Where have I been

I know, I know......Why haven't I turned out some NEW poetry? What's with these "re-runs"? I have no excuses, nor explanations, except that my Muse has been on an extended vacation --- maybe in Guantanamo for all I know.  This may sound lame,but nothing has been strong enough inspiration to overcome various "real-life" that keeps me from writing.

Anyway, you didn't check in here for my kvetching.

So, two things.  Today, I begin writing the Konungs saga vestermarki ("The Saga of the King from the Western Borders").  It is my attempt to present poetry in the form where scholars most often find it - as part of a saga (long prose story).  I intend to write a few chapters from what would be a very long saga of the Four Shires on the Western March.  Each chapter will feature poetry, part of a flokkr of verses concerning the Shires and the Unification of what would later be known as Æthelmearc.


Second, two new verses (new to you, anyway!)  No explanations, just verses and translations.  Enjoy!  and please COMMENT!

Verse One:

Friðrek ræsir fremð inn

Frisi gráskegg vissin

haf-skip siglir  hlyðir 

humra til Austur rumlend.

Metendr leiða morgum

morðáls til villi-borgar;

öskranfossdœl ásetta

ískaldr reista dísasalr.

Grizzled grey-beard Frederick the Frisian advancer of honor, you sailed the warship from the lobster-slopes [OCEANS] to the Eastern lands.  You lead many testers of the battle eel [SWORD > WARRIORS] to the wild hills; you settled in the ice-cold valley of the roaring waterfall; you built a temple.

Verse Two:

from the Hœna flokkr eggja-gæzlumaðr

Hklaka mattigs óðar hylð þu

hauka tal þelli-hringa flokkr

Heppin bóru bana hœnaar

hviti-kjöt eggjaveðr mittings

Prose order:

Hlyð þu mattigs óðar hklaka-hauka; tal þelli-hringa flokkr. Heppen hviti-kjöt bóru mittings eggjaveðr bana-hœnar.

Translation:

Hear my mighty poem, Klucking-hawk; I tell of the fir-ring of the flock (>woman> chicken). Well-starred (>lucky, fortunate) white-meat (>chicken) brought a mighty edge-windstorm (>battle) to the bane of hens (fox).

An Early Runhendr: The Four at the Bridge

Hej!

Here's a little "ditty" for you in English from the legend and lore of Æthelmearc!

THE FOUR AT THE BRIDGE

At Coopers pond our scene

On field hill great ravine

battles twixt warring foes

dragons come tigers go

dwarves elves, aetheling men

fight on hill, then in fen

two bridges they must cross

and from them foemen toss

Four heroes join the throng

dance to valkyrie’s  song

brave Boris, Haakon's kin

with Oak tree tall, then thin

green Morguhn, duke soon knight

young Willem, Fridriks wight

to fight at Pennsic war

a bridge to bathe in gore

To battle dwarvelords here

who rose from Calontir

our four men form a host

a half-tonne of pot roast

fiercesome  fighters four

who out-fought many score

whom many feared and yet

in battle they can't get

Thru spear storm’s din they stood

no action turned the mood

beneath the sun's harsh stare

they broil to pot roast rare

they glare at Calon herd

who at our heroes jeer

til thrice-king angry roared --

By Thor! His Grace was bored!

On three, charge! Morguhn said!

On three, Duke Morguhn lead!

thru Calon wall they sped

dwarves fell neath Willem's tread

Binder detached a head

Boris laid the dead to bed

surly sword-elves fled

Norns snipped their ghastly threads

Bodies from bridgehead flew

of hammer-dwarves and crew

three stout swordsmen tried

to gain brave Morguhn's side

then marshall's whistle shrilled

twas time to count the kill

whence from the corpse pile fell

came giggles straight from hell!

That pile our heroes tore

dead heads they tossed and more

to find His Grace they sped

whose laugh fills all with dread

Out Dead Things marshall cried

waked corpses moved aside

but Yngvar's Bane denied

raise blades... I've Not Yet Died!

Thrice-king rose without sound

took his stance, held the ground

foes fell from mortal wound

some bled stumbled swooned

til thirteen dwarvelords came

with arrows spears took aim

cowards felled brave duke

thus honor they forsook

Battle quit, bridge lay red

with raven wine from dead

treasure wasted armies fled

bloodswans songs bring dread

bloodstorm ends with many slain

corpses burn, across the plain

O'er blood fest ravens play

fast fried heroes...have it your way!

Even comes battles ends

armies leave, foes now friends

all dead risen head home

some to camp, some to roam

to beer and mead and songs

to spouses, cheering throngs!

Join me in beery toast

to half-tonne of pot roast!

NOTES:


This poem was written in 2008, before I moved on to Old Icelandic poetry.  It is written in an Old Icelandic form called runhendr, In Old Icelandic and eddaic poetry, end rhyme scheme is seldom  considered necessary.  Indeed, in drottkveitt, or Court Poetry, end rhyme is never used purposefully.  However, there is a form of poetry common to Iceland that does use end rhyme, runhendt (runnng rhyme).  In The Structure of Old Norse Drottkveitt Poetry, Kari Ellen Gade says:


"Not until the end of the tenth century, in Egil's [Skallagrimsson] "Hoflauðsen" [Head-Ransom] does end rhyme play a constitutive part in skaldic metrics.  This new meter, runhendr, which consists of lines with four syllables dispenses with the internal rhymes altogether and replaces it with end rhymes..... It is clear that runhendr meter represented a bold break with the established norms for the composition of skaldic poetry, and that this innovation was most likely the result of foreign [most likely English or Irish] influence.”


It should be noted that in the Prose Edda, Snorri Sturlusson identifies many different types of runhendr, including one with six syllables in a line.  While runhendr is unusual in Old Icelandic poetry, it is far more accessible to modern ears than dróttkvætt. [See my earlier posting for an example in Old Icelandic of this verse form]

This poem is the story of a true event at Pennsic 13 or so, when a line of four men: Boris Dragonsbane, Haakon Oaktall,  Morguhn Sheridan, and Wilfred Altmarker - charged through a Calontir shield wall & died gloriously.  It is ever so slightly embroidered, as such legends become over generations of the telling.  The next to last verse is partially borrowed from the Magnusdrapa, where the poet speaks of ravens pulling corpses from a burning house (fast fried corpses).  It was just too good to pass up.  In the poem, I have used fewer kennings than might be expected, in order to keep the flow of the narrative intact.  Among those used are: 

spear storm - battle 

Yngvar’s Bane - Morguhn Sheridan (for the classic battles between the two great knights of Æthelmearc)

bloodswans - ravens

bloodstorm - battle 

blood fest - battlefield

raven wine - blood

half tonne of pot roast - the line of four fighters who tipped the scales at just over 1100 pounds. 

Enjoy!

Fridrikr

A Manuscript

Hej!

As some of you know or may have guessed, I've been working on a large project for some time now.  The poem is finished (until I decide to revise it --- maybe next year, definitely not before September) and ready for presentation in August.  It has been put into a manuscript by a very talented scribe name Jean Valentine (or, in the SCA, Matilda Bosville de Bella Aqua).  She calligraphed it in a proto-Gothic hand, following the various models that you can find in the Old Icelandic - Norse manuscripts of the  Arnamagnæan Institute.

This is the manuscript that Matilda produced.  Feel free to look, but not to download, please.

It is a beautiful piece and I'm looking forward to actually having it in my hands :)

Who knows, with his inspiring me (and having other paperwork I really should be doing), maybe the Muse will return from her little vacation this week!

Enjoy!

Dissolute Lifestyle, Part Three

Hej!


Back again, this time with an erfidrápa (a poem in praise of the dead) which I wrote about two years ago.  Once again, the subject is His Grace, Duke Sir Morguhn Sheridan, of whom I wrote in the previous posting.  This poem was an attempt to bring all of the qualities of the Icelandic dróttkvætt metre in English. This is a difficult task because English is largely an uninflected language, as opposed to Icelandic, which is highly inflected.  This can reck havoc when you are closely counting syllables.  You on't have flexibility in word order either.  A second hurdle is that accents in English often fall on the second rather than first syllable of a word.  This can make it difficult to follow the need for a trochee in the last slot in the line.


Despite these problems, I feel that I got this poem about right.  In it I present visions of Morguhn (winning crown the first time, becoming a duke, defeating the Calontir shield wall in the Charge of the Four, being knighted, the third crown in the East, ruling in AEthelmearc, facing death), much as a shield-poem would be constructed by taking the conceit of describing a decorated shield.


One final note - there are two stefs (four line choruses) interspersed in the poem.  Each ends with the line "Morguhns ǫnd ofar lǫndum".  This roughly translates to "Morguhn's spirit over the land."


Here is the poem.  I hope you enjoy and comment, please!

Morguhn drapa  inn Langferðamaðr

(Drapa for Morguhn the Long Road Walker)

(Pennsic 38, July-August 2009)

Met in boldest battle

Better sword not yet found

Great duke merry mighty

Morguhns ǫnd ofar lǫndum

Saw I flame haired fighter

Field stand never yielding

Brash youth green clad granted

Great knights swift deaths eight-fold

Fought from dawn til dark fall

Dragon tors'd fed corse hawks

Conquered Manfred mighty

Made Rowan his first queen

Saw I fiercesome fighters

forty seeking glory

Grass clad Morguhn mighty

Mowed down those who stood there

Met there turquoise tyger

Tribesman Randall gliding

Shadows minion stalwart

Stood til Morguhn slew him

Laughter rang out loudly

Light heart sang in bright eyes

Keep his memory mighty

Morguhns ǫnd ofar lǫndum

Saw I Dragon's doomsman

Delve lords guide to Hel's door

Crossing river's rock span

that roaring Calon horde kept

Four great giants joined there

Jarred loose rock-scarred foeman

Charging woeful warriors

Wedge from rock's edge threw them.

Saw I Pennsic pastures

Potent Gavin great king

Brought his knights to kneel there

Noble Morguhn summoned

Round his waist the white belt

Wedded spurs to high boots

Chain of gold was given

Green clad lord thus knighted

Saw I lord of leaf'd round

Longed to hear the swan's song

Soaring heaven highward

Hied to tourney's violence.

Verdant Morguhn met there

Mighty western belt-lord

Ronald's head was hewn there

High born Morguhn won crown.

Met in boldest battle

Better sword not yet found

Great duke merry mighty

Morguhns ǫnd ofar lǫndum

Saw I realm made royal

Ruled by Princes truly

Leaf clad leaf lord led them

Loved by clear-voiced Meirwen

Four times stood he stalwart

Staid by none nor laid low

Fairly reigned by right hand

Ring lord by his prowess

Saw I oak-strong Aethling

Evil's eye struck death blow

Stood the berry browed lord

Brave til battles ending

Long road walker wanders

Whither no wight follows

We go to join his journey

Gentle Morguhn leads us

Laughter rang out loudly

Light heart sang in bright eyes

Keep his memory mighty

Morguhns ǫnd ofar lǫndum

(The next time - another in "the Great Man" series)

A Dissolute Lifestyle, Part Two

Hej!

This time, as promised, a contrafactum for a fallen hero.  In the SCA, one of my closest friends was Duke Sir Morguhn Sheridan, who passed away about two and a half years ago.  He was three time King of the East, twice Prince of AEthelmearc, and twice King of AEthelmearc.  He was, in many ways, the epitome of the chivalry that the SCA holds dear.  After he passed, I wrote a song for him.  It is to the tune of Seminole Wind, as performed by James Taylor on his “Covers” album.  The lyrics follow:

Lord of Chivalry

(Seminole Wind)

It is said in days of old

Men went searching for fame untold

Spurs of silver and chains of gold

The Lords of Chivalry

They kneel to kings and an oath they speak

Save the poor protect the weak

Honor for the right they seek

Til the world's time shall cease

Ride Lords of Chivalry

Ride til the people of the land are free

Evil hears your battlecall

And flees for it dares not stay

Ride into battle with banners bright

Drive away darkness, bring the light

Ride into the glorious fight

For a gold chain never fades

From the East a young man rides

With flaming hair and laughing eyes

A soaring soul and a battle cry

A true lord riding free

He rides for glory and he rides for fame

His ladies' honor and a noble name

A wild spirit whom none can tame

A Lord of Chivalry

Ride Lords of Chivalry

Ride til the people of the land are free

Evil hears your battlecall

And flees for it dares not stay

Ride into battle with banners bright

Drive away darkness, bring the light

Ride into the glorious fight

For a gold chain never fades

The kingdom's glorious service called

In the list, at war, or in the hall

With love and laughter let all recall

The Paragon of Chivalry

For the honor of his ladies the Crown he bore

In times of peace, on the field of war

His fames resounds in legend and lore

The Lord of Chivalry

Ride Lord of Chivalry

Ride til the people of the land are free

Evil hears your battlecall 

And flees for it dares not stay

Ride into battle with banners bright

Drive away darkness, bring the light

Ride into the glorious fight

For a gold chain  never fade

In final battle with the dauntless foe

He fought to his last, stood toe to toe

At Valhalla's Gates, the gods now know

The Lord of Chivalry

His joy in battle his heart's desire

In death let the glory of his life inspire

His memory brings our souls to fire

The Lord of Chivalry

Ride Lord of Chivalry

Ride til the people of the land are free

I still hear your battlecall

Where you've gone I cannot say

Ride into battle with banners bright

Drive away darkness, bring the light

Ride on forever, our valiant knight

For a pure heart never fades

No, a true knight never fades

(the next time, more of what a friend calls “The Great Men Series” - an erfidrapa for Morguhn)

The Steps Leading to a Dissolute Lifestyle, Part One

[While I'm waiting for new inspiration to hit for the Old Icelandic poetry, an explanatory posting]

So, many of you may be asking, how does a singer/poet descend into the abject moral poverty that causes him to become a skald?  What inequities could possibly cause him to follow such a profligate, derelict, lifestyle?

Honestly, it all begins with a hook (just as the songs and poems do).  In my case, the hook was baited with applause.   I enjoy performing and, in the Society for Creative Anachronisms when I joined 35 years ago, the preferred performance form was the contrafactum or “filk song”.  Essentially, a contrafactum is the borrowing of a song from the one sphere and making it suitable for another sphere by applying new lyrics.  Tunes that are popularly known become new songs.  In medieval times, the most popular transformation was from sacred to secular;  in my writing, the usual transformation is from folk/country music to the SCA.  In other words, I take a folk song and apply SCA-appropriate lyrics to it.

Most contrafacta that I write (and most that others write) are silly.  However, at times, they can be serious, even mournful.  I have written two such contrafacta.  The first, written some 33 or 34 years ago, is called “Behold, I Give You the Kingdom”.  It is a song that a Prince might sing to his lady upon having won the Crown for her. (For those not acquainted with the SCA, every six months or so, in each “Kingdom”, a tournament is fought to determine who will reign as King and Queen.  It is not unusual for a fighter to fight for many years before winning this tournament.  Victory is often a hghly emotional moment.  In this lyric, I refer to “AEthling” and “AEthelmearc” my home Kingdom.  I’m given to understand that the song is sung elsewhere with appropriate Kingdom names inserted.)  The tune it is set to is “Behold, I Give You the Morning” by Tom Paxton.

Here are my contrafactum’s lyrics:

Wake my love the morning sun grows ever bolder

Time has come to take the robes upon your shoulder

I go to claim the Crown then I’ll await you.

CHORUS

Now I’ll place the robe upon you

Grant you the title that I’ve won you

Behold, I give you the Kingdom

I Give you the Crown

Think of years of toil and sweat, the days of dying

then of victory triple-sweet with banners flying

The Aethling Crown awaits you for your honor

CHORUS

Look upon the glorious land of peace and beauty

Keeping AEthelmearc strong and proud, that is our duty

Gaze upon the splendor we’ll be ruling

CHORUS

Come, my love, and join me in our time of glory

Let the bards and balladeers begin the story

You are my Queen, I am your servant truly.

CHORUS

(The next time: A contrafactum for a fallen warrior)