Tag Archives: poetry

Hildeburhʼs Lament XII

But before the Danes
Could fare to the Mark,
Winter snowfall
Severed their way.
Nor would the fearsome seaʼs
Stormy surging
Let them sail in ships.
Winter waves struggled
By wind and icy bond
Locking them in,
Till longed for Spring
Came round next year
As yet it still does.
So Hengest and his men
Remained that winter
With Finn in Frisia,
Fighting their pride,
In weary weather.
Then was Winter shaken,
And the earth grew fair,
Finding that exile,
The guarded guest,
Growing eager
More to retaliate
Than return by sea,
If it might be brought about.
His mind still dwellt
Upon the Jutes and their due,
Judging their deeds.
So when Húnláfing’s son
Laid that best bill
In his lap, whose edgeʼs
Eagerness the Jutes knew well,
Then cruel sworddeath
Assailed the bold Finn
In his own homestead,
A king amongst his company,
And his queen taken
By the Scylding shieldmen
To the ships with the booty;
Jutish jewels
And gems of Frisia.
Over the seaway
They sailed in victory,
Leading me to my land
As ʻLady of the Danesʼ.
My grief for Finn,
Their grimmest foe,
None could understand.
I stood alone again,
Hollowly laughing
To hide my mourning,
My sore, sad heart
Sailing across the whaleroad.
Is this woman’s fate?
Woeful, forlorn,
Bearing bitterness
And burdened with care,
Being pushed around
By rash, proud men?
And all joys worn away
By jealous Wyrd?

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Eros

To be in love is not like hemp or wine,
Tisʼ sweeter far than any verse of mine.
Intoxicated senses are but frame;
The source and end of Eros are the same.

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Filed under Classical, Epigrams

God and the Seer

Green is the weald where the seer dwells
He talks with the Lord, lingering in his presence
though mainly harking his Maker in silence
Go, tell the world ‘God with us’ and
declare his glory”; which comes sometimes in
dark and droning, dreadful smoking
cloud on mountain: consuming fire
too holy for humans to behold and live,
and sometimes in a wind whispering gently
like a sea breeze bringing comfort
softly singing songs of love;
Go, out of the wonderful weald of green
Go, though your heart’ll hurt with yearning
Go, to earth’s dark-places, desolate, forlorn
Bring hope to bones hollow and dry
Proclaim the Spirit’s coming in splendour
that dry bones do rise again;
that weary wasteland’s worries shall be gone
Where desert and darkness dragged their feet
there springing grass shall sprout from ground
When roots reign again the realm of asphalt
and forest regains its far-reaching homeland
then all hurts are healed by heaven’s Lamb.”
What me, Lord?” laughed the seer,
Surely I’m no use!” yapped he shaken
I have chosen you, trust me, I am
But Lord, I’m weak and worse still I’m scared.”
Trust me, chosen one, my child, my love
Not by your strength, strive though you may
will the battle be won, but by my Spirit
enough for each night and day
Now go and sing the Spirit-song.”
 
 

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Riddle

I revel in riddles wrought from nature,

my strength legendary, my hair was long

till woman too hot wounded me more

than all those arrogant men’s city gates

I in wrath unhinged. Harbinger of doom

to temple guests, toppling pillars

with power from on high; so who am I?

Post what you think the answer is in the comments below. This is your chance to win glory and fame by being the first one to guess the right answer to this Anglo-Saxon style riddle 😉

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Filed under Medieval, Uncategorized

Last Night

Last night bogmen, creepy-crawlies,
pixies, goblins, like in stories
came to dance in my back garden
wi’out as much as “Beg your pardon!”
 
Hopping up and down like frogs,
drinking mead and boiling grogs,
jolly lanterns flickered brightly,
showing creatures quite unsightly.

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Filed under Night

Spring I

Silver birches swaying blithely
winding coyly in the windy breeze;
broad-brimmed beeches blowing softly:
faithful, friendly forest-maidens.
 
Lilting laughter lightly carries,
while treemaids splash in spraying brook;
washing their hair in waterfalls sweet,
bathing in sunlight’s soft-clean warmth.
 
Master Sun is more than sanguine
shining through leaves and shoots so greenly,
making playful prancing shadows
sprinkling Greenwood in springtime light.
 
In the clearing, Oaking’s court is joyful
minstrel fauns sing morning hymns, while
river maids dance with ravishing movements
and larchmen lounge, leaves a-whispering
 
of quieter joys coursing, tingling
right through their veins, thanking the Maker
for the joy of Spring, splend’rous awakening
new life, new love – living, loving.

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Filed under Medieval, Spring