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Josie Jan 29
Do the fates know which way it goes?
In many ways fates is a foe
Those ****** goddesses know
They pick the winners
And the losers
And those they hold in limbo
Everything is predestined
In a particular way
To what unfolds day-to-day
Fighting fate will do no good
Because everything turns out as it should
Michael R Burch May 2021
THE RUIN in a Modern English Translation

"The Ruin" is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems is followed by footnotes, a summary and analysis, a discussion of the theme, and the translator's comments.


THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward ...

broad battlements broken;
the Builders' work battered;

the high ramparts toppled;
tall towers collapsed;

the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape ...

mortar mottled and marred by scarring ****-frosts ...
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ...

shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters ...

where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?

the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!

for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!

it outlasted mighty kings and their claims!

how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.

then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended ...

as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!

therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ...

when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.

here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad *****.

... that was spacious ...



Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

"The Ruin" is an ancient Anglo-Saxon poem. It appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. However, the poem may be older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before being written down. The poem is an elegy or lament for the works of "mighty men" of the past that have fallen into disrepair and ruins. Ironically, the poem itself was found in a state of ruin. There are holes in the vellum upon which it was written. It appears that a brand or poker was laid to rest on the venerable book. It is believed the Exeter Book was also used as a cutting board and beer mat. Indeed, we are lucky to have as much of the poem as we do.

Author

The author is an unknown Anglo-Saxon scop (poet).

Genre

"The Ruin" may be classified as an elegy, eulogy, dirge and/or lament, depending on how one interprets it.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that man and his works cannot escape the hands of wyrde (fate), time and death. Thus men can only face the inevitable with courage, resolve, fortitude and resignation. Having visited Bath myself, I can easily understand how the scop who wrote the poem felt, and why, if I am interpreting the poem correctly.

Plot

The plot of "The Ruin" seems rather simple and straightforward: Things fall apart. The author of the poem blames Fate for the destruction he sees. The builders are described as "giants."

Techniques

"The Ruin" is an alliterative poem; it uses alliteration rather than meter and rhyme to "create a flow" of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry.

History

When the Romans pulled their legions out of Britain around 400 BC, primarily because they faced increasing threats at home, they left behind a number of immense stone works, including Hadrian's Wall, various roads and bridges, and cities like Bath. Bath, known to the Romans as Aquae Sulis, is the only English city fed by hot springs, so it seems likely that the city in question is Bath. Another theory is that the poem refers to Hadrian's Wall and the baths mentioned were heated artificially. The Saxons, who replaced the Romans as rulers of most of Britain, used stone only for churches and their churches were small. So it seems safe to say that the ruins in question were created by Roman builders.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is simultaneously impressed by the magnificence of the works he is viewing, and discouraged that even the works of the mighty men of the past have fallen to ruin.

Analysis of Characters and References

There are no characters, per se, only an anonymous speaker describing the ruins and the men he imagines to have built things that have survived so long despite battles and the elements.

Related Poems

Other Anglo-Saxon/Old English poems: The Ruin, Wulf and Eadwacer, The Wife's Lament, Deor's Lament, Caedmon's Hymn, Bede's Death Song, The Seafarer, Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings

Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, elegy, lament, lamentation, Bath, Roman, giant, giants, medieval, builders, ruin, ruins, wall, walls, fate, mrbtr
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2020

One of Fate's traids
Threads spun long with great twine sides
From birth to the hearse


New day, new haiku!
I'm covering the the Moirai aka the Fates now! They were known to be the daughters of Zeus and Themis predominantly, but I have heard their parentage vary: from Chaos to Nyx to even Gaia. One of the best parts about myths is that it's so malleable. They were in charge of the fates of mortals, from who were born to who died and each have their own unique tasks as well. Clotho was the spinner - she spun the threads of life and death to which this haiku talks about. Imagine how that sort of power of life and death in your very hands. It's truly something that is quite amazing to think about as well as terrifying.

Anyway, thank you all for growing followers, I'm forever humbled and grateful for the support 🙏🌹💜
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Be back tomorrow with another one!
Please take care of yourselves and stay safe!
Much love,
Lyn 💜
Strying Sep 2020
All my friends had given up
They'd taken the easy path
The one where straight A's are attainable
And sanity is sustainable

I moved my mouse in a different direction
From their perplexion, I knew
My complexion would never be the same

I knew that taking these courses
Would be no vacation
The certification was hard to achieve

Yet I got to the point where I wanted no more than to get down on my knees!
Plead guilty
For the crime
Of being in over my head.

I couldn't retain information
My mind was an augmentation
Of my imagination
A collection of mistakes,
Aches,
And earthquakes.

No more could I stand on still ground,
my knees shaking from your sound.
My heart pounding from
the inevitable loss of my innocence
which came derived from your
rejection.

My friends
the ones I held dear, my very own
Turned their face, shielded their eyes.
I was a damnation to everything they stood for!

For everything I tried to become
They became the opposite.
They fought their own, in the worst way possible
And I was left to battle my
impossible alone

Alone with the hours of homework,
And alone to face the very
housework we had built.
To see it crumble down before
my very eyes,
as I fumble to even close the windows to my soul,
as sleep is for the weak,
and I have too many bleak thoughts.
Far too many to ever be able to really dive deep
in this menacing society.

My school which shuts its doors at the very sight of me
And God who rains smog down
and it's not the year 2020, it's the whole future, past, and present.
It's our actions that will never be corrected
For we have had too many opportunities
And pennies for thoughts squandered into oblivion.
For maybe we should stop making
excuses,
and start accepting our fates.
For one day we are all destined to be gone,
yet isn't it odd,
that ignoring this,
that is how we survive?
I really needed to rant in poetry today. Trying to work on my word choice, hope you enjoy this :)
flamingogirl Mar 2020
I dreamt about you again last night.
Nothing bad nothing raunchy,
I guess I just miss you.
I'll admit it
I made a mistake.
You said yes to me
I said no to you.
Perhaps we weren't
meant to be.
It isn't that easy though.
Is it ever
that easy.
If you weren't
meant to be mine,
why don't you leave
my mind?

Want to know
what I think?
The fates had something
absolutely, grand
planned for us.
Those three
twisted, dastardly
women had given us
to each other
at the wrong time.
An issue that they only
make once every eon.
I would love to call
them and complain.
Instead, I dream about
you every single
night, and cry about
you every morning.
fray narte Jan 2020
i am no longer a girl;
my body has played host
to the fourth of the Fates,
and this is the twilight, unfolding.

the midday has seen clotho, spinning the thread
has seen lachesis measuring it, atropos cutting it.

and here i sit, a figure in the sunset —
a silhouette of a weaver in tattered dress

my heartbeat, a substandard thread,
a mess in my pockets
getting shorter and shorter
with each wound sewn shut

and yet,
a seagull's flap,
a poke of a stick,
and all these stitches come undone.

a cautious breath,
a loosened thread,
and the sunsets learn a new shade of red.
Elizabeth Apr 2019
Came at five the fates for tea
I set five cups, five plates, five chairs
I asked why and they didn't answer
I asked why and they just laughed
They leave at six, they will come tomorrow
I wash four cups, four plates, oh dear
They will come tomorrow but no for tea
They will say goodbye to me
This one is not finished, i probably will rewrite it at some point but i didn't want to forget the idea, so here, tell me what you think and what you would change, have a good day!
M Solav Sep 2018
There are clouds of sound and noise
That utter thoughts in a muffled voice,
Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out
Cloudy skies in days of doubt.

Like strangers lost in a crowd
Whose cries are buried by the loud,
The loud din of helpless wanderers
Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.

All strangers left on their own,
Islands floating out in the fog;
Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan;
Fates that are swept under the rug.

And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm,
Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon?
Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm
And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?
Written in December 2017.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
ali Jul 2018
fate...
an invisible power
meant to intertwine our strings
but soon disappear
so everyone else may watch us
begin to fray
where we've tied our knots.
The ancient word for hesitation.
Twisting and turning in your three-dimensional mind like a maze
till the ball of string you carry gets all tangled up.

Perhaps I should be more decisive...
Maybe I should me more conclusive...
Make up my mind like a bed and then,
maybe I should lay in it. Assert myself.
Treat life like a chess board.

Make my moves through my own devices
and not rely on the intervention of higher forces,
or guardian spirits to pilot my choices,
or sit uncomfortably on fences waiting for the fates
To push me either side.

Tweogan.
It is reassuring to know it's an age old phenomenon.
That even our ancestors were predisposed to
rock to and fro in fevers of doubt and indecision.
That our ancestors would dabble in-between conscientious visions;
caught in anxious possibilities and cautious projections.

The hidden threads of back and forth thought
all forgotten by hindsight's way of portraying
a seamless fluidity to the embroidery of life.
Written early 2016.
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