The HyperTexts
The Seafarer: A Modern English Translation by Michael R. Burch
"The Seafarer" is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem whose author is unknown. The
original Anglo-Saxon poem, generally categorized as an elegy or lament, appears
on the left. My Modern English translation appears on the right. I have
attempted to "grok" (i.e., to understand as intimately and profoundly as
possible) what the original poet was trying to communicate. But of course there
is no guarantee that I am always correct in my interpretations. At best, this is my personal interpretation of an ancient poem that no one may
fully understand today. But I think the essence shines through, thanks to the
passion and clarity of the original poet. Or perhaps there was more than one
scop involved, as I suggest in my translation notes.Michael R. Burch
The most famous translator of "The Seafarer" was Ezra Pound.
NOTE: There are expanded translation notes after the poem. I have also provided
a Synopsis/Summary, a more detailed Analysis, a Glossary/Vocabulary, and notes
about Genre, Language, Kennings, Theme and Point of View.
The Seafarer (anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
Męg ic be me sylfum This is my
self's
sošgied wrecan, true song, sošgied ~ true tale; wrecan
~ reckoning
sižas secgan, my sea-lay's-saga sižas ~ journey; secgan ~ say, saga
hu ic geswincdagum of how I endured geswincdagum ~ days of toil,
tribulation
earfošhwile life's hardships, earfošhwile ~ hardship-time
oft žrowade, wrenching anguish, žrowade ~ suffer, endure
bitre breostceare bitter breast-cares
gebiden hębbe,[1a] ... and still do! gebiden hębbe
~ continue to have
gecunnad in ceole Tested at the keel
gecunnad ~ tried; ceole ~ keel
cearselda fela,[1b] of many a care-hold,
cearselda ~ care-place; fela ~ many
atol yža gewealc, rocked
by wild waves' yža ~ wave; gewealc ~ rolling
žęr mec oft bigeat relentless poundings
nearo nihtwaco each anxious night-watch, nearo ~ narrow, full of hardship
ęt nacan stefnan, soaked at the stern
nacan ~ ship; stefnan ~ stern, prow
žonne he be clifum cnossaš. when tossed close to cliffs! cnossaš ~ pitch, drive
Calde gežrungen Ice-enmassed gežrungen ~ crowded, pressed
węron mine fet, my
fettered feet węron ~ be, happen
forste gebunden became frost-bound gebunden ~ bind, tie
caldum clommum, cold clumps! clommum ~ bond, fetter, binding
žęr ža ceare seofedun There cares seethed seofedun ~ sigh, lament
hat ymb heortan; hot in my heart;
hungor innan slat hunger's pangs pierced
slat
~ slit, tear
merewerges mod. my sea-weary soul! merewerges ~ sea-weary; mod ~ mood, soul
Žęt se mon ne wat How can land-locked men understand,
že him on foldan for whom
Fortune
foldan ~ land, ground
fęgrost limpeš, smiles more favorably? fęgrost ~ fairly; limpeš ~ happen, befall
hu ic earmcearig How I, care-wracked and wretched, earmcearig ~ wretched-caring
iscealdne sę borne on the ice-cold sea,
winter wunade weathered winter's
wunade ~ live, dwell, remain
wręccan lastum, exile-ways,
wręccan ~ wretch, exile
winemęgum bidroren,[2a] bereft of wine-brothers, winemęgum
~ wine-kinsmen
bihongen hrimgicelum;[3a] my beard hung with icicles, hrimgicelum ~ rime crystals,
icicles
hęgl scurum fleag. my body hail-pelted!
hęgl ~ hail; scurum ~ shower
žęr ic ne gehyrde How I heard nothing gehyrde
~ heard
butan hlimman sę, but the sea's savage roars, hlimman ~ roar
iscaldne węg. its icy-cold rages.
Hwilum ylfete song Sometimes the swan's song Hwilum ~ while; ylfete ~ swan
dyde ic me to gomene, gave me pleasure gomene ~ pleasure, entertainment
ganotes hleožor the
gannet's cries; hleožor ~ song, sound
ond huilpan sweg the curlew's
clamor huilpan
~ curlew; sweg ~ sound
fore hleahtor wera, rather than men's laughter;
męw singende the
seagull's shrieks
męw ~ mew, gull; singende ~ singing
fore medodrince. better than mead-drinking.
Stormas žęr stanclifu beotan, Storms
slammed
the stone-cliffs;
žęr him stearn oncwęš, there the
tern answered, stearn ~ tern; oncwęš ~ answered
isigfežera; icy-feathered;
ful oft žęt earn bigeal, ever the eagle screeched, earn ~ eagle; bigeal
~ yell, scream
urigfežra;
sea-spray-slathered; urigfežra ~ dewey-feathered
nęnig hleomęga
but no consoling kinsmen hleomęga ~ protector-kinsman
feasceaftig ferš came to comfort feasceaftig ~ destitute; ferš
~ soul
frefran meahte. my
destitute soul. frefan ~ cheer, comfort
Foržon him gelyfeš lyt, Therefore he takes it lightly, forbon ~ therefore; gelyfeš ~ takes
se že ah lifes wyn the one who
lives easy, wyn ~ joy
gebiden in burgum, who
abides happily in a burgh
bealosiža hwon, except for a few trifling pains, bealosiža ~ bad experiences; hwon ~
trifle
wlonc ond wingal,[4a] worldly, wine-flushed. wlonc ond wingal
~ haughty & wine-flushed
hu ic werig oft While often I, bone-weary,
in brimlade had to endure brimlade ~ sea-path, sea-lane
bidan sceolde. scalding sea-paths,
Nap nihtscua, shadows of night deepening, nap ~ grow dark, obscure; nihtscua ~ night's cover
noržan sniwde, fierce northern-snows,
noržan ~ northern
hrim hrusan bond, frost binding the ground, hrim ~ rime, ice; hrusan ~ ground
hęgl feol on eoržan, hail flailing the earth, feol ~ fall, falling on
corna caldast.[5a] the coldest of crops. corna ~ grain
II.
Foržon cnyssaš nu Indeed, how
crushing, cnyssaš
~ beat, strike
heortan gežohtas my heart-cares,
heortan gežohtas ~ heart-thoughts
žęt ic hean streamas, that I should strive
alone with hean ~ miserable
sealtyža gelac miserable salt streams' tumults sealtyža ~
salt-wave; gelac ~ tumult, chaos
sylf cunnige[5b] while exploring
sylf cunnige ~ self-exploration
monaš modes lust my moody mind's lusts.
męla gehwylce While always my spirit gehwylce ~ each,
every one, all
ferš to feran, longs to fly forth, ferš ~ mind, soul, spirit
žęt ic feor heonan to find, far from here, feor
~ far
elžeodigra a foreign residence
elžeodigra ~ strange,
foreign
eard gesece
beyond earth-desires. gesece ~
desire
Foržon nis žęs modwlonc Therefore there is none
so mood-proud,
mon ofer eoržan, not a man on earth,
ne his gifena žęs god,[6a] none
so generous with gifts, his gifena žęs
god ~ so good in gifts
ne in geoguže to žęs hwęt, none so bold in his youth, geoguže ~ youth; hwęt ~ valiant
ne in his dędum to žęs deor, none so
brave in his deeds, dędum
~ deeds; deor ~ brave
ne him his dryhten to žęs hold, none so beholden to his
Master Dryhten ~ Lord, Master
žęt he a his sęfore that he in his seafaring
sorge nębbe, has never had to worry
sorge ~ sorrow
to hwon hine Dryhten about what his Lord
Dryhten ~ Lord, Master
gedon wille. will
lay upon him.
Ne biž him to hearpan hyge Not for him the
harp-song
ne to hringžege nor
ring-bringing
ne to wife wyn nor
wife-winning
ne to worulde hyht nor world-glory
ne ymbe owiht elles nor anything else
nefne ymb yša gewealc; except the numbing motion of the waves;
ac a hafaš longunge but
he always has longings
se že on lagu fundaš. who strives with the sea.
Bearwas blostmum nimaš, Woodlands blossom,
byrig fęgriaš, burgs grow fair,
wongas wlitigaš, meadowlands flower,
woruld onetteš: the world hastens forward:
ealle ža gemoniaš all these things urge on
modes fusne[7a] the doom-eager spirit modes fusne ~ doom-eager mind, death wish
sefan to siže the one with a mind to travel,
žam že swa ženceš the one who imagines
on flodwegas venturing far
afield
feor gewitan. over earth's sea-paths.
Swylce geac monaš Now the cuckoo warns
geomran reorde; with her mournful voice;
singeš sumeres weard, the guardian of summer sings,
sorge beodeš boding sorrows
bitter in breosthord. bitter to the breast-hoard.
Žęt se beorn ne wat, This the
normal man knows not,
sefteadig secg, the warrior lucky in worldly things,
hwęt ža sume dreogaš unaware of what others endure,
že ža wręclastas those who
brave most extensively
widost lecgaš. earth's exile-paths.
Foržon nu min hyge hweorfeš Now my
spirit soars
ofer hrežerlocan, out of my breast,
min modsefa my
mind floods
mid mereflode, amid the waterways
ofer hwęles ežel over the whale-path;
hweorfeš wide, it soars widely
eoržan sceatas over all
the earth's far reaches
cymeš eft to me it comes back to me
gifre ond grędig; eager and unsated;
gielleš anfloga, the lone-flier screams, anfloga ~ solitary flier, perhaps valkyrie
hweteš on hwęlweg urges the helpless heart hwęlweg ~ whale-way
hrežer unwearnum onto
the whale-way unwearnum
~ helpless, unresisting
ofer holma gelagu. over the sea-waves.
III.
Foržon me hatran sind Deeper, hotter for me are
Dryhtnes dreamas Lord-dreams
žonne žis deade lif than this dead life
lęne on londe.
loaned on land.
Ic gelyfe no I do not believe
žęt him eoršwelan that earth-riches
ece stondaš. will
last forever.
Simle žreora sum Invariably,
žinga gehwylce three things
ęr his tiddege threaten a man's existence
to tweon weoržeš: before his final hour:
adl ožže yldo either illness, old age
ožže ecghete[8a] or sword's-edge-malice ecghete ~ sword's edge hate
fęgum fromweardum ripping out life
feorh ošžringeš. from the
doom-endangered.
Foržon biž eorla gehwam And so for each man
ęftercwežendra the praise of the living,
lof lifgendra of those who mention him after life ends,
lastworda betst, remains the best epitaph;
žęt he gewyrce, such words he must earn
ęr he on weg scyle, before he departs ...
fremum on foldan Bravery in the world
wiš feonda niž, against the enmity of
fiends,
deorum dędum daring deeds
deofle togeanes, against devils,
žęt hine ęlda bearn thus the sons of men
ęfter hergen, will praise him afterwards,
ond his lof sižžan and his fame will eternally
lifge mid englum live with the angels.
Amen.
Translation Notes by Michael R. Burch
I have divided the poem into three "cantos." The first Canto seems the "eldest"
to me. The second Canto begins to seem "Christianized" with the introduction of
lust, a desire for heaven, and a Lord who must be pleased.
Expanded Glossary/Vocabulary
[1a] Here, gebiden hębbe suggests that the negative experiences
continue.
[1b] Here, cearselda means something like "care-place," "care-hold" or
"care-abode."
[2a] Here, winemęgum means something like "wine-friend,"
"wine-brothers" or "dear kinsmen."
[3a] Here, hrimgicelum means something like "rime crystals" or
"icicles."
[4a] Here, wlonc ond wingal means something like "haughty/proud and
flushed with wine." The phrase also appears in "The Ruin."
[5a] Here, corna means "grain" as maize had yet to be discovered by
Europeans.
[5b] Here, sylf cunnige means something like "self-exploration" or
"self-discovery."
[6a] Here, his gifena žęs god may mean something like "so good in his
gifts" or "so generous in his gifts."
[7a] Here, modes fusne seems to mean something like "a doom-eager mind"
or a "death wish."
[8a] Here, ecghete seems to mean "edge hate" or the hatred of a sword's
edge or blade.
Synopsis: "The Seafarer" is an
ancient Anglo-Saxon (Old English) poem by an anonymous author known as a scop.
The poem's speaker gives a first-person account of a man who is often alone at
sea, alienated and lonely, experiencing dire tribulations. The poem consists of
124 lines, followed by the single word "Amen," for a total of 125 lines. The
poem appears in the Exeter Book, one of only four surviving manuscripts
of Old English poetry.
Genre: "The Seafarer" has most
commonly been categorized as an elegy. It has also been classified as a
sapiential book or wisdom literature. However, in my opinion "The Seafarer" more
closely fits the medieval genre of planctus, or complaint, along with
similar Anglo-Saxon poems such as "The Wife's Lament," "Deor's Lament," "The
Wanderer," "The Ruin" and "Wulf and Eadwacer." These ancient poems have a very
similar "feel," to me, and I think the terms "complaint" and "lament" best
describe the poems and their genre.
Dating the Poem: The Exeter
Book dates to around 990 AD, so "The Seafarer" is at least approximately
that old. However, it could have been composed earlier ... perhaps much earlier.
In any case, it is one of the oldest extant poems in the English Language.
Point of View/Interpretation/Meaning/Message:
The poem's speaker is a sailor who sees the world from a sailor's point of view.
And he's a very "salty" sailor at that! More than once he compares the harshness
and hardness of his existence to that of burghers, or city folk. His point of
view is one of loneliness and alienation from the rest of the world. He seems to
feel closer to seabirds than to human beings. However, please see my Analysis
for a discussion of how the speaker's point of view seems to change, as if more
than one poet may have contributed to the poem, unless the poet had a religious
conversion at sea! The poem has only one character, the speaker, so it may be
considered a soliloquy or dramatic monologue. The meaning of the poem is open to
debate. The poem begins making life sound hopeless. Then there is a ray of hope,
with a possible escape to what sounds like heaven. But the poem concludes on a
darker note, saying that the best a man can do is war with fiends and demons and
leave a good name for himself when he dies. The poem's meaning may include a
debate over which is more potent: fate or faith?
Theme: The poem's theme may depend
to some degree on one's own worldview. In my opinion, the original poem's theme
was that life on the sea is hard, dark, cold and depressing. The theme might be
summarized as "Life's the pits, and then you die." But as I discuss in my
analysis below, the poem's theme seems to change. Thus a pertinent question
becomes: who changed it, and why?
Language: "The Seafarer" was
written in an ancient form of the English language called Anglo-Saxon or Old
English. This is an "intermediate" form of language roughly halfway between
Ancient German and Modern English. We can see the Germanic nature of the language, for
example, in the use of "ic" for "I." The Angles and Saxons were Germanic tribes
and the name England derives from Angle-Land. The best-known Anglo-Saxon poem is
"Beowulf" and its language is similar to that of "The Seafarer."
Kennings: "The Seafarer" includes a
number of Anglo-Saxon kennings (knowings) such as "wale-way" for the sea,
"breast-cares" for heartaches, and "wine-kinsmen" for close family.
Literary Devices: "The Seafarer"
employs a number of literary devices, including: alliteration, assonance, and
figurative language: imagery, metaphors, symbolism and kennings.
Mood/Tone: The poem is generally
bleak, with a few glimpses of light that seem to quickly dissipate.
Location: While the location of
"The Seafarer" remains unknown, it seems reasonable to suppose that speaker was
sailing far north ... perhaps off the coast of England, Scotland, Scandinavia,
or perhaps even Iceland. The ship tossing near cliffs makes me think of Dover
and the English Channel, although that is speculation on my part.
Rhyme Scheme: "The Seafarer" is an
ancient poem, written before the first known English rhyming poems.
Meter: "The Seafarer" is written in
Anglo-Saxon accentual meter. This means that it has
four stresses (emphasized syllables) per line, with a slight pause between the
first two and last two stresses, called a caesura. The first stressed syllable
of the second half-line has to alliterate with one or both of the stressed
syllables in the first half-line. For example:
Bearwas blostmum nimaš, byrig fęgriaš, (Groves take on blossoms, the cities grow
fair,)
Wongas wlitigaš, woruld onetteš; (the fields are comely, the world seems new;)
Structure/Stanzas: The original
Anglo-Saxon poem did not have stanza breaks.
The Role of Religion: There are
different schools of thought about "The Seafarer." One interpretation is that
the poem was originally a pagan poem, with the Christian elements being added
later. Another interpretation is that the speaker "evolved" into a Christian,
moving from a pagan worldview to a more Christian worldview. The honest truth is
that no one knows who wrote the poem, or what he believed at the time the poem
was composed.
Analysis/Assay/Essay/Discussion/Study Guide:
The speaker begins by telling us that his song is true. (Of course this could be
a fictional deviceone that has been used by many poets and
other writers!) The speaker then uses vivid imagery to paint a picture of how
dreadfully cold, dark and dangerous his world can be. He then compares the
harshness and hardness of his lot to the much easier life of burghers, or city
folk. He grumbles that they have it very easy, compared to him! At this point
the speaker sounds plausibly like an ancient Celt or Norseman, both known for
their fatalism. But then the poem's viewpoint seems to shift. Please keep in
mind that my "cantos" are artificial and do not appear in the original poem. But
I think the "breaks" illustrate changes in the viewpoint. It is my theorynot
necessarily correctthat one or more poets "Christianized" the original poem by
extending it into something of a morality play, or sermon. In my opinion the
first "canto" is the strongest part of the poem. Beginning with the second
"canto," we find the speaker suddenly discussing Christian concepts such as
lust, a desire for heaven, and a Lord who must be pleased and obeyed. By the
beginning of the third "canto," the speaker has decided that nothing really
matters but dreams of the Lord, and fighting against fiends and devils! But the
sailor has apparently never met anyone other than a few seabirds, so how can he
fight the Lord's battles? The poem ends with gnomic statements about God and
morality, with the sailor sounding suspiciously like a priest or pastor. While
my theory can probably not be verified, I doubt that the original poet was a
man of the cloth. Christian monks have been known to "Christianize" other works
of poetry and literature. For example, the ancient Celtic myths that became the
legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. So I suspect
something like that may have happened here. In their 1918 Old English Poems,
Faust and Thompson note that before line 65, "this is one of the finest
specimens of Anglo-Saxon poetry" but after line 65 the poem becomes "a very
tedious homily that must surely be a later addition." I found this critique
after splitting my translation into three cantos, and it was interesting that I
had chosen to end the first canto exactly on line 65.
Quiz/Quizlet/Questions:
Who was the author of the original poem?
What language was it written in?
Roughly what percentage of the words can you understand without referring to the
Glossary?
Was the poem's imagery effective? Did you feel the cold? Did you experience and
empathize with the speaker's loneliness and alienation?
How do you think the translation can be improved? You are welcome to email your
suggestions to mikerburch@gmail.com
(please note that there is an "r" between my first and last names.)
Translators and Artists: Michael
Alexander, Stopford Augustus Brooke, Michael R. Burch, Paul Klee (surrealistic
painting), A. S. Kline, Conor McPherson (a play based on the poem), George R.
Merry, Ezra Pound, Burton Raffel, Mary Jo Salter, J. Duncan Spaeth, Benjamin
Thorpe
Quotes/Quotations:
Bitter breast-cares have I abided [Ezra Pound]
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water [Ezra Pound]
Drear all this excellence, delights undurable! [Ezra Pound]
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth. [Ezra Pound]
How I oft endured / Days of hardship / Times of trouble [A. S. Kline]
This is my self's true song / my sea-lay's-saga [Michael R. Burch]
My feet were cast in icy bands, bound with frost [Burton Raffel]
Sing of my seafaring sorrows and woes [J. Duncan Spaeth]
Little he knows whose lot is happy [J. Duncan Spaeth]
"Wulf and Eadwacer" is one of the truly great poems of English antiquity.
It has been classified as an elegy, a lament, a lover's lament, an early ballad or villanelle,
a riddle, a charm, and as a
frauenlieder or "woman's song."
Wulf and Eadwacer
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game;
they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. (fastened=secured)
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
My hopes pursued Wulf like panting hounds,
but whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur clutched me in his paws:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your seldom-comings
have left me famished, deprived of real meat.
Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.
This is the oldest extant poem in the
English language:
Cędmon's Hymn
(Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Eternal Lord,
established the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men, Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind. Then he, the eternal Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master almighty!
"Cędmon's Hymn" was composed sometime between 658 and 680 AD and may
be the oldest extant poem in the English language. According to the
Venerable Bede (673-735), Cędmon was an illiterate herdsman who was given the
gift of poetic composition by an angel. In the original poem, hardly a word is
recognizable as English because Cędmon was writing in a somewhat Anglicized form of
ancient German. The word "England" harkens back to Angle-land; the Angles were a
Germanic tribe. Nevertheless, by Cędmon's time the foundations of English poetry
were being laid, particularly in the areas of accentual meter and alliteration.
Poets were considered to be "Makers" (as in William Dunbar's "Lament for the
Makaris"), and poetry was considered to have a divine origin, so the poem may
express a sort of affinity between the poet and his God.
Bede's "Death Song" is one of the best poems of the
fledgling English language now known as Old English or Anglo-Saxon English. Written circa 735 AD, the poem may have been composed by Bede on his
death-bed. It is the most-copied Old English poem, with 45 extant versions. The
poem is also known as "Bede's Lament." It was glossed by a 13th
century scribe known as the Tremulous Hand of Worchester because of the "shaky"
nature of his handwriting.
Was the celebrated scholar known and revered as the Venerable Bede also one of the earliest Anglo-Saxon poets?
The answer appears to be "yes," since Bede was
doctus in nostris carminibus ("learned in our song") according to his most
famous disciple, Saint Cuthbert. Cuthbert's letter on Bede's death, the Epistola
Cuthberti de obitu Bedae, is commonly taken by modern
scholars to indicate that Bede composed the five-line vernacular
Anglo-Saxon poem known as "Bedes Death Song." However, there is no way to be certain that Bede was
the poem's original author.
Bede's Death Song
(Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric circa 735 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's
or night's way
after his death-day.
The original Anglo-Saxon (Old English) text:
Fore šęm nedfere nęnig wiorše
šonc snottora šon him šearf się
to ymbhycgenne ęr his hinionge
hwęt his gastę godes ošše yfles
ęfter deaš dęge doemed wiorše.
This is a poem I wrote in tribute to Caedmon and Bede after visiting the grave
of Caedmon in Whitby, North Yorkshire, England.
At Cędmon’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch
“Cędmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North
Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the
English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cędmon, an
illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an
angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only
nine lines of Cędmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede.
Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature,
having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s
ghoulish yet evocative Dracula.
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cędmon’s ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric
This is another version of my tribute poem to Caedmon and Bede:
Cędmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cędmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
*
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known:
his father’s face becomes his own.
*
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
This is one of the first Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems to employ a refrain:
Deor's Lament (Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.
Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
That passed away; this also may.
We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.
For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Męring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.
We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.
If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
That passed away; this also may.
"The Wife's Lament" or "The Wife's Complaint" is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon)
poem found in the Exeter Book which is generally considered to be an elegy in the
manner of the German frauenlied, or "woman's song," although there are
other interpretations of the poem's genre and purpose. The Exeter Book has been
dated to 960-990 AD, but of course the poem may have been written earlier.
The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.
First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings ... oh where,
where can he be?
Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.
Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!
Then I thought I had found a well-matched man—
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!
Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever—
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.
So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed—
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!
The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.
A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.
Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.
Woe be it to them who abide in longing.
"The Husband's Lament" also known as "The Husband's Message" is an Old English
(i.e. Anglo-Saxon) poem
from the Exeter Book, the oldest extant English poetry anthology. "The
Husband's Lament" may or may not be a reply to "The Wife's Lament," another poem
in the same collection.
The Husband's Message or The Husband's
Lament
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till,
entering the halls of heroes,
I honored my manly Lord.
Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of
the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.
He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.
He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that
when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.
He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!
Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.
He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.
The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.
But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.
All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now
belongs to my Lord ...
He only lacks you.
He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.
The solution to the riddle may seem a bit obscure to modern readers. Rather than
sending a mundane love letter to his fiancée, the earl has sent a talkative
emissary ... in the form of a staff carved with runes, perhaps fashioned of inlaid
gems or crystals. This is why the emissary begins by saying he "sprang from a
seed to a sapling" and "waxed great in a wood." The emissary began life as a
sapling, grew up to be a tree, then was cut down and became a staff. Then runes
were affixed with the plan for the young lovers to be reunited at long last. Is
this poem related to "The Wife's Lament," in which a woman separated from the
man she loves, whom she calls her "Lord," complains bitterly that members of the
man's family or tribe have conspired to keep them apart? While there is no way
to be sure, it seems very possible to me that "The Husband's Message" is a reply
to "The Wife's Lament."
Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language?
Reginald of Durham recorded four Anglo-Saxon/Old English verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest
songs in English for which the original musical settings survive.
The first song is said in the Life of Saint Godric to have come to Godric
when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale,
being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin,
and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison:
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
žat ic on žis erše ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie
In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” ...
A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
Saintė Mariė Virginė,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenė,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!
II.
Saintė Mariė, Christ’s bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
Saintė Mariė Virginė,
Moder Iesu Cristes Nazarenė,
Onfo, schild, help thin Godric,
Onfong bring hegilich
With the in Godės riche.
Saintė Mariė Cristes bur,
Maidenės clenhad, moderės flur;
Dilie min sinnė, rix in min mod,
Bring me to winnė with the selfd God.
Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas:
Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
Sainte Nicholaes godes druš
tymbre us faire scone hus
At ži burth at ži bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel žare
"The Rhyming Poem" also known as "The Riming Poem" and "The Rhymed Poem" is
perhaps the oldest English rhyming poem. It was included in the Exeter Book,
which has been dated to circa 960-990 AD. However this ancient Anglo-Saxon poem may be older than the
collection in which it was discovered.
The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and
The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.
Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.
Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane ...
Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.
My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated ...
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.
I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.
But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.
The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.
So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.
When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.
"The Ruin" is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This
modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems
is followed by footnotes and the translator's comments. Included in the notes
are a summary and analysis of the poem's plot, theme, genre, history,
context, references and techniques. The original Anglo-Saxon text
appears after the notes. This elegy/lament may have been written by an Anglo-Saxon
scop (poet) who admired the
long-lasting construction-work of the ancient Romans. The references to
bath-houses and a stream gushing forth hot water suggest that the ruins in
question are those of Bath, England. "The Ruin" appeared in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around
960 to 990 AD. Of course the poems in the book could have been written at some
earlier date—perhaps considerably earlier.
Note: In Anglo-Saxon poetry the Wyrdes were like the Fates of Greek mythology,
and the Fates controlled human destinies. I have interpreted the poem to be a
war of sorts between human Giants and the Wyrdes, so I have chosen to capitalize
only the two warring parties. While it may seem that the Wyrdes won, the work of
the Giants still stands ...
THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward ...
broad battlements broken;
the Builders' work battered;
the high ramparts ransacked;
tall towers collapsed;
the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape ...
mortar mottled and marred by scarring hoar-frosts ...
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ...
shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters ...
where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?
the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!
for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!
it outlasted mighty kings and their clans!
how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.
then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks buckled;
then the dark days of disease descended ...
as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground—
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!
therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ...
when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.
here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad bosom.
... that was spacious ...
A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, and dies alone.
Oft daedlata domę foręldit,
sigisitha gahuem, suuyltit thi ana.
Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface (c. 675–754). The poem
might better be titled "A Proverb Against Procrastination from Winfred's Time."
This may be the second-oldest English poem, after "Caedmon's Hymn."
Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.
Fisc flōd āhōf on firgenberig.
Wearž gāsric grorn žǣr hē on grēot geswam.
Hranes bān.
Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.
Rōmwalus and Rēomwalus, twēgen gebrōšera:
fēdde hīe wylf in Rōmeceastre, ēšle unnēah.
"The Leiden
Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica
("Corselet").
The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
Solution: a coat of mail.
If you see a busker singing for tips, you are seeing someone carrying on an
Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf ...
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This an early Middle English poem that is a "bridge" of sorts between
Anglo-Saxon poetry and later Middle English poetry ...
Brut (circa 1100 AD,
written by Layamon, an excerpt)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed
in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the
first known reference to King Arthur in English. The passage above is a good
example of Layamon's gift for imagery. It's interesting, I think, that a
thousand years ago a poet was dabbling in surrealism, with dead warriors being
described as if they were both men and fish.
This is another early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come
...
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa
11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now skruketh rose and lylie flour, // Now
the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That whilen ber that suete savour //
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In somer, that suete tyde; //
In summer, that sweet tide;
Ne is no quene so stark ne stour, // There is
no queen so stark in her power
Ne no luedy so bryht in bour //
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That ded ne shal by glyde: // That Death shall not summon and guide;
Whoso wol fleshye lust for-gon and hevene-blisse abyde // But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
On Jhesu be is thoht anon, that tharled was ys side. // With his thoughts
on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.
skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?
A similar poem to the one above, in time and language, is
"Blow Northerne Wynd," which has been called the "most ancient love
poem in the English language," perhaps composed during the reign of King John.
But I prefer the lovely poem above, if not the Christian sentiments of the
closing couplet.
ANGLO-SAXON RIDDLES AND KENNINGS
Riddle: Water Become Bone
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wonder-wrought waves: water become bone!
(Solution: Ice on a frozen lake or seashore.)
I call my translations "loose translations" because rather than trying to
reproduce each ancient word literally, losing much of the poetry in the process,
I try to "ken" what the original poet was thinking and feeling, then turn those
feelings and thoughts into modern English. Whether I have succeeded or
not is up to you, the reader, since no one can inquire with the original
authors. But I think my translation does capture something of the spirit of
the original poem: the magic of translucent liquid water somehow becoming solid
and white, like bone.
Riddle: A Female Brooding
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I saw a female, solitary, brooding.
(Solution: A hen, and perhaps a human woman left to bear and raise her children
alone, because some cocky rooster refused to accept his responsibility as their
father.)
The poems
of the Exeter Book were written in Anglo-Saxon English―also known as
Old English―and thus they exhibit a heavy
Germanic influence. (The Angles, from whom England derives its name, were a Germanic tribe, as were
the Saxons and Jutes.) While these poems are
often grouped together and called "riddles" collectively, some of them are actually kennings,
or extended metaphors. Anglo-Saxon scops frequently employed two-word kennings:
alliterative metaphors like "whale-way" and "swan-road" for the sea, "sea-steeds" for ships,
"tickle-tools" for feathers, and "mead-making" for drunken, rambling speech.
When Anglo-Saxon scops constructed poems, they sometimes "extended" such kennings into
larger, more elaborate constructions such as grįr nagr hręva ("the grey
bird of corpses") and žjóš mįna stiettar ("the people of the moon's
path"). My favorite kenning is wordhord
("word-hoard"), a metaphor for a poet's vocabulary. In some cases, metaphors were
extended into poems of considerable length and complexity, anticipating the work
of metaphysical poets to come several centuries later, such as John Donne,
Andrew Marvell, George Herbert and Henry Vaughan. Modern examples of extended
metaphors include Donne's holy sonnets, Marvell's famous carpe diem poem "To His
Coy Mistress," and Herbert's devotional poems "The Collar" and "The Pulley." The ancient
Anglo-Saxon scops tended to be less "sophisticated" than their poetic descendents; they
were coarser, lewder and often wickedly funny! The scops were to the metaphysical poets
as Andrew Dice Clay is to Jerry Seinfeld, or Meatloaf to the Three Tenors.
By way of example, here is a wonderfully humorous and ironic kenning, in which the
identity of the protagonist is revealed immediately, meaning that the poem is
not really a riddle in the modern sense of the word:
Kenning: A Moth Devoured Words
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A moth devoured words!
When I heard about this horrific theft,
I thought it passing strange
that an insect can feast on a man's finest song,
gorge on his grandiloquence,
riddle his most righteous rhetoric.
But then I realized: the wee bookworm
wandered away not one whit the wiser!
(Kenning: A moth is not fooled or impressed by man's rhetoric. Nor is
there anything to be learned in foppish nonsense, even by the smallest of
bookworms.)
Some of these poems may be described as "gnomic verses," "maxims" and "metrical
proverbs" or "alliterative proverbs."
Anglo-Saxon Gnomic Verses
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Frost shall freeze,
fire feast on firs,
earth breed blizzards,
brazen ice bridge,
water wear shields,
oxen axe frost's fetters,
freeing the grain
from ice-imprisonment ...
Winter shall wane,
warm winds return:
spring sunned into summer!
Kings shall win
wise queens with largesse,
with beakers and bracelets;
both must be
generous with their gifts.
Courage must create
war-lust in a lord
while his woman shows
kindness to her people,
delightful in dress,
interpreter of rune-words,
roomy-hearted
at hearth-sharing and
horse-giving.
Kenning definition: a compound expression with a metaphorical
meaning.
Kenning examples: word-hoard ("vocabulary"), oar-steed
("ship"), sea-steed ("ship"), whale-road ("sea"), whale-way ("sea"),
tickle-tools ("feathers")
Kenning etymology: Old Norse kenna "to know, perceive"
(related to the Scottish ken, "to know" and the German kennen
"to know, be acquainted with")
Riddle definition: a question or statement intentionally
phrased to require ingenuity in ascertaining its answer or meaning, typically
presented as a game or challenge.
Riddle examples: What is so delicate that saying its name
breaks it? (Answer: Silence) What has four eyes but cant see? (Answer:
Mississippi)
Riddle etymology: Old English rǣdels, rǣdelse
"opinion, conjecture, riddle" (related to the Dutch raadsel and the
German Rätsel)
Gnomic definition: expressed in, or of the nature of, short,
concise, pithy maxims or aphorisms, sometimes ambiguous or enigmantic
Gnomic verse example: "water wears shields" (ice protects the
unfrozen water beneath it, like a shield)
Gnomic etymology: Greek gnome from the verb gignōskein, meaning
"to know"
Gnomic verse history: Early examples of gnomic verse include
biblical proverbs and the poetry of Homer, Hesiod, Solon and Simonides
Riddle history:
Riddles have been around forever. The oldest extant epic poem, Gilgamesh,
contains a riddle: the "Riddle of the Springs of Dilmun." Perhaps the
most famous
ancient riddle is the "Riddle of the Sphinx" in the Greek play
Oedipus Rex. In the Hebrew Bible, the Queen of Sheba asked King Solomon a
riddle, which the wisest of men was able to solve. Also in the Bible, the strongman Samson
perplexed his friends with a riddle, which they were unable to solve. In J. R. R. Tolkien's The
Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins and Gollum engaged in a riddle contest, which allowed
Baggins to escape with his life and the One Ring (although Bilbo may have cheated when he asked Gollum what he had in his pocket!). One of the
most famous comic book super-villains is Batman's nemesis, the Riddler: "Riddle me this /
Riddle me that / Who's afraid of the big, black Bat?"
Kenning history: Kennings are also ancient, but apparently
started further north because some of the oldest kennings appear in the work of
the skalds, or Norse poets. Such kennings appear to be closely related to
Anglo-Saxon kennings. For instance, the kenning "sea-steed" for "ship" appears
in both Norse and Anglo-Saxon poetry. Extended kennings of up to seven elements
can be found in skaldic verse. One of my favorite Norse kennings is winter-ġewǣde ("winter-raiment"
or "snow").
The Difference Between Riddles and Kennings: The Anglo-Saxon scops were
accomplished riddlers and kenners. For my purposes here, a riddle asks or
implies the
question: Who or what am I? A kenning or "enigmatic gnomic verse," on the other hand, is an extended
metaphor that helps us better understand (through figurative language and/or
analogy) something named or known. But sometimes
the lines blur, because when we finish a riddle, if we are able to solve it
correctly, we
may understand the subject better!
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, our word "kenning" derives from
the Old Norse cognate verb kenna: "to know, to recognize, to feel or
perceive; to call, to name (in a formal poetic metaphor)." So a kenning helps us
know something more fully by the way it is named: whale-way, swan-road, sea-steed,
tickle-tool, mead-making, etc. According to the Bible, the first act of the
first man, Adam, was to name things. And if we want to avoid the fate of the
people who built the Tower of Babel, we need to heed the advice of the wisest of
the ancient Greeks, Socrates, and agree on the meanings of the words we use.
Poetic kennings are one way of grasping such meanings more intimately and
profoundly. I am reminded of the word "grok" used by the Mars-born visitor to
earth in Robert Heinlein's novel A Stranger in
a Strange Land. I think to "grok" and to "ken" are
essentially the same: to know
and understand something as intimately, profoundly fully as possible.
Kennings were so popular in Anglo-Saxon poetry that around a third of Beowulf,
the best-known Anglo-Saxon poem, is comprised of kennings. And "Beowulf" is
itself a kenning, meaning "bee-wolf," or bear (bears are famous for
robbing bees of their honey, from Winnie the Pooh to fearsome grizzlies). Why did the scops use primarily alliterative
kennings? Because the primary sound-device of Anglo-Saxon poetry was
alliteration, the repetition of letter sounds. For example, the "Water Become
Bone" poem above
contains four "w" sounds and two "b" sounds. Also the words "wonder" and "water"
sound very similar, as do "become" and "bone." So there can be a lot going on,
sonically, in a line of Anglo-Saxon poetry, even though such poetry rarely
employs rhyme.
The Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Vikings, Icelanders and Teutons had a rich
riddle-poem tradition, known as enigmata (think "enigma"). During the Dark Ages, people of these
cultures frequently played riddle games around hearth-fires, while drinking beer,
ale, mead and other inebriating beverages. So the fun was often quite
boisterous, and sometimes obscene, because some of the
poems compare things that are hard and swell to men's penises. (The word
"thing" itself can refer to a penis.) Thanks to the Exeter Book, a good number of these poems have survived. However, the
compounding of kennings sometimes resulted in cumbersome confusion, so not all such poems
are successful. On this page, I have selected some of the better short poems
that in my opinion still "hit on all cylinders."
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the Old English word scop
is related to our modern word "scoff" through the Old High German scoph ("poetry,
sport, jest") and the Old Norse skop ("railing, mockery"). Were
the scops scoffers? The clever satires on this page suggest so. The ancient
Celtic bards were such accomplished satirists that it was said even kings
feared their mockeries!
The Exeter Book was a handwritten manuscript bequeathed to the Exeter Cathedral Library by a bishop named Leofric
who died in 1072 A.D., so the book is ancient. Experts have dated the book itself it
to around 970 to 990 A.D., but some of the poems could be much older, having
been passed down orally before they were written down.
Leofric must have been somewhat tolerant, because some of the poems are slyly
lewd and fall into the category of double entendre. Here's one with an
interesting twist:
Riddle: The Curious Creature
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I'm a curious creature;
I satisfy women, and sometimes their neighbors!
(After a brief period of anticipation,
in which I offer them hope of pleasures to come.)
No one suffers because of me, except my slayer.
I grow erect in bed.
I'm hairy underneath.
Sometimes a beautiful girl,
the brave daughter of some commoner
who's not above my low station
grabs me eagerly,
manipulates my russet skin,
holds me hard,
cleanses my head,
then keeps me handy, nearby.
But the girl who keeps me confined
will soon feel the effects:
I make her wet.
The poem above is obviously about an onion, but it makes a series of comparisons to a
man's penis. An onion makes a cook's eyes water, so
the scop drew a clever, provocative parallel in the closing lines.
Here's a similar riddle:
Riddle: A Curious Thing Hangs
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A curious thing hangs,
dangles by a man's thigh,
covered by his clothes.
It has an eye in its head;
it's stiff and hard;
and because it's borne firmly it yields a reward.
The man pulls his clothes above his knee,
in order to poke the head of his hanging thing
into that old familiar hole it fits so well,
and has filled so many times before.
(Solution: A key worn secretly inside a man's clothes, perhaps a priest's robe.
If so, the poem could "poke" fun at the clergy, who were supposed to be celibate
but often had mistresses.)
Here's another poem in a similar vein:
Riddle: The Swollen Thing
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I heard there's something growing in its nook,
swelling, rising, and expanding,
pushing up against and lifting its covering.
I heard a cocky-minded young woman kneaded that boneless thing with her hands,
then
covered its tumescence with a soft cloth.
(Solution: Dough rising.)
Riddle: I Watched Two Wondrous Creatures
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I watched a wondrous creature, a bright unicorn,
bearing away treasure between her white horns,
fetching it home from some distant adventure.
I'm sure she intended to hide her loot in some lofty stronghold
constructed with incredible cunning, her craft.
But then climbing the sky-cliffs a far greater creature arose,
her fiery face familiar to all earth's inhabitants.
She seized all the spoils, driving the albescent creature
with her wrecked dreams far to the west,
spewing wild insults as she scurried home.
Dust rose heavenward. Dew descended.
Night fled, and afterward
No man knew where the white creature went.
(Solution: The sun and the moon.)
Kenning: The Whale
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now, I will sing about this strange fishes' kin,
finned like no flounder, and no friend to men:
The mighty Leviathan.
He floats in the ocean like a regal rock;
men mistake him for an island; some try to dock,
seldom with any luck.
But if they "make land," securing their ship
with great, heavy ropes from which green seaweed drips,
he soon dives to the bottom, taking them for a dip!
The whale is a demon, the siren of the seas;
he lures men and fish with his fragrant ambergris
into his dark gullet, ignoring their pleas!
His father, the Devil, does the same thing as well:
offers "comfort" and "haven" when wild tempests swell,
then drags dull men down to the darkest depths of hell.
(Kenning: The Whale is like his father, the Devil, in tactics, and many
unwitting men are their victims.)
Although the Anglo-Saxon language was Germanic in its origins, around a third of its
words are preserved in modern English, so the two languages remain closely related.
In the poem below, words like "suck" and "suckle" and "sea" come to us from our
Anglo-Saxon ancestors, while "slurp" is closely related, deriving from the Middle
Dutch slurpen.
Riddle: The Sea Suckled Me
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The sea suckled me; the wild waves washed me;
I was rocked by breakers in my restless cradle.
Footless but fixed, I opened my wordless mouth to the life-giving floods.
But soon some man will come to consume me,
slip the point of his knife savagely into my side,
slide it down, ripping the flesh from my bones,
then slurp me in raw, smiling as he sucks me down.
(Solution: An Oyster.)
I hope you have enjoyed my translations from the dawn of the English language.
Although our Anglo-Saxon ancestors lived in very difficult times, experiencing
plagues, the wild injustices of church and state, and being attacked by fearsome
Norsemen and other invaders, they managed to keep their wits about themselves,
and their sense of humor, however dark at times. And I think we can still see
that dark humor in ourselves: in the humorous writings of Mark Twain, in the
comedy of George Carlin, in political cartoons, and in sitcoms like Married
With Children.
Here is a somewhat more modern English riddle-poem that may have been influenced
by the older Anglo-Saxon scops and their riddle-poems:
I Have a Yong Suster (Anonymous Medieval English Riddle-Poem, circa 1430)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have a yong suster I have a young sister
Fer biyonde the see; Far beyond the sea;
Manye be the druries Many are the keepsakes
That she sente me. That she sent me.
She sente me the cherye She sent me the cherry
Withouten any stoon,
Without any stone;
And so she dide the dove And also the dove
Withouten any boon. Without any bone.
She sente me the brere She sent me the briar
Withouten any rinde; Without any skin;
She bad me love my lemman She bade me love my lover
Withoute longinge. Without longing.
How sholde any cherye How should any cherry
Be withoute stoon? Be without a stone?
And how sholde any dove And how should any dove
Be withoute boon? Be without a bone?
How sholde any brere How should any briar
Be withoute rinde? Be without a skin?
How sholde I love my lemman
And how should I love my lover
Withoute longinge? Without longing?
Whan the cherye was a flowr, When the cherry was a flower,
Thanne hadde it no stoon; Then it had no stone;
Whan the dove was an ey, When the dove was an egg,
Thanne hadde it no boon. Then it had no bone.
Whan the brere was unbred, When the briar was unborn,
Thanne hadde it no rinde; Then it had no skin;
Whan the maiden hath that she loveth, And when a maiden has her mate,
She is withoute longinge. She is without longing!
That is a wickedly funny ending!
How Long the Night
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 49r]
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have labored sore and suffered death,
so now I rest and catch my breath.
But I shall come and call right soon
heaven and earth and hell to doom.
Then all shall know both devil and man
just who I was and what I am.
I haue laborede sore and suffered deyeth
and now I Rest and draw my [b]reyght
But I schall com and call Ryght sone
heuen and erthe and hell to dome
and than schall know both devyll and man
what I was and what I am
Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th
century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.
In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and
"son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The
anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been punning the
words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth
Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood." Here's another poem from the same
era:
Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa
13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ...
is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a
"beast of bone and blood," facing a similar fate?
I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa
13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
Ich am of Irlaunde,
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlande.
Gode sire, pray ich the,
For of saynte charité,
Come ant daunce wyth me
In Irlaunde.
The poem above still smacks of German, with "Ich" for "I." But a metamorphosis was
clearly in progress: English poetry was evolving to employ meter and rhyme, as
well as Anglo-Saxon alliteration. And it's interesting to note that "ballad,"
"ballet" and "ball" all have the same root: the Latin ballare (to
dance) and the Italian ballo/balleto (a dance). Think of a farm
community assembling for a hoe-down, then dancing a two-step to music with lyrics.
That is apparently how many early English poems originated. And the more regular
meter of the evolving poems would suit music well.
This is a splendid little poem that may predate Chaucer. Please
note the introduction of end rhyme ...
Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!
NOTE: The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist, either of which would suggest a dismal day.
"Sumer is icumen in" (also known as the "Summer Canon" and the
"Cuckoo Song") is a
medieval English round, or rota, or rondel, of the mid-13th century. "Rondel"
means round or circular. The title translates
approximately to "Summer Has Come In" or "Summer Has Arrived." The song was
apparently composed in the Wessex dialect of Middle English and came complete
with a musical score and instructions for the singing of rounds, in Latin,
making it also a rondellus. Many
scholars believe the "Cuckoo Song," one of the earliest English lyrics
about the
coming of spring and summer, was probably composed between 1240 and 1310, although some
think it may date back earlier, to the 12th century.
It was written down in a commonplace book kept over a number of years by the
monks of Reading Abbey. The rondel is preceded by two lines that ask or command
the cuckoo to sing (the first two lines below).
Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!
Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots ...
Sing merrily, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!
ALTERNATE OPENING LINES:
Sing it new, cuckoo!
Summer is a-comin'!
Summer has come in again!
Summer has arrived again!
Summer has arrived!
ALTERNATE CLOSING LINES:
Never stop making things new!
This is a lighthearted modern take on the ancient poem, for those of us who
suffer with hay fever and other allergies:
Sumer is icumen in
a modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing achu!
Groweth sed
And bloweth hed
And buyeth med?
Cuccu!
Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?
Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily ...
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.
Where now are their laughter and their songs,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days ...
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the sixteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.
If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.
But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.
This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa
early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"
The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."
Here is the original poem in one of its ancient forms:
Adam lay i-bounden, bounden in a bond;
Foure thousand winter thought he not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerkes finden written in theire book.
Ne hadde the apple taken been, the apple taken been,
Ne hadde never our Lady aye been heavene queen.
Blessed be the time that apple taken was,
Therefore we moun singen, "Deo gracias!"
I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa
early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by
Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The
King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
Here is the original poem in one of its ancient forms:
I sing of a maiden (virgin)
That is makeles: (matchless / mateless / spotless)
King of alle kinges
To her sone she chees. (for her son she chose)
He cam also stille (He came as silently)
Ther his moder was (where his mother was)
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the gras.
He cam also stille
To his modres bowr (mother's bower, perhaps meaning both bedroom and leafy nest)
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the flowr.
He cam also stille
Ther his moder lay
As dewe in Aprille
That falleth on the spray (blossom and/or budding twig)
Moder and maiden (Mother and virgin)
Was nevere noon but she:
Well may swich a lady (such a lady)
Godes moder be.
Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.
I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!
When the nyhtegale singes, the wodes waxen grene;
Lef ant gras ant blosme springes in Averyl, Y wene,
Ant love is to myn herte gon with one spere so kene!
Nyht ant day my blod hit drynkes. Myn herte deth me tene.
Ich have loved al this yer that Y may love namore;
Ich have siked moni syk, lemmon, for thin ore.
Me nis love never the ner, ant that me reweth sore.
Suete lemmon, thench on me — Ich have loved the yore!
A cleric courts his lady
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady;
She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely.
I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green.
If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain?
“My deth Y love, my lyf Ich hate, for a levedy shene;
Heo is brith so daies liht, that is on me wel sene.
Al Y falewe so doth the lef in somer when hit is grene,
Yef mi thoht helpeth me noht, to wham shal Y me mene?
The "Song of Amergin" and its origins remain mysteries for the ages. The ancient
poem, perhaps the oldest extant poem to originate from the British Isles, or
perhaps not, was written by an unknown poet at an unknown time at an uncertain
location. The unlikely date 1268 BC was furnished by Robert Graves, who
translated the "Song of Amergin" in his influential book The White Goddess (1948).
Graves remarked that "English poetic education should, really, begin not with Canterbury
Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but
with the Song of Amergin." Recounted in the Leabhar
Gabhįla (The Book of Invasions), the poem has been described as an
invocation, as a mystical chant, as an affirmation of unity, as sorcery, as a creation incantation, and as
the first spoken Irish poem. I have also seen it titled "The Rosc of Amergin"
with a rosc being a war chant or incantation. A sort of magical
affirmation to give one power over ones enemies.
The Song of Amergin (I)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am the sea blast
I am the tidal wave
I am the thunderous surf
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dewdrop
I am the fairest of flowers
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the summit of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who inflames desire
Who gives you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who announces the ages of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles
In my translation above, I have deliberately worded the last four lines so that they
can be either affirmations, or questions, or both. There are longer versions of
the poem, but this is the version that strikes me as having the strongest
ending, so I'm going to stick with it as my personal favorite. I will
follow this translation with a second translation, then with an original poem
I wrote under the influence of the ancient song.
The original poem:
Am gaeth i m-muir,
Am tond trethan,
Am fuaim mara,
Am dam secht ndirend, [dam = ox, deer, stag?]
Am séig i n-aill, [séig = hawk, eagle or vulture?]
Am dér gréne,
Am cain lubai,
Am torc ar gail,
Am he i l-lind,
Am loch i m-maig,
Am brķ a ndai,
Am bri danae,
Am bri i fodb fras feochtu,
Am dé delbas do chind codnu,
Coiche nod gleith clochur slébe?
Cia on co tagair aesa éscai?
Cia du i l-laig fuiniud gréne?
The Song of Amergin (II)
a more imaginative translation by Michael R. Burch, after Robert Bridges
I am the stag of the seven tines;
I am the bull of the seven battles;
I am the boar of the seven bristles;
I am the flood cresting plains;
I am the wind sweeping tranquil waters;
I am the swift-swimming salmon in the shallow pool;
I am the sunlit dewdrop;
I am the fairest of flowers;
I am the crystalline fountain;
I am the hawk harassing its prey;
I am the demon ablaze in the campfire;
I am the battle-hardened spearhead;
I am the vale echoing voices;
I am the sea's roar;
I am the surging sea wave;
I am the summit of art;
I am the God who inflames desires;
I am the giver of fire;
Who knows the ages of the moon;
Who knows where the sunset settles;
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen.
Translator's Notes:
I did not attempt to fully translate the longer
version of the poem. I have read several
other translations and none of them seem to agree. I went with my grokked
impression of the poem: that the "I am" lines refer to God and his "all
in all" nature, a belief common to the mystics of many religions. I
stopped with the last line that I felt I understood and will leave the remainder
of the poem to others. Amergin's ancient poem reminds me of the Biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah
revealing himself to Moses as "I am that I am" and to Job as a mystery beyond
human comprehension. If that's what the author intended, I tip my hat to him or
her,
because despite all the intervening centuries
the message still comes through splendidly. If I'm wrong, I have no idea what
the poem is about, but I still like it.
The Song of Amergin
an original poem
by Michael R. Burch
He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs . . .
and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears,
while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
. . . and Time here also spumes, careers . . .
while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.
Who wrote the poem? That's a good question and all "answers" seem speculative
to me. Amergin has been said to be a Milesian: one of the sons of Mil who
allegedly invaded and conquered Ireland sometime in the island's deep, dark,
mysterious
past. The Milesians were (at least theoretically) Spanish Gaels. According to
the Wikipedia page:
Amergin Glśingel ("white knees"), also spelled Amhairghin Glśngheal or Glśnmar
("big knee"), was a bard, druid and judge for the Milesians in the Irish
Mythological Cycle. He was appointed Chief Ollam of Ireland by his two brothers
the kings of Ireland. A number of poems attributed to Amergin are part of the
Milesian mythology. One of the seven sons of Mķl Espįine, he took part in the
Milesian conquest of Ireland from the Tuatha Dé Danann, in revenge for their
great-uncle Ķth, who had been treacherously killed by the three kings of the
Tuatha Dé Danann: Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht and Mac Gréine. They landed at the
estuary of Inber Scéne, named after Amergin's wife Scéne, who had died at sea.
The three queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann, (Banba, Ériu and Fódla), gave, in
turn, permission for Amergin and his people to settle in Ireland. Each of the
sisters required Amergin to name the island after each of them, which he did:
Ériu is the origin of the modern name Éire, while Banba and Fódla are used as
poetic names for Ireland, much as Albion is for Great Britain. The Milesians had
to win the island by engaging in battle with the three kings, their druids and
warriors. Amergin acted as an impartial judge for the parties, setting the rules
of engagement. The Milesians agreed to leave the island and retreat a short
distance back into the ocean beyond the ninth wave, a magical boundary. Upon a
signal, they moved toward the beach, but the druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann
raised a magical storm to keep them from reaching land. However, Amergin sang an
invocation calling upon the spirit of Ireland that has come to be known as
The Song of Amergin, and he was able to part the storm and bring the ship
safely to land. There were heavy losses on all sides, with more than one major
battle, but the Milesians carried the day. The three kings of the Tuatha Dé
Danann were each killed in single combat by three of the surviving sons of Mķl,
Eber Finn, Érimón and Amergin.
It has been suggested that the poem may have been "adapted" by Christian
copyists, perhaps monks. An analogy might be the ancient Celtic
myths that were "christianized" into tales of King Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad and
the Holy Grail.
Related Pages:
This World's Joy, The Ruin,
The Seafarer
The HyperTexts