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Poetry in Translation: Anglo-Saxon Poetry

 

Widsith

                        I am Widsith;

Word shaper      hoarder of tales
                                                  one who sings one who can see:

When I was young, my songs were called in the mead hall
I gave peace to the bereft and the foresaken
merriment to the meek     hope to ragged men who had no lord:

                      I     Widsith the far-mover say this:

I have roamed through all the lands of our kin
mingled with all the folk that men know
journeyed till my bones ache:

I have stood long in the Great Hall
before my master the keeper of our kin
yet I kneel before the bright stone:

I left the land where my children were princes
with the fair peace-weaver   whose arm by my back
and breath on my neck gave me strength:

From the world of the wyrd I gathered much
charms for grace to make good things grow
spells to sting witches
fables to give strength to wind blown striplings:

                       Will you hear me?

For those that will, your hearth shall not be lonely:

I shall weave thick webs for the treacherous
wisdom for the innocent     riddles for the curious:

I will break stone hearts with grief
jest with great ones    pluck roses for lovers:

                      And so I unlock my word hoard.

                                                            Be still, and listen.

 

It seems only right that Acumen, in its 50th issue, being produced from the South West should have translations of these Anglo-Saxon poems taken from the Exeter Book, kept in Exeter Cathedral.

Translated by Geoff Slater

Page(s) 181-182

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