#Anglo-Saxon poetry

[thefugitivesaint]

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

[nexusofdomains]

Lake-path

Perilous protracted path, Show me sight of, The length- y languid lake. Lead me to the satin stone sheathed wave-bed. Show me silent won- der, a torrent coursing through the cone-staves. Take not away my torment; grant my core might.

[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.

[austin-friars]

He had been a bishop for nearly twenty years, and a priest for longer, and there was a lesson he had learned, more engraved in the depths of his mind than any bible verse: As sure as the sun rose in the East, a man would never fail to blame a woman for the misfortunes he had bestowed upon her. It did not matter if she was innocent of the offense; let a man of any religion speak against her, and she is a dead woman. He will use his god to ensure her demise.

[unopenablebox]

im committing lord of the rings fanfiction crimes

[den-dype-skogen]

ᛣᚩᛚᛞ᛫ᚹᛁᚾᛏᚱ᛫ᚾᚪᛁᛏ

ᛣᚩᛚᛞ᛫ᚹᛁᚾᛏᚱ᛫ᚾᚪᛁᛏ. ᛋᚾᚩ᛫ᚠᚪᛚᛋ᛫ᛋᛚᚩᚢ. ᛗᚢᚾ᛫ᛋᚳᚱᚪᚢᛞᛖᛞ᛫ᛁᚾ᛫ᛣᛚᚪᚢᛞ. ᚪᛁᛋ᛫ᚪᛞᚩᚱᚾᛋ᛫ᚦᚪ᛫ᛏᚱᛇᛋ. ᚸᚪᚾ᛫ᛁᛋ᛫ᛏᚪ᛫ᛚᚪᛁᛏ ᚠᚱᛟᛗ᛫ᛗᛇ᛫ᛚᚪᛝ᛫ᚪᚸᚩ. ᛁᚾᚾᚱ᛫��ᚪᚱᛣ᛫ᛋᚩ᛫ᛚᚪᚢᛞ. ᚪᛁ᛫ᚠᛇᛚ᛫ᚩᚾᛚᛇ᛫ᚦᚪ᛫ᛣᚩᛚᛞ᛫ᛒᚱᛇᛋ.

[nexusofdomains]

I like writing anglo-saxon style poetry. Sure, I've only written two pieces. But it's stimulating. I think it could be fun/cool/interesting to write fanfic in the form of short-to-longform anglo-saxon style poetry. My ultimate goal is to write a fanfic that is between Beowulf and The Divine Comedy in terms of length. Not sure what fandom it'll be for.

I plan to start by making poems based on Red Versus Blue and Legends of Chima episodes. Might start journaling in anglo-saxon poem at some point

[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'.