GLEIPNIR: TO BIND THE WOLF

The versification is Old Norse Skaldic dróttkvætt.
Previously published in Forgotten Ground Regained Magazine/Alliteration.net in 2023.

by Rahul Gupta

The Wolf said: ‘I am not eager that this binding should be laid upon me. Yet rather than that you should question my courage, let some one of you place his hand in my mouth as a pledge that this is done in good faith.’ Týr reached out his right hand and put it in The Wolf's mouth. And when The Wolf kicked, then the band hardened; and the harder he struggled, the tighter the band. Then all laughed save Týr. He’d lost his hand. Thus lies The Wolf till The Doom of the Gods…

LEASH locked by black-elves.

They laced it, penned Fenrir

in winding wires, slender

webbing milky-silken.

Gauze gossamer-tissued;

gods and monster ponder:

was soft-seeming weftage

secretly no weakness?

 

—foot-fall of a kitten

founding roots of mountains—

 

Twirls were twined and stranded

of twisted cords, listed

as subtly-sired mettles

sourced like smelted ore-veins;

wisps removed, inwoven,

from world-kingdom thinghood:

unlikely lode-makings

in linked chains were tinctured.

 

—the hive-hunter’s nervures

hairs sheared from the beardless—

 

What fish breathe. From feathered

finches their beak-gleekings;

bears’ bent to be fearful

(Bruin’s now no coward);

the roots whence rocks sprouted;

rumble of cat’s tumbling;

barbered beards from maidens,

bristly wives, and sisters.

 

—the foam of fowls’ droolings

finny-scaled’s inhalings—

 

They forge, finely-spinning

this far-gathered harvest,

stilling steamy cullings

to stuff girt with virtues:

suchlike simples temper

seething alloy-wreathing;

meld in strange amalgam

on the murk-elves’ furnace.

 

—foot-fall of a kitten

founding roots of mountains—

 

Like dust of dream thistle-

down as plaited matter,

spliced in skeins of spindrift

whose spume waxes flaxen;

pith of pallid æther’s

puffball iron-toughened;

as motes tugged by magnets

muster snaky clusters;

 

—the hive-hunter’s nervures

hairs sheared from the beardless—

 

From dew-vapour droplets

dawning forges hoarfrost;

fossil amber forms as

fir-trees spectral nectar;

molten magma cooling

to make schist and crystal:

thus whimsied whiffs blooming

to whip-lashing tripwires.

 

—the foam of fowls’ droolings

finny-scaled’s inhalings—

 

Husks of hazes fusing

hatch for Garm an armoured,

glossy slipknot: Gleipnir—

a glamour elves hammered?

—Spun spellbinding, runic

spider-staves; their slaving

more on mental bondage

than on metal-cast fetters?

 

—foot-fall of a kitten

founding roots of mountains—

 

Could gods game for riddles

be beguiled so slyly?

Tether-teased-from-nothings’

trammel none can damage:

if noughts cipher network,

the nexus so textured’s

webbing warped of absence,

wefted sheer of zero.

 

—the hive-hunter’s nervures

hairs sheared from the beardless—

 

The worse the warg struggles,

the witch-thongs get stronger—

till Doom dusks, then Time’s up;

dwarven artists’ bartered

cantrip cost them plenty

and crammed that maw: lawless

Troth’s token of oathplight;

Týr’s shamed, noble, maiming.

 

—toes of tabby drubbing

taproots mountains shoot from

bushy beards from ladies

a bill’s dribble-spillage

from gills, bubble-gulpings

the grizzly’s fear-wisdom

an unsoothfast swordhand’s

slaughtered, mainsworn, mortmain.—

BEDE'S SPARROW

by Thomas Sudell

Note: Having received the Christian missionary Paulinus, King Edwin of Northumbria convenes his court to discuss the advisability of conversion, whereat an unnamed nobleman makes the following speech. For the source of this passage, see Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People, Book II, Chapter 13. The same passage also inspired Wordsworth's sonnet 'Persuasion' and is familiar to all students of Anglo-Saxon literature. My version is a free translation from the original Latin prose.

OR myself I should say    that it seems, O Lord,

that the lot of those    who live on this earth

is like unto that    of the lone sparrow

who wings her way    to your welcome hall

as you sit at supper    with your servants and thanes

deep into the night,    all darkness banished

by the light and warmth    of logs burning

in the hungry hearth    while howling winds

bewilder the world    with winter rain

and driving snow.    Thus drawing nigh,

the sparrow swiftly    speeds through the hall

and, after entering    at an open door,

soon passes out    through a portal set

at the farther side    nor feels the touch

of the tempest-blast    while she tarries within.

Yet brief indeed    is to be that time

of peace and repose,    passing in an instant

as from winter to winter    away she flies,

eluding your sight.    So the life of man

for a time appears;    what in turn may follow

or what came before    we can but guess.

And now therefore,    if this new teaching

is able to offer    aught more certain,

well should I ween    that it were worth following.'

GÉAC OF THE LANTERN

by Adam Bolivar

Note: Géac—a speculative Old English version of the name Jack—is pronounced ‘yawk’.

ULL the moon was     and fallen the leaves

When Géac wandered     to yon tavern,

A dark dwelling     and doom-laden;

The smoky air     smote his eyeballs.

A fire flickered,     fable-making,

Shifting shadows     shaping puppets

On wormy walls,     the wood hoary.

There Scratch saw him     and scampered over,

Eager to haggle     with an ettin-slayer

Sickened by slaughter     and seas of blood.

The imp offered     an eldritch bargain:

A boon in trade     for bondage to Hell.

Tricksome Géac was,     tangle-weaving,

For beer thirsty;     he brewed mischief,

Hoodwinking the hob     for a horn of ale,

And grinned widely:     the gift he asked

That Scratch alter     his scale and become

A shiny sceat     to show the alewife,

A coin Géac then     kept in his pocket,

Baffling the bogle     with blessed silver.

 

 ‘Unhand me now!’     howled the puca.

‘No trouble make me     for twenty years,

And I’ll loose my hold,     lackwit scratling,’

Answered the rascal,     his offer taken.

Fast the years were     to find the pair

In an old orchard     of apple trees,

The elf crowing     over his triumph.

Slyly Géac then     sought a kindness:

An apple to sate     his irksome hunger,

So Scratch scrambled     to scale a tree,

Where Géac trapped him,     yowling and cursing,

With silver crosses,     sacred wardings,

Laid in a circle     along the trunk,

And bade him break     their bargain’s terms:

‘Hell must not hold     this handsome rake!’     

Scratch succumbed     to abscond freely.

His time ended,     the trickster roamed,

Heavy-hearted,     to Heaven’s gate;

The watchman made     a witless slander

And cast him down,     cold and wretched.

To Hell Géac went,     haven-seeking;

At the gate gloated     a gleeful Scratch.

 

‘Hell cannot hold you,     nor Heaven keep,

Damned to darkness,     by death forsaken,

Wandering weary,     your wyrd ended,

Hellfire to guide,     held in a lantern, 

A corpse-candle     to curse the fen,

A wispy spark     bewitching to see,

Fools who follow     fated to ruin.’
 

THE BEOWULF POET SPEAKS

by Michael Helsem

cefetters urge · the old stories

though hearths dwindle · in the dwale welter

a coarse cassock · & i climb steep

errands of brink · these bright runes

my turn it is to tell · my tale it is to turn

though the house-bones huddle · hidden in the forest

where the dapple-cloth clytes · & the clustering myst’ries

leave silence · & the soft reign of rust

there’s a paltry patter · dependent in these steeple towns

as if no liege lord · had wound hawk in jess

& we copy copy copy · what we cannot believe

while the way back buries · in burr-laden lanes

but i know what none of them · yet denies at heart

there was valor Wyrd-vying · & the stones we shun

we’re obliged when the stormblast · cankers our course

after leafturn tunes · not of plantings reel

i will put this in letters · paying the line out

inchmeal anxious · echo-lorn

they say a page vellum · scraped & inscribed

many a twelvemonth · may muster on its own

WEYLAND'S REVENGE

by J.W. Laurel

N the blackness of his bedchamber, baulked of sleep,

Nitherad the king— who was so cold-hearted—

Sat among his sorrows, swirling thoughts

Upon his sons, disappeared, in the snow-swept land;

And on Boadhild his daughter, in her bower weeping,

Who would show not her face for the shame she felt;

 

Then a man came calling at his master’s door,

And he said there was a bird that had the speech of men.

It was hunched like a vulture on the hall’s high roof,

And it cackled like a crow beneath the clouded moon.

And the king looked upon it, as it caught the light,

And he shuddered to his spine when he saw that face:

It was swart as a demon, skin and bones,

With its eyes full of malice, and a mocking grin.

Weyland the slave-smith— withered were his legs;

But he was armed with wings now, works of guile.

Gloatingly he spoke to him who stood below:

 

“I shall tell you of your sons, if you’ll swear an oath

Not to harm even a hair upon her I loved,

And now leave in your hands – nor on her little one;

Boadhild your daughter in my bed has lain;

She was taken by my strength— made soft by beer—

Did I rob her of her maidhead? It was mine by right,

Since you bestowed on her the ring of my swan-white bride!

Have you sought your sons throughout your snow-swept land?

They are here in your hall with your hoarded gold!

For those silver-plated goblets from their skulls I wrought;

And I fashioned from their eyeballs the flickering gems

That so charmed your queen; and their childish teeth

I embedded in a brooch for Boadhild fair!

I have made them into treasures, that you more might love them,

And to gift you what befits you ere I go my way.”

 

And when Nitherad had heard, to his knees he fell,

And retched up his guts; and he roared his will

To Aegil the archer, who aimed his bow

At the cunning one who crouched there on a cripple’s feet—

But he flung himself towards them— and he flapped his wings—

And he swooped— and then he soared— like a sky-borne bat,

Or the shadow of a god—and the shot missed—

And only laughter lingered—and the light was gone.