I can talk treks,
truth-tales twisting —
every word my wracking —
how I buckle underneath
these hours of fuckeries,
long dredging days —
grudged to the gall,
the stew of my guts —
tracking down plenty:
seats of sorrow-bound ships —
the roiling awful of waves,
where clutching night-watches
poured over me, catching
at dromund prow,
dashed smashed upon stone. (1–8a)
My feet were clapped in chills,
enwrapped in withering,
wound in frozen fetters,
where my sorrows sigh —
boiling in breast.
Heart-hunger sunders
souls of the sea-rutted (8b–12a)
What could the chads know,
to whom the finest fruits fall—
how I, yearning & yawping,
worrying across whole winters
and the icebox of oceans,
trackless tracks of the traceless,
am drained of kindred & kindness —
hung about with harrowing icicles?
Flurrying hail showers me. (12b–17)
What to hear out there?
Nothing — if not the thrumming sea,
rhythm of ice-blade waves.
Then & again singing of swans
cranks up their cheer — taking
gannet cry & curlew keen
for laughter among company —
seagulls regaling a hearty round of mead.
Buffets beat riff on cliffs of stone,
where ice-pinioned terns keep time
and eagles exult wet-winging above.
Without the shelter of kindred,
and having all this nothing,
why wouldn’t I send my spirit sailing? (18–26)
So few trust in their own,
keeping clutch on joys of life,
habituated to homes,
strangers to perilous paths,
prideful and wine-plush —
how weary I must withstand
so often upon the surf-roads.
Dusky shadows darken,
north-winds snowing,
banding the earth in frost.
Hail tumbles to the ground —
how can such cold seeds sprout? —
like the wonderings of my heart
come crashing down these days —
Should I test out the tidal deeps,
the dancing of salt waves? (27–35)
Yearnings of heart remind
at every mindful moment
the spirit is a sailor —
and so I must seek
homes of estrangement
far from this place. (36–38)
Therefore there is no one
across the whole earth
so mind-weening, so assured in assets,
or yare of youth, or fierce of feats,
or loyal to lords — that they
should not know the sorrow
of the salty passage ever & always —
that yet another lord may subject
them to whenever he likes. (39–43)
What are harp-thoughts to these?
Or ring-rooking? Or woman-playing?
Or any hopeful resort to this world?
Or anything else for that matter —
nothing —
except the ebb & flow:
yet it always aches inside
one who tempts the tides. (44–47)
Flowers flood from forest,
flocking down fortifications,
flickering across fields —
so this world flits faster.
All of it reminds the hurrying heart,
urging soul to sail along,
for that one fixing to ferry out
far-wards on flood-ways. (48–52)
The cuckoos say it too,
in longing tones,
summer’s ward sings,
strumming your pain,
bitterness in breast-box.
What would the mighty man know of it—
a guy fortunate always & again—
what those select few meet with,
ones who set themselves
to tracks of broadest desolation. (53–57)
Of course my selfness
would want to outventure now —
beyond the enclosure of chest,
my very core coursing with tides,
surpassing the broadness,
where whales tend their gardens,
at every corner of the globe. (58–61a)
Here it comes again,
one who flies alone,
gulling greed & gluttony—
goading unexpectedly
my solitude upon
slaughtering waves,
across surging surf. (61b–64a)
And so the joys of the lord
kindle me hotter
than a life of just the same,
deadening, all just a loan.
You can’t possibly believe
your power, your wealth, your world
will stand up tall — forever?
Every fucking time, always & again,
one of three outcomes
falls out to fuck things up
before you were supposed to die:
Fever or the fading,
or else some bladed malice
drags out the breath from
those fated on forwards. (64b–71)
Whatcha got left then? —
Best we have will only be
the regards of those rambling after,
high repute as we row away,
and so one ought to take pains
before one must away,
to unfold on this enfolding earth
one’s fierceness, one’s feats —
despite foes’ despite,
ever-opposed to devils.
Maybe then human sprouts
would laud them lofty
and the plaudits last
ever among the angels,
always & forever —
the pop & the profit
of extra-long existence,
joys among the majesties. (72–80a)
Those days go dusking:
pomposities of every earthly prince —
no more the kinglets or kaisers,
no more the gold-givers,
like there used to be.
My my — then those dudes
would grant out the greatest glories
and home them in highest honor. (80b–85)
Crapped flat these majesties,
their pleasures feathered on by.
The weaker hold the field
and flourish somehow —
flaunting it in fluttering.
The flowers have flopped out.
Earthly good elders, wizens,
just like all humanity
across this homely habitat.
The eldering erodes them,
grizzled-haired grieving,
perceiving his play-friend,
peer in peerage, plopped
right down into the cold cold ground. (86–93)
But neither will this meat-shirt
of yours, when the spirit
meanders off, mouth
upon the merriments,
nor tang with trouble,
nor lash about in limbs,
not even ponder in pith. (94–96)
Even though a brother
would bury his other
with treasures aplenty,
grave bestrewn with gold —
what he wants him to have —
yet how could that gold
succor a soul brimmed of sin
from the terror of god,
what he hoarded while hale. (97–102)
Fear of the one measuring
is plenty big — therefore
this realm will be tendered,
who tendered the ground untender,
far corners of the globe,
and the overarching stars. (103–105)
What fella doesn’t fear his lord—little or big—
will always be a jack-fool,
and demise will chop him down,
outta nowhere. Those who live in meek respect,
what wouldn’t they reap in the beyonds?
The measurer plants the heart in them,
because they credit its capacities.
A mensch stands their surpassing spirit,
beanpoles it to its root, stays certainworthy
to those around, keeps it respectable. (106–110)
Whatever person should
ought to clamber close
in calm constraint,
to whoever they cherish
or condemn to the core —
they may want them
charred crisp, be flushed
with flames, some frenemy, if you like —
yet see how it falls out,
that always wins, see?
And that measurer?
Mightier still, mightier
than whatever grudge
you harbor in heart. (111–116)
Sit down & think about it —
wherever that home draws us,
and imagine how we return there
and then actually do the work,
so that we are given the pass
into everlong entitlement,
where the days don’t quit
in the lord’s loving blaze,
jubilance in heaven’s dance. (117–122a)
The takeaway —
Give grace to that holy,
so he graces us back,
the owner of glory,
long-going lord,
for all time.
Amen
(122b–25)
So, I think this is a truly terrible translation, because in trying to sort of Gen Z-ify the language, the translation entirely misses most of what is essential about the poem. For instance, “earfoðhwile” refers to genuine, often terrifying hardships and risks like treacherous weather, piracy, shipwreck, etc. These are not covered by the phrase “hours of fuckery,” which makes it sound like he’s been on a lengthy hold with his cable provider. The same issue plagues virtually all the places in the translation where deep emotion and crucial social relationships are reduced to trendy youth-speak (“Those dudes” completely misses the kind of loyalty, love, dependence and transaction that formed the critical and deeply respectful relationship between a warrior and his lord). At the points where the translation doesn’t miss what’s essential, the effect is dissonant with the casual references to “Chads,” “frenemy,” etc. The reader comes away from this with no sense of The Seafarer’s impact or language.
Thank you for coming by & leaving these detailed comments:
You list “…genuine, often terrifying hardships and risks like treacherous weather, piracy, shipwreck, etc” covered by the Old English for “earfoð-hwile” as an example of why suggestion of “hours of fuckery” is inappropriate. And I agree that at first sight that might be a reasonable supposition — we’ve all seen movies & tv shows about sailing & exploration. However, this is an instance where digging into the text itself might be illustrative: the narrator character of this poem enumerates only cold & loneliness as the perils they might face on the ocean. Shouldn’t that other stuff be in there if this is an account of an actual sailor? If an accurate view of a life at sea were the point?
Further, “earfoð-hwile” means “tribulation/anxiety/hardship” + “a period of time,” so I feel my rendering preserves the idea of grinding out & enduring time, a period of anxiety, hardship, & emotional turmoil. This emotional turmoil is well-evidenced throughout the rest of the poem. And given the likelihood that this poem is originates within a monastic experience, perhaps an allegory for the contemplative life separated from the concerns of the world, what the precise contents of that tribulation is better left up to the observer and not specified in any particular way. So insisting “fuckery” is automatically inappropriate just means you don’t know how people use the word, which means anything from serious stuff to minor inconveniences (like sitting in the phone queue, as you suggest).
Do you think there might be numerous kinds of translation, meant for different purposes & for different audiences? To test different interpretations of these 1,000-year-old texts? Also, how much of our unyielding insistence that these poems are mopey, solemn, or staid are the result of generations of scholars choosing language & style that promote that assumption?
Also, to regard contemporary slang as automatically inauthentic and superficial is to assume that your children (or people outside the highly-educated) don’t experience authentic emotions about the world they experience, so I dunno, Elizabeth, it’s just not a good look.
Just a few things to think about…
I love your translation for all the reasons you provide here. It is not meant to be a “definitive” translation, like, “this is the only translation of this poem” – you can read it, and other translations and use them together to get a sense of the emotions and energy of the original.
There is no one way to translate from one language to another. Languages do not map one to the other exactly. Language is about communicating emotion, deeper meaning, energy, it’s shifting (like the sea). So this translation can add something to the rest.
There is also a snobbery about “art” and particularly about older art – that the people writing then were Very Serious People who had Very Serious Thoughts and never had any of the same feelings that we do now, particularly not younger people from Gen Z who are just interested in their mind rot. No, these Older Works of Literature have to be preserved in aspic, wrapped in dustcloth and taken out –carefully — by Serious Scholars to discuss them Properly. God forbid anyone who is not a Serious Scholar should enjoy them. How could they possibly understand their Deep Meaning?
The same has happened to Shakespeare, whose plays were intended for mass entertainment including by young people from the Gen Z of the day. Performances now are so dull and serious and tedious, spoken in pretentious RP that all the joy and life have been drained out of them.
Hello Jordan, Thank you for these thoughtful & supportive comments. When I first started translating at all, & more & more recently, I observed that some people have a lot invested in their image of ancient cultures or academic entitlement or whatever. The reason know what I’m doing in these pages is useful & important is the anger, bewilderment, and sometimes hate that gets directed at me here. I push buttons that need to be pushed — otherwise this field of medieval studies that has been stagnant, gatekeeping, & fusty for decades, will die. And I don’t want that to happen.
Anyhoozles, thanks again!
My teacher posted this for the absent kids to read but its super different from what she gave us in class
I hate to tell you this, friend — but your teacher did not read my translation before they posted it… :)
the language is too casual and too American to my taste.
ah, inculcate scion of Blake’s Orc. no faith in refinement of words being meaningful.
I respect the skill shown in some lines though.
cool, then
This has been very helpful to me. I still don’t get how the context switches from sea to religion.
Literally
“Literally” is the hang up here — they’re metaphors…
From my studies, the monks would be copying these down, since they were the only well learned of their time. They maybe couldn’t resist adding some religion in it and changing the name of their main god Wyrd to God the Father. After all, you can’t recite a poem about a pagan god in a Catholic church.
One absolutely can — how else would we have Classical literature if monks weren’t recopying it? Also, syncretism (blending faith traditions) was not uncommon in England until the Puritan Revolution. And I’m not sure one could say “Wyrd” was a main “god” and most of the Germanic terms for the Christian big cheese were appropriated from Oðinn/Woden anyways. It’s a stew, in other words, but most of us were taught it was a neat & tidy narrative. Just offering some things to think about.
𓀐𓂺
I’m not sure what this is, but it rulez
Hey HEL
I’m currently reading this poem with my teacher its really nice but i still don’t get it lol.The comment section is the only thing that is funny beside the poem 😂.
Lol, thanks! But why you gotta hate on the commemts. They’re the most interesting of the whole website. :)
This poem caused my parents to get back together after their divorce. They shouldn’t have, I hate whoever wrote this poem with a passion, I wanted two Christmases
This comment wins. The comments section is now closed…
LMAO
I have this tattooed on my midriff, eths and thorns and all.
Word? The whole poem? That’s commitment. The thorns aren’t even my first question :)
Sure is
The key word is \”wait.\” Without it, her lament would make no sense; she is \”waiting for waiting to end.\” Hamlet\’s dilemma and many other folks, ancient and modern; I require from my students an interpretation of the phrase. Who, among the great modern British poets, was a connoisseur of Anglo-Saxon poetry?
Hi there,
I’m not sure which line you are referring to, but cool.
As to your inquiry, there in fact is a book published on just that subject. Chris Jones, Strange Likeness: The Use of Old English in Twentieth-Century Poetry (Oxford UP, 2006). Very useful study.
very awesome poem. changed my life
Every night I read this masterpiece of words to my children and pet shark doby. Though I am blind the literature on the screen speaks through my heart and soul, amplifying the words on the screen. Amen
….
Very Beautifully, just like my mom !
I’ve seen the light through this poem.
In our religion, it’s said that Imam (leader) Hussein is the ship of survival from hell, who ever rides it will surely survive. His ship is basically based on love and on striving for truth. What has raised my attention is that this poem is talking about a spiritual seafarer who is striving for heaven by moderation and the love of the Lord. He then prays: “Amen”.
Verily, the faiths are more similar than distinct in lots of important ways, sir.
true