Deor's Lament - Exeter Book

Weland himself, by means of worms (swords)

experienced agony,

the strong-minded noble

endured troubles:

he had for his companions

sorrow and longing,

winter-bitter wrack,

he often found misery

after Niðhad

put fetters on him,

supple sinew-bonds

on the better man.

That was overcome,

so may this be.

Beadohild was not

as sad in mind

for the death of her borhters

as for her own trouble,

she had 

clearly realized

that she was pregnant;

she could never

think resolutely

of how that would have to (turn out).

That was overcome, so may this be.

We heard that

the moans of Matilda

of the lady of Geat

were numberless

so that her sorrowful love

entirely deprived of sleep.

That was overcome,

so may this be.

Theodric ruled

for thirty winters

the city of the Mærings;

that was known to many.

That was overcome,

so may this be.

We heard

Ermanaric's

wolfish thought;

he ruled widely the people

of the kingdom of the Goths -

That was a grim king!

Many a warrior sat,

bound up by cares,

woes in mind,

wished constantly

that the kingdom

were overcome.

That was overcome,

so may this be.

He sits sorrowful and anxious,

bereft of joy,

darkening in his mind,

he think sot himself

that (it) is endless

the (his) part of troubles;

then he can consider 

that throughout this world

the wise Lord

always goes, 

to many men

he shows honour,

sure glory,

to some a share of troubles.

I, for myself,

want to say this,

that for a while I was

the scop (bard) of the Hedenings,

dear to my lord;

my name was Deor.

I had for many winters

a good position,

a loyal lord,

until Heorrenda now,

a man skillful in songs,

has taken the estate

that the protector of warriors

before game to me.

That was overcome,

so may this be.

This is an ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, commonly known as "Deor" or "Deor's Lament."  In it, our narrator, Deor, tells how he has fallen from grace in his position as a scop (a bard, storyteller) in the court of the Hedenings at the hand of Heorrenda.  A common repeating line through the poem is "That was overcome, so may this be."  That repetition is cited through the many historical and mythological (is there any difference, really?) examples Deor gives, of people or places in painful situations of suffering who overcome.  It feels like Deor's own personal tonic, himself reassuring himself that things can change, untenable situations can be overcome, and life can take on a positive aspect once more.  

Despite being likely over a thousand years old, and translated from an English so archaic as to be unreadable, who reading this can't relate to a fall of some sort?  The poem contains real truth, regardless of if any of it ever happened or not.  It doesn't matter if you don't know who Weland is to know that suffering can be overcome.  You can sympathize with the soldiers who wish for their own kingdom to be overcome because of the tyrant ruling over them.  

The translation I used can be found here.  There are many translations of Deor, but I particularly appreciated this one for its inclusion of the original text and for its many notes, which I encourage you to read only after you've read the poem a number of times.

If you are having trouble in your life, reader, just think, "That was overcome, so may this be,"

[2 little whos] - E. E. Cummings

2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here

(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who

(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)










E.E. Cummings presents an often insurmountable feeling challenge to many readers, which is why I try to feature his work fairly frequently on this blog, because despite his poetry's wacky syntax and nonsense words, I feel that it is far easier to understand than you might think.  To start with this one, let's ignore everything in the parentheses and see what we have:

2 little whos
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
now and here

who and who

We get a fairly simple picture of two people, likely children (little), under a tree, smiling, "now and here" in the moment.  Two "whos", two people.  There's a warm sense of happiness and wonder about it, as if the word "wonderful" for once really does mean full of wonder.  The poem becomes more understandable, and now, we can start re-introducing the parentheses and unpacking those.  The first, (he and she), doesn't need much explanation.  It doesn't matter much just who those two whos are, but this is just a detail to fuel your imagination.  Feel free to ignore it; I did.

The next, (all realms of where and when beyond) prefaces "now and here."  From this, I take that under that tree, every moment, every place, is conceivable.  All of time is presenting itself in the moment of here and now.  It serves as contrast to the tale of the two little whos.

The next parenthetical aside is the narrator talking to us, the reader.  By breaking up the line structure, I think this aside becomes much clearer.  "Far from a grown-up i&you-ful world of known" is what we're left with.  The narrator is telling us that these 2 little whos are not savvy to the world like we are.  They don't have a grown up(ful) perspective.  The last stanza of the poem is now told entirely in parentheses, from this narrator's point of view.

"2 little ams"  Simple enough, right?  Those two little whos, but this time, as self-declaring.  "and over them this"  What's over them?  A tree, filled with wonder.  That tree's leaves, if we visualize it?  "aflame with dreams"  Know what this is?  "incredible is"

By breaking Cummings down, slowly, it becomes clear to me that his works are not so challenging after all, and I hope I've helped guide you.  I know this has been a longer post than usual, but I think you, reader, for getting through it.  I hope this poem can fill you with a sense of wonder and offer a framework by which you can try to tackle E.E. Cummings poems in the future.

"There is a gold light in certain old paintings" - Donald Justice

1

There is a gold light in certain old paintings
That represents a diffusion of sunlight.
It is like happiness, when we are happy.
It comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, this light,
          And the poor soldiers sprawled at the foot of the cross
          Share in its charity equally with the cross.

     2

Orpheus hesitated beside the black river.
With so much to look forward to he looked back.
We think he sang then, but the song is lost.
At least he had seen once more the beloved back
          I say the song went this way: O prolong
          Now the sorrow if that is all there is to prolong.

     3

The world is very dusty, uncle. Let us work.
One day the sickness shall pass from the earth from good.
The orchard will bloom; someone will play the guitar.
Our work will be seen as strong and clean and good.
          And all that we suffered through having existed
          Shall be forgotten as though it had never existed.










One of my favorite poets as of late, Donald Justice offers this meditation on art and mythology as it relates to our daily lives.  While I could find the paintings he references here (chances are you can picture them yourself) I will not, because I don't want to color your mind with the art, but rather let the light Justice describes fill you.

In the first stanza, we can look at the scene in both a religious or non-religious context.  The religious context is clear; this is a scene from the Passion, wherein Christ is crucified.  The heavenly light that shines down shines on all.  Even those who killed Christ can be forgiven is the message implicit there.  We all "share in its charity equally."  This can have a non-religious context as well.  The same sun shines on all of us, humans, animals, dirt, everything.  We are equal parts of the world and are only special because of our internal monologues.  While the religious context here is the most clear, I think the lesson is largely the same with or without that framework.

In the second stanza, we see the tragic scene where Orpheus turns and Eurydice, recently rescued from the underworld, disappears.  The prolonging of sorrow is the only way he can hang onto any shred of his love.  I love the line, "We think he sang then, but the song is lost."  What else could Orpheus do?  At that point, his song was all he had.

The last stanza, despite being couched in language of ending, is reassuring.  All the suffering in the world will be forgotten with your death, and it will be as though it never existed.  I see no bleakness here.  The work these two do "will be seen as strong and clean and good."  Virtues of hard work are seldom forgotten.  Sickness will pass in time, even if we pass before it.  That's calming.

Song - Aphra Behn

O Love! that stronger art than wine,
Pleasing delusion, witchery divine,
Wont to be prized above all wealth,
Disease that has more joys than health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our pain,
And of thy tyranny complain,
We are all bettered by thy reign.

What reason never can bestow
We to this useful passion owe;
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a clown the art to please,
Humbles the vain, kindles the cold,
Makes misers free, and cowards bold;
'Tis he reforms the sot from drink,
And teaches airy fops to think.

When full brute appetite is fed,
And choked the glutton lies and dead,
Thou new spirits dost dispense
And 'finest the gross delights of sense:
Virtue's unconquerable aid
That against Nature can persuade,
And makes a roving mind retire
Within the bounds of just desire;
Cheerer or age, youth's kind unrest,
And half the heaven of the blest!










Here, Aphra Behn extols the virtues of Love despite the many wounds it deals us all.  She describes love as a delusion and witchery, but to both of those descriptions, adds pleasing and divine.  Love is a "disease that has more joys than health" and in the end, we are "all bettered by thy reign."  Love is a tyrant we submit to happily, a disease we are glad to have, and a delusion from which we never wish to wake.  Behn goes on in the second stanza to describe in greater detail the ways in which love enhances our lives.

Love helps where reason fails us.  When our logic fails, love is there.  Love can perform miracles it seems.  It "humbles the vain" and "kindles" (warms) the cold.  It makes cowards bold and can reform a drunkard, or even teach an idiot (so nicely described here as "airy fop") to think.  This disease, this divine witchery, has some serious power.

It's love that makes the world go 'round for Behn, and though this poem is over 300 years old, I think the sentiment is still relevant, and despite some old fashioned turns of phrase, fairly easy to understand.

Spring - Kay Ryan

It would be
good to shrug
out of winter
as cicadas do:
look: a crisp
freestanding you
and you walking
off, soft as
new.










I saw this poem posted by a fellow poetry blogger, whose excellent poem a day blog you should follow, and could not resist posting it myself.  It's a crunchy image, tangible almost.  I think many of us would like to shed our shells right now, and to feel as new as the buds struggling to push up through the snow.  Spring is the renewal of the world, and if we choose, of ourselves.

If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd - John Keats

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
   And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spire of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
   Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weight the stress
Of every chord, and see what my be gain'd
   By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
   Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
   Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
   She will be bound with garlands of her own.










As I am currently 25, the age at which John Keats died, I cannot help but feel very unaccomplished.  After all, he is remembered as one of the foremost Romantics, his deserved fame no doubt enhanced by the tragedy of his circumstances.  I'm just some person who writes simple analyses of poetry online.  That's okay, though.  We don't all need to be Keats.

This poem is fundamentally an introspection on poetry, and how She, as personified by Keats, is bound by "dull rhymes."  What Keats wants to do, since he feels unable to liberate poetry from rhyme entirely (though he does utilize slant rhyme in some places here) is use other techniques in order to make it not feel quite so constrained.  "Sandals more interwoven and complete to fit the naked foot of poesy" are what Keats wants to create.  To do so, by ear, he wants to listen closely to every part of a poem for musical content and beauty, not just the rhyme.  Keats does this very thing all through the poem, with pleasing assonance and consonance throughout.  It's a clever poem, and of course, beautiful, even if it is chained by "dull rhymes."

Tomorrow - Dennis O'Driscoll

                          I

Tomorrow I will start to be happy.

The morning will light up like a celebratory cigar.

Sunbeams sprawling on the lawn will set

dew sparkling like a cut-glass tumbler of champagne.

Today will end the worst phase of my life.

I will put my shapeless days behind me,

fencing off the past, as a golden rind

of sand parts slipshod sea from solid land.

It is tomorrow I want to look back on, not today.

Tomorrow I start to be happy; today is almost yesterday.

                          II

Australia, how wise you are to get the day

over and done with first, out of the way.

You have eaten the fruit of knowledge, while

we are dithering about which main course to choose.

How liberated you must feel, hoe free from doubt:

the rise and fall of stocks, today's closing prices

are revealed to you before our bidding has begun.

Australia, you can gather in your accident statistics

like a harvest while our roads still have hours to kill.

When we are in the dark, you have sagely seen the light.

                          III

Cagily, presumptuously, I dare to write 2018.

A date without character or tone. 2018.

A year without interest rates or mean daily temperature.

Its hit songs have yet to be written, its new-year

babies yet to be induced, its truces to be signed.

Much too far off for prophecy, though one hazards 

a tentative guess - a so-so year most likely,

vague in retrospect, fizzling out with the usual

end-of-season sales; everything slashed:

your last chance to salvage something of its style.

Putting our hopes onto tomorrow is effectively putting them off, relegating them to an eternal tomorrow which will never come.  As we speak, it is already becoming yesterday, that magical tomorrow moving towards the far horizon, and our status quo today replacing the golden glimmering tomorrow without us even noticing.  That's what this poem says to me.  No matter how much we say we will put our shapeless days behind us, as O'Driscoll so elegantly puts it, we tell ourselves that lie, "Tomorrow I start to be happy."

I like that he coats this bitter pill in comedy.  The second section, about how Australia gets their business out of the way first (because of the time difference) is silly and enjoyable.  The last segment has taken on a bit of a sad tint, as the author passed away in 2012, long before the 2018 he dreamed about.  Thankfully though, what that last stanza is is potential.  2018 has not been decided yet, even as we approach the middle months of 2015.  Even though O'Driscoll tempers any enthusiasm with the last stanza, in which he concludes that 2018 will likely be a so-so year, you can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, our tomorrows can be better.