Jan 2020
UNGELIC IS US
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"UNGELIC IS US
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"
UNGELIC IS US
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"UNGELIC IS US
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"
UNGELIC IS US
"As you've live out
the days of this week...."
She laughs at her Stars
in the glossy woman's mag.
She on the cusp of Cancer
with...cancer.
Death's cruel
sense of humour.
The cancer bites her soul
in two.
Pain gnawing at
her every thought.
Remembering her husband
dying of the same
almost half a century ago
that seems only seconds.
Time having
a laugh.
Breathing his last words
into her ear...she could hardly hear.
She hadn't a clue
what was said.
Sounded like
"Angels are us!"
Odd as Harold was
never a religious man.
Now living out
the days of this week
"There won't be many more!"
she quips.
Finally she discovers
through a poetry loving friend
that Harold more than likely said:
"Ungelic is us!"
"Ungelic is us?"
...not being a poetry buff herself.
"We are apart...we are...apart!"
he translates.
She doesn't make it
past Friday.
"Dear heart..."
she tells the long dead Harold.
It is no longer
"different for us."
She closes her eyes.
"We are no longer
apart...ungelic
is not
us!"
***
Wulf and Eadwacer
Leodum is minum; swylce him mon lac gife;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre.
Fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelice is us.
Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum dogode;
þonne hit wæs renig weder; ond ic reotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde,
wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine
seoce gedydon, þine seldcymas,
murnende mod, nales meteliste.
Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earne hwelp
bireð Wulf to wuda.
þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.
****
It is to my people as if someone gave them a gift.
They want to **** him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us.
Wulf is on one island I on another.
That island, surrounded by fens, is secure.
There on the island are bloodthirsty men.
They want to **** him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us.
I thought of my Wulf with far-wandering hopes,
Whenever it was rainy weather, and I sat tearfully,
Whenever the warrior bold in battle encompassed me with his arms.
To me it was pleasure in that, it was also painful.
Wulf, my Wulf, my hopes for you have caused
My sickness, your infrequent visits,
A mourning spirit, not at all a lack of food.
Do you hear, Eadwacer? A wolf is carrying
our wretched whelp to the forest,
that one easily sunders which was never united:
our song together
Wulf and Eadwacer
Leodum is minum; swylce him mon lac gife;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre.
Fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelice is us.
Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum dogode;
þonne hit wæs renig weder; ond ic reotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde,
wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine
seoce gedydon, þine seldcymas,
murnende mod, nales meteliste.
Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earne hwelp
bireð Wulf to wuda.
þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.
****
It is to my people as if someone gave them a gift.
They want to **** him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us.
Wulf is on one island I on another.
That island, surrounded by fens, is secure.
There on the island are bloodthirsty men.
They want to **** him, if he comes with a troop.
It is different for us.
I thought of my Wulf with far-wandering hopes,
Whenever it was rainy weather, and I sat tearfully,
Whenever the warrior bold in battle encompassed me with his arms.
To me it was pleasure in that, it was also painful.
Wulf, my Wulf, my hopes for you have caused
My sickness, your infrequent visits,
A mourning spirit, not at all a lack of food.
Do you hear, Eadwacer? A wolf is carrying
our wretched whelp to the forest,
that one easily sunders which was never united:
our song together
