I

So you have swept me back,
I who have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who have slept among the live flowers
at last;

so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;

so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;

if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.

II

Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
grown colorless

why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?

why did you turn back?
why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face
caught with the flame of the upper earth,
above my face?

what was it that crossed my face
with the light from yours
and your glance?
what was it you saw in my face?
the light of your own face,
the fire of your own presence?

what had my face to offer
but reflex of the earth,
hyacinth colour
caught from the raw fissure in the rock
where the light struck,
and the colour of azure crocuses,
and the bright surface of gold crocuses
and of the wind-flower,
swift in its veins as lightning
and as white.

III

Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
wild saffron that has bent
over the sharp edge of earth,
all the flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all the flowers are lost;
everything is lost,
everything is crossed with black,
black upon black
and worse than black,
this colourless light.

IV

Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth.
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
lost;
flowers, if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;

If I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.

V

So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who passed across the light
and reached
ruthless;
you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;

yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:

such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness
such terror
is no loss;

hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above the earth.

VI

Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;
and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
toward hell,
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place even more terrible than this.

VII

At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;
and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;

before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.

(1916)

Translation by Megan Cavell

A certain enemy robbed me of my life,
stole my world-strength; afterward he soaked me,
dunked me in water, dragged me out again,
set me in the sun, where I swiftly lost
5     the hairs that I had. Afterward the hard
edge of a knife, with all unevenness ground away, slashed me;
fingers folded, and the bird’s joy
[spread] over me with worthwhile drops, often made tracks,
over the bright border, swallowed tree-dye,
10     a portion of the stream, stepped again on me,
journeyed, leaving behind a dark track. Afterward a hero
encircled me with protective boards, covered me with hide,
garnished me with gold; therefore the wonderful
work of smiths glitters on me, surrounded by wire.
15     Now those ornaments and the red dye
and that wondrous dwelling widely worship
the protector of the people, not at all foolish in wisdom.
If the children of men wish to enjoy me,
they will be the more sound and the more victory-fast,
20     the bolder in heart and the more blithe in mind,
the wiser in spirit, they will have more friends,
dear and near, faithful and good,
upright and true; then their glory and prosperity
will increase with favour and lay down
25     goodwill and kindness and in the grasp of love
clasp firmly. Find what I am called,
useful to men. My name is famous,
handy to heroes and holy in itself.

 

Mec feonda sum      feore besnyþede,
woruldstrenga binom,      wætte siþþan,
dyfde on wætre,      dyde eft þonan,
sette on sunnan,      þær ic swiþe beleas
5     herum þam þe ic hæfde.      Heard mec siþþan
snað seaxses ecg,      sindrum begrunden;
fingras feoldan,      ond mec fugles wyn
geond speddropum      spyrede geneahhe,
ofer brunne brerd,      beamtelge swealg,
10     streames dæle,      stop eft on mec,
siþade sweartlast.      Mec siþþan wrah
hæleð hleobordum,      hyde beþenede,
gierede mec mid golde;      forþon me gliwedon
wrætlic weorc smiþa,      wire bifongen.
15     Nu þa gereno      ond se reada telg
ond þa wuldorgesteald      wide mære
dryhtfolca helm,      nales dol wite.
Gif min bearn wera      brucan willað,
hy beoð þy gesundran      ond þy sigefæstran,
20     heortum þy hwætran      ond þy hygebliþran,
ferþe þy frodran,      habbaþ freonda þy ma,
swæsra ond gesibbra,      soþra ond godra,
tilra ond getreowra,      þa hyra tyr ond ead
estum ycað      ond hy arstafum
25     lissum bilecgað      ond hi lufan fæþmum
fæste clyppað.      Frige hwæt ic hatte,
niþum to nytte.      Nama min is mære,
hæleþum gifre      ond halig sylf.

“Wretched” (Wulf and Eadwacer)
Authorship unknown
Translated by Elaine Treharne

For my tribe it’s like being given a tribute.
They’ll want to consume him if he comes on that crowd.
It’s not like that for us.
Wulf’s on one island, I’m on the other.
Fast-bound is that island, surrounded by fen.
They are murderous men there on the island.
They’ll want to consume him if he comes on that crowd.
That’s unlikely for us.
I traced the wide travels of Wulf in my wonderings
when it was rainy weather, and I sat weeping.
Then he, battle-hardened, laid arms about me.
That was pleasure for me; still, there was pain for me too.
Wulf, my Wulf, my wonderings of you
made me sick—your seldom comings,
my mourning mind—not the missing of meals.
Can you hear, Eadwacer? Wulf will carry our wretched whelp to the woods.
That may easily be split apart what was never spliced, the riddle of us both together.

In Old English:

Leodum is minum     swylce him mon lac gife.
Willað hy hine aÞecgan     gif he on Þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulf is on iege,     Ic on oÞerre.
Fæst is Þæt eglond,     fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe     weras Þær on ige.
Willað hy hine aÞecgan     gif he on Þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulfes Ic mines widlastum     wenum dogode
Þonne hit wæs renig weder,     one Ic reotugu sæt.
Þonne mec se beaducafa     bogum bilegde:
Wæs me wyn to Þon;    wæs me hwæÞre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf,    wena me Þine
seoce gedydon,    Þine seldcymas,
murnende mod,    nales meteliste.
Gehyrest Þu, Eadwacer?     Uncerne earmne hwelp bireð wulf to wuda.
Þæt mon eaÞe tosliteð     ðætte næfre gesomnad wæs, uncer giedd geador.

(For your annotations of this poem, we’re doing a bit of background historical research–choose a line or word or image and try to discover what specific historical reference the poet is making)

Ashburnham

By Melissa Range, from Scriptorium, 2016.

 

With a name like that,
the librarian shouldn’t have been surprised

when late night hearth-spearks
kindled mantel-tree and wainscot,

turned the hallways to tinder,
cindered the vellum

already almost too fragile to touch–
an antiquarian’s collection

amassed when the monasteries
were dissolved, when books

were flung from scriptoria, torn
parchment used for bootblacks’ rags.

A gospel, an epic, a charter aflame,
the only copies thrown from a window

when the librarian could no longer wait
for the bucket brigade;

the next morning, schoolboys
pocketed the black and buckled scraps.

The poem about the seafaring hero,
bound into a larger volume

of monster-tales and marvels,
smoked as if from dragon-fire,

parts of the tale already worm-eaten,
and though the restorationists

cleaned and pinned the leaves–
fire-brittle, water-warped–

to a line to dry, the story kept
disintegrating, its margins

crumbling further at each touch,
leaving scholars less to copy

of what was already less a copy
than a shadow–the original

unpreserved, irretrievable
the instant the pen quenched

the harp: a smoldering
smothered, a ruin of the tongue.

 

Note

On October 23, 1731, many singular volumes and manuscripts in the Cotton Library, including the only extant copy of Beowulf, were irreparably damaged or destroyed in the Ashburnham House Fire. Some of this poem’s details are from A Report from the Comittee Appointed to View the Cottonian Library . . . [signed by] W. Whiston. Printed for R. Williamson and W. Bowyer, London, 1732. This poem is in memory of John Miles Foley.

Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listen, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
‘They’ll molder away and be like other loam.’
We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers’ land.
And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.