“How often the lone-dweller anticipates
some sign, this Measurer’s mercy
— must always must—
mind-caring, along the ocean’s windings,
stirring rime-chill seas, hands as oars
many long whiles, treading the tracks of exile—
the way of the world an open book always.” (1–5)
So spoke the earth-stepper, a memorial of miseries
slaughter of the wrathful, crumbling of kinsmen:
“Often, every daybreak, alone I must
bewail my cares. There’s now no one living
to whom I dare mumble my mind’s understanding.
I know as truth that it’s seen suitable
for anyone to bind fast their spirit’s closet,
hold onto the hoards, think whatever — (8–14)
“Can a weary mind weather the shitstorm?
I think not.
Can a roiling heart set itself free?
I don’t think so.
So often those hustling for the win must
clamp down grim mindings in their coffer,
just as I ought fetter my inborn conceit,
often wounded, wanting where I know,
kindred pulled away, how many winters now?
I shrouded my giver in dark earth
and wended away worrisome,
weather-watching the wrapful waves,
hall-wretched, seeking a center,
far or near, where they might be found,
in some mead-hall, who knows of my kind,
willing to adopt a friendless me,
though they be joyful enough. (15–29a)
“The well-travelled know how slicing
sorrow can be by one’s side,
short a struggle-friend, however dear.
The ways of wandering wind him round
not even a wire of wound gold—
a frigid fastness, hardly any fruits of the fold.
This one lists the hall-lads swilling rings,
giver-drenched in youngsome days,
in both furnishing and feasting.
Joys all flown, vanished all away! (29b-36)
“Therefore one knows who long forgoes
the friendly words of their first,
when sleep and sorrow stand together
clutching at the crestfallen alone.
Somehow seems that somewhere inside
this one enwraps his lord and kisses his lord,
and laps both hands and head
on his knee, when, once upon a year
blurry in time now, one thrived by the throne —
too soon rousing, a friendless singular
seeing all around a fallowness of waves,
sea-birds bathing, fanning their feathers,
ice and snow hurtling, heaved up with hail. (37-48)
“So heavy and heavier the hurt in heart
harrowing for the lost. Sorrow made new
whenever recalling pervades the mind,
greeting kindred joyfully, drinking in the look of them
fellowable and fathoming—
they always swim away.
Gulls ghost-call — I don’t know their tongue too well,
much of their comfort weird. Worrying made new
to that one who must send more and more, every day,
a bleary soul back across the binding of waves. (49-57)
“Therefore I cannot wonder across this world
why my mind does not muster in the murk
when I ponder pervading all the lives of humans,
how suddenly they abandon their halls,
proud princes and young. Right here in the middle
it fumbles and falls every day — (58-63)
“No one can be wise before earning their lot of winters
in this world. The wise one, they stay patient:
not too heart-heated, not so hasty to harp,
not too weak-armed, nor too wan-headed,
nor too fearful nor too fey nor too fee-felching,
and never tripping the tongue too much, before it trips them. (64-9)
“That one bides their moment to make brag,
until the inner fire seizes its moment clearly,
to where their secret self veers them.
Who’s wise must fore-ken how ghostly it has been
when the world and its things stand wasted —
like you find, here and there, in this middle space now —
there walls totter, wailed around by winds,
gnashed by frost, the buildings snow-lapt.
The winehalls molder, their wielder lies
washed clean of joys, his peerage all perished,
proud by the wall. War ravaged a bunch
ferried along the forth-way, others a raptor ravished
over lofty seas, this one the hoary wolf
broke in its banes, the last a brother
graveled in the ground, tears as war-mask. (70-84)
“That’s the way it goes—
the Shaper mills middle-earth to waste
until they stand empty, the giants’ work and ancient,
drained of the dreams and joys of its dwellers.” (85-7)
Then one wisely regards this wall-stead,
deliberates a darkened existence,
aged in spirit, often remembering from afar
many war-slaughterings, and speaks these words: (88-91)
“Where has the horse gone?
Where are my kindred?
Where is the giver of treasure?
Where are the benches to bear us?
Joys of the hall to bring us together?
No more, the bright goblet!
All gone, the mailed warrior!
Lost for good, the pride of princes!
“How the space of years has spread —
growing gloomy beneath the night-helm,
as if it never was! (92-6)
“Tracks of the beloved multitude, all that remains
walls wondrous tall, serpents seething—
thanes stolen, pillaged by ashen foes
gear glutting for slaughter — we know this world’s way,
and the storms still batter these stony cliffs.
The tumbling snows stumble up the earth,
the clash of winter, when darkness descends.
Night-shadows benighten, sent down from the north,
raw showers of ice, who doesn’t hate humanity? (97-105)
All shot through in misery in earthly realms,
fortune’s turn turns the world under sky.
Here the cash was a loan.
Your friends were a loan.
Anyone at all, a loan.
Your family only ever a loan—
And this whole foundation of the earth wastes away!” (106-10)
So says the wise one, you don’t hear him at all,
sitting apart reading their own runes. (111)
It’s better to clutch at your counsel,
you ought never manifest your miseries
not too quickly where they well,
unless the balm is clear beforehand,
keep whittling at your courage. (112-14a)
It will be well for those who seek the favor,
the comfort from our father in heaven,
where a battlement bulwarks us all. (114b-5)
This post explains a complex poem in a clear and insightful way. It helps readers understand the depth behind the work.
I really warmed to your opening stanza,
“…mind-caring, along the ocean’s windings,
stirring rime-chill seas, hands as oars
many long whiles, treading the tracks of exile—
the way of the world an open book always.”
And then I had to ingest ‘shitstorm,’ ‘those hustling for the win’ and the cheap wording of ‘Here the cash was a loan. Your friends were a loan. Anyone at all, a loan.’ It all reeks of pandering to clueless undergrads. You destroy the pained gravitas of the poem, replacing it with the lingo of the shopping mall. That lingo will have changed in twenty years and your translation become dated by its superficial trendiness. Are you aiming for notoriety? Rhetorical question. Your translation will stand the test of time as an oddity, nothing more.
Aldous, I Insist I have the translation of the century in my possession and will give you the privilege of gazing upon it.
The Wanderer
“How often the solo grindset bro anticipates some drip from the Big Homie upstairs — mercy always gotta hit — mind fried, scrolling the ocean’s endless feed, paddling frost-bite waves with bare hands, grinding exile arcs for mad long — fate stay locked in, no cap.” (1–5)
So posted the earth-hopper, straight trauma dump, bodies dropped in the beef, squad wiped: “Every sunrise I’m solo venting my Ls. Ain’t nobody breathing I can slide my real thoughts to. Facts: it’s alpha to lock your mental vault, guard the bag of feelings, think whatever — (8–14)
“Can a cooked spirit tank the full shitstorm? Nah fr. Can a raging heart just log off the pain? Doubt it. So all the clout chasers grinding for the W gotta deadass clamp their grim vibes in the safe, same as I should chain my ego up, always scarred, craving where I know my day-ones got pulled, how many seasons deep? I buried my plug in the dirt lowkey and dipped stressed, weather-stalking the wrap-around waves, hall-bummed, hunting a spot far or close where real ones post up, who get my vibe, down to adopt a no-friends left bro, even if they lit. (15–29a)
“The road-rats know how bad the L slices when you short a real ride-or-die, no matter how close. Exile route got him spun, not even a chain of solid gold — straight icebox energy, barely any W’s from the fam. This dude lists the hall boys chugging rings, plug-drenched back in the young days, both drip and feasts. All joy cooked, ghosted! (29b-36)
“So you get it when you miss the day-one vibes from your first plug, when sleep and sorrow tag-team the depressed loner. Feels like somewhere in the cut this one hugs his lord, kisses the homie, lays hands and head on knee, back when years ago blurry af, he was thriving courtside — snaps awake too quick, friendless opp seeing nothing but empty waves, seabirds splashing, feathers fanned, ice and snow incoming, hail barrage. (37-48)
“So heavy and heavier the heart damage for the lost. New pain spawn every recall, mind flooded, greeting the squad hyped, sipping their aura and locking in— they always fade out the chat. Gulls hit ghost notifications — I don’t speak bird flu, their comfort sus af. New worry spawn for the one who gotta keep sending his faded soul back over the wave bind every single day. (49-57)
“So I can’t even wonder why my brain won’t glow up in the dark when I peep all human Ls, how quick they dip their cribs, proud kings and young opps. Right in the middle it glitches and crashes every day — (58-63)
“No cap can be wise before farming enough winters in this server. The real wise one stays patient: not too rage-baited, not speed-running the yap, not weak-grip, not depressed af, not scared, not suicidal, not greedy-grab, and never tongue-slipping too hard before it backfires. (64-9)
“That one waits for the moment to flex, until the inner heat pops off clean, wherever their hidden self steers. Wise gotta foreknow how ghostly it gets when the world and its loot stands wasted — like you spot here and there in this mid-game now — walls crumbling, wind-roared, frost-bit, buildings snow-buried. Wine cribs rotting, the owner rinsed of all W’s, his squad all deleted, proud against the wall. War wiped a squad ferried on the death-route, others a bird snatched over high seas, one the gray wolf cracked open, the last buried by a bro, tears as face-mask. (70-84)
“That’s the meta— the Creator farms middle-earth to zero until empty, the giants’ builds ancient, drained of the dreams and vibes of the squad.” (85-7)
Then one wise peeps this wall-spot, thinks deep on the darkened run, old soul, often flashing back far on mad war wipes, and drops these bars: (88-91)
“Where the whip at? Where my day-ones? Where the plug with the bag? Where the benches to post? Hall joys to link the squad? No more bright cups! All gone, the armored opp! Lost for good, the prince flex!
“How the years stretched — turning gloomy under night cap, like it never dropped! (92-6)
“Tracks of the beloved squad, that’s all left — walls tall af, serpents sliding— thanes yoinked, looted by ash opps gear-hungry for the smoke — we know this world’s script, and storms still clap these stone cliffs. Tumbling snow stumbles the dirt, winter clash, when dark drops. Night-shadows pull up from north, raw ice showers, who doesn’t hate the game? (97-105)
All penetrated in misery in earthly lobbies, fortune’s RNG flips the whole map under sky. Here the bread was rented. Your bros were rented. Anybody period, rented. Your blood only rented— And this whole earth base wastes away!” (106-10)
So says the wise one, you don’t hear bro at all, sitting solo decoding their own runes. (111)
Better clutch your counsel, never drop your Ls too quick where they spill, unless the fix is obvious, keep grinding courage. (112-14a)
It’ll be W for those who seek the favor, the comfort from our Father upstairs, where a fortress walls us all. (114b-5)
You’re Welcome.
Are we only allowed to mourn in the King’s English now‽
To suggest that the ‘pained gravitas’ of an Anglo-Saxon exile can only be expressed through Victorian-era vocabulary is a strange sort of historical cosplay. The original poet wasn’t trying to sound ‘elevated’ to his peers; he was being raw. If ‘shitstorm’ captures the chaos of the rime-chill seas for a modern ear better than ‘tempest,’ then the translator has actually done their job.
I’d take ‘lingo of the shopping mall’ over a ‘victorian academic stick-up-the-butt’ archive any day, which was practically the “lingo of the shopping mall” of a century ago.
And for what it’s worth, ‘loan’ is a literal etymological nod to the Old English læne. ‘Loan’ is already the best translation. Don’t gild the lily.
Translating into ‘shitstorm’ and ‘those hustling for the win’ seems to me more like pandering to clueless undergrad minds rather than aiming for the achingly pained gravitas of the actual poem. I think we need to bring students up to the level of apprehending the cultural and linguistic reality of such poems, not drag works down to the level of contemporary lingo – which will change in twenty years, making such translations cheap oddities. Your trendy language sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb. It does not sit well or read well. Horrible translation, notwithstanding your erudite justifications.
Well, it was important for you to leave two comments, both saying the same thing, so I guess that’s something.
As I usually say, not all translations are for all people — and that my work is not for you is not something I need worry about.
Thank you for stopping by & leaving your reaction — have an amazing day!
i’m a college english student and longtime lurker on this website (about a year) and wanted to say this is the translation that really made OE poetry come alive for me. i just love the “earth-stepper” line. it makes me feel so connected with the author of this poem across thousands of years. thank you for your work. :)
This is a very interesting text. I’m still learning english so is difficult to me to understand it all but I really enjoyed the experience. Thank you for your work!
Just a quick note. I too distrust the common understanding of Wyrd as destiny or fate. I’m more inclined to just think of it as ‘the way things are’. We’re all of us subject to ‘the way things are’, even the gods. Christians made an effort to make Jesus more powerful than ‘the way things are’.
There’s also, for me, remembrance of it in our idioms, ‘see how things turn out’, ‘how things have turned out’, & ‘it’s turned out nice again’. :-)
Thanks
I’ve been enjoying these translations for some time, but/and now I’m compelled to speak.
I deeply appreciate your work at getting at the spirit of the meaning underlying these works. There’s worth, of course, in the word-for-word, mathematical translation, gently nudged into a classically poetical form. It’s just as important for a work like this, a penetrating mind less concerned with the 1:1 translation (as we understand these words today) and more interested in sniffing the mind behind the original work, feeling the shapes beneath time’s muck, and bringing someone from the past to speak today.
All translations are going to end up being modern translations, we can’t help that. It’s just a matter of whether the translator puts on a theater costume and attempts to stage a period piece, or buys the original writer a beer and lets them speak freely.
Hi Christian, thank for those kind words. I couldn’t have expressed the sentiment better myself.
You replaced wyrd with shitstorm? Im invredulous. Come on now I cant take this version serious and immediatly have gone to find another translation..
And i found it. Here is a superior version. It flows better. It makes more sense, and its not ruined by poor modern sensibility.
https://faculty.arts.ubc.ca/sechard/oewand.htm
Wow —
I’m invredulous you found that old translation from the Norton Anthology all that inveresting. And it’s okay you don’t like my work, no translation is for everybody. For example, mine are not made for the basic. It’s that simple.
Have a lovely day!
bro relax its not that deep
I struggle with the text, like all literature which is well worth reading it needs to be mulled over and digested slowly. Your above comments/responses are reassuring indeed regards translation.
Interesting translation. In some ways closer to the original Anglo-Saxon in spirit, as well as alliterative technique. I wanted to share this amazing poem with some friends who were discussing the nature of aloneness, but I feel that the attempt at closeness to the original meaning of some of the lexis actually presents difficulties for a modern reader. For example \”Metudes\”, translated as \”Measurer\” versus \”the Lord\” requires more decoding. And \”shitstorm\” probably doesn\’t convey the meaning of \”wyrde\”, a concept essential to the transition from the pre-Christian world view. So sometimes this translation obscures meaning by attempting to be close to the value of the language for a 10th century reader, at other times the original meaning is made opaque by attempting to be too modern.
Hi there, friend — thank you very much for your input. Opinions may always vary, & the impact on different readers will as well. I give a few responses to your points:
1) Difficulty is always an aspect of poetry. It’s what makes poetry not prose. My work has always aimed to make a modern reader step back & work at decoding the message. When previous scholars have translated these poems that illusion of simplicity is put there so we only hear their interpretation. Yet the poems themselves are complex, ambivalent, & quite often devious.
2) “Meotud” for “the Lord”: One way to make the poetry seem more simple than it really is is to convert closely matching names and epithets to just one base word or concept. So words like “god,” “dryhten,” “frēa,” “thēoden,” or “meotud” might all be legitimately translated as “The Lord,” however, all five of those terms have their own semantic and etymological associations that are important, especially in connections to pre-Christian ideas of the divine. Yet all of them, as well as the host of compound epithets, probably mean to invoke some aspect of the divine in that context. “Meotud” is etymologically related to PIE *med- meaning “to measure out” & it seems important to acknowledge that aspect of the concepts swirling around the idea of the divine in this particular Christian context.
3) On “shitstorm” for “wyrd”: “Wyrd” is poorly understood as a concept & overdetermined by the interest of early Old English scholars to connect this unusual & alien culture to both Classical “Fortuna” & Christian “Providence.” The problem is the word almost never means “Fate” or “destiny” in its immediate contexts. More often it seems to signify “outcomes,” “what happens,” “event,” “chance” — hardly anything divine or supernatural. Just random stuff. Again, this is an instance where seeking complexity rather than oversimplification allows a reader to discover what they are looking for in these translations.
I hope that’s helpful and thanks again for the comments!
I have only a passing acquaintance with OE literature, and finding this site has drawn me in.Having no expertise my only complaint was your use of “shitstorm” as it felt trendy, and may become dated too quickly. However, having seen some of the other comments, I retract my objection. You know from shitstorms. Carry on, sir.
I feel impelled to comment that \”shitstorm\” immediately solidified the Anglo-Saxon-ness of this translation for me.