Digital and physical copies available here.

Inspired by the Old English Rune Poem, Northumbrian Rune Poems centres its focus on the Early Medieval English Futhorc runerows with additional attention paid to the four runes that were in use in Northumrbia. Mixing free verse poetry with kennings found within Old Norse and Old English poetry, Northumbrian Rune Poems is a magical read that breathes new life into an otherwise neglected runerow. Alongside each poem is an Old English adaptation written in a Northumbrian dialect using Old English alliterative style to capture the spirit of the poems in a new light.

[unopenablebox]

im committing lord of the rings fanfiction crimes

[wizardyke]

its 5:54am bitch i have not slept a wink and i will not fucking sleep until at least 9pm tonight i have downloaded on earth we're briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong as a pdf . might buy a monster if they weren't hiked up like crazy . park that car drop that phone sleep on the floor dream about meeeeeeeeeeeeee

[eeriemilyworlds]

[berkeley-mews]

from manish sharma, 'heroic subject and cultural substance in the wanderer'.

[passengerpigeons]

memorizing more of lake superior. it's insane how mnemonic her poetry is given its fairly free verse. reading her earlier nursery rhyme/mother goose inspired stuff shows these rhymes and uses of enjambment/breath that shows in the assonance and consonance and alliteration in her later works

[arda-marred]

Tolkien challenged existing attitudes to the poem in a 1953 paper, “Ofermod”, published with his verse drama The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son in Essays and Studies. “The Battle of Maldon” tells how Beorhtnoth, an Anglo-Saxon leader, led his men in a doomed defence against a Viking attack. The Vikings were on a tidal island in the river; but crucially Beorhtnoth decided to let this marauding force across a causeway (pictured above). Battle was joined, and the English were slaughtered. The poem seems to celebrate what has been called “Northern courage”, a spirit of dogged bravery even in the face of certain defeat. But the poet also describes Beorhtnoth’s decision as the product of ofermod, the meaning of which isn’t entirely clear. Tolkien argued that the Old English word means not simply “daring” but “overmastering pride”. This could be taken to reverse the sentiment of the poem, turning it into a critique of an irresponsible act of leadership. Stuart, whose book The Keys of Middle-earth (written with Elizabeth Solopova) provides a guide to Tolkien’s medieval sources, has been looking at Tolkien’s manuscript notes on the poem, from when he was an undergraduate onwards. And it turns out that Tolkien breathed not a word of criticism of Beorhtnoth for many years – not until around the start of the Second World War. This, Stuart suggests, undermines any supposition that Tolkien’s view of “The Battle of Maldon”, as expressed in his “Ofermod” essay, indicated a “lions led by donkeys” attitude shaped by First World War experiences. I’d agree that Tolkien’s view of the Great War military leaders wasn’t as black-and-white as all that. But I’d certainly argue that his trench experiences gave him some reason to feel very ambivalent about the leaders. As I said at the end of Stuart’s talk, there is the case of one company commander in Tolkien’s battalion who led a company on a night raid that overshot its goal – so when the sun rose, they were sitting ducks for the German machine-gunners and for the British artillery (unaware of their position), and most of the men were wiped out. This fatally over-extended advance by a military leader seems echoed in quite a few incidents in Middle-earth, including the charge by Théoden at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Tolkien’s writing displays a range of attitudes to the different incidents – implying, I think, that he felt deeply ambivalent about such acts of courage from leaders responsible for others’ lives. In a talk which also covered a number of other interesting points from the manuscripts at the Bodleian Library, Stuart cautioned against looking to Tolkien’s life or to contemporary events to explain the change in Tolkien’s views on “The Battle of Maldon”. The Second World War itself could have led to a shift in Tolkien’s view – perhaps because he saw ofermod at its worst in Hitler. And as I pointed out, his later view might have been coloured by the fact that two of his sons were in the forces, and facing mortal danger, whereas Tolkien himself had to sit on the sidelines powerlessly. However, Stuart‘s point was not about the creative writer but the rigorous scholar. As he said in a later email exchange, whatever Tolkien felt about the military leadership of 1914-18 (a debatable question), “he was entirely at liberty to overlay these views onto scenes or characters in his fiction, of course, and did so I believe; but he was too great a scholar to allow his own personal feelings and experiences in the 20th century to colour his views of the tenth.” That’s a persuasive argument.

[hesy-bes]

One-Eyed One

Pæþwyrhta, You lead me to my path, sending my on another journey. I hail to thee, One-Eyed Wanderer, and walk the path you’ve guided me to lovingly. I sing your name, and study your mysteries, and learn all I might. So that I may, continue on, and fight this good fight.

[ofoakandash]

The Worlds ‘Neath the Windy World Tree

A poem by me, speculating on the cosmos from an Anglo-Saxon pagan point of view. Much of this is taken from Norse cosmology, but is given a uniquely English flavour. It is written in alliterative verse, as is much of Old English poetry.

‘Twas on one windy night, that I dreamt a dream of Wōden, the High One, in his High Seat. I went to him ‘fore I wandered the Worlds, to pray for knowledge of their number and names.

I begged that he tell me of those bright and those dark; the dread-homes of dead things, the hallowed halls of high Gods, so of the Worlds ‘neath the windy World Tree might I know.

And so High from the highest of heights spoke thus, as he sat in his seat at the summit of All: “Wisdom I shall grant you; but what shall you give? For the price is a gift for a gift from the Gods.”

So to High I did say, “I shall swear to you thus: that a sacrifice be made unto you and yourself. I promise you this with prayer and praise, from one wanderer to the wisest of all.”

Then High said to me, “I hear your prayer, and the words that you weave for your oath. So my knowledge I’ll grant you, that know you might of the Worlds ‘neath the windy World Tree.

“The first I shall speak of is the first among worlds, the supreme and shining seat of Gods. Esageard we call it, cradled by Heaven, where rule does High from his hall.

“Within Esageard are three heavenly halls, a refuge for the righteous from rot, and the Fields of Frīge, Neorxnawang, and Wælheall where wælcyrian roost.

“Within our borders beneath one of three mighty roots, reside the three weavers of Wyrd. There they tend to the well from which fate is drawn and draw up the doom of Men.

“Yonder, yet not far from Esageard are the hallowed halls of the elves. There dwell they in brightest Ælfhām ruled by fair Ingui-Frea.

“By Ælfhām, you’ll know, is the abode of Man, called Middangeard, or by you Middle-earth. By an ocean it’s embraced, older than time, wherein waits the World Serpent for night.

“To the east if you go you shall find Ettin-home, Ēotenhām, land of the ettins and ents. Where in Iron-wood wolves and worse monsters are spawned, and ‘neath a root is Memory’s well.

“Yet go north from your world, Middangeard, and you’ll arrive in murky Murkhām. Where halls of gold and of grand craftsmanship serve as dwellings for the deep-delving dwarfs.

“Further still from Murkhām is misty Hell, where the Queen of the Dead does dwell. Find your way to the hall of the Goddess Hell lest you wind up in Wyrmsele, ravaged by worms.

“Next go north to the northernmost realm, Nifolhām, a bitter land of frost and fog, where the third of the World Tree’s roots does rest above a bubbling, ancient spring.

“From this spring flow the rivers, their numbers unnumbered, that with waters old wend a way between worlds, crossed only by bridges, and we brave wanderers.

“Thus I speak of the seven worlds beneath the World Tree, and to you make this knowledge known. Go with it, wanderer, with wisdom and sense.”

So said High, the Seer of All, as he shared his secrets with me. And so of the names do I now know of the Worlds ‘neath the windy World Tree.