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SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

each intersection, a crossroad made,
every answer, a question began;
each wrong, a right opposing,
every song, a note composing,
after darkness, the light again!

angry words won’t heal the pain,
apologies like ointment’s rain;
flood-washed roads a crossing need,
no line in sand, a bridge instead,
points me north, your heart to claim!

i am no island, though often seems,
my pained retreat, a blood trail leaves;
i find my greatest strength of all,
within your heart’s loving embrace,
held firmly in your grip of grace!

there is no strength in platitudes,
cliches are weak, like worn out shoes;
the darkened bank cannot hold sway,
o’er lighted bridge that leads the way,
points me north, and back to you!

~

*post script.

learning something of
defense mechanisms,
mine in particular;  
sadly, when brokenness
is too acute to hide,
the retreat is not bloodless.
bridges built of simple
three-word sentences
greatly needed ...  not a
crafted flood of well-worded,
defensive responses.

“i am sorry!” and “i love you!”...
two, eight-letter, three-cord ropes,
requiring no word-smithing,
yet are sound-ly engineered
for mending souls and
building hearts-bridges
not easily broken...
each capable of bearing
(baring) great weights.

and yes, there are notes composing here,
for it is said, “a song solidifies
the heart’s passionate decisions!”
Michael R Burch Jun 2020
Deor's Lament

(Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa the 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland endured the agony of exile:
an indomitable smith wracked by grief.
He suffered countless sorrows;
indeed, such sorrows were his ***** companions
in that frozen island dungeon
where Nithad fettered him:
so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths,
bemoaning also her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She knew nothing good could ever come of it.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lovely lady, waxed limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many acknowledged his mastery and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms.
That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his crown might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I can say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors had promised me.
That passed away; this also may.

Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

"Deor's Lament" appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. The poem may be considerably older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before they were finally written down. The poem is a lament in which someone named Deor, presumably the poet who composed the poem, compares the loss of his job and prospects to seemingly far greater tragedies of the past. Thus "Deor's Lament" may be an early example of overstatement and/or "special pleading."

Author

The author is unknown but may have been an Anglo-Saxon scop (poet) named Deor. However it is also possible that the poem was written by someone else. We have no knowledge of a poet named "Deor" outside the poem.

Genre

"Deor's Lament" is, as its name indicates, a lament. The poem has also been classified as an Anglo-Saxon elegy or dirge. If the poet's name "was" Deor, does that mean he is no longer alive and is speaking to us from beyond the grave? "Deor" has also been categorized as an ubi sunt ("where are they now?") poem.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that a man cannot escape his fate and thus can only meet it with courage, resolve and fortitude.

Plot

Doer's name means "dear" and the poet puns on his name in the final stanza: "I was dear to my lord. My name was Deor." The name Deor may also has connotations of "noble" and "excellent." The plot of Deor's poem is simple and straightforward: other heroic figures of the past overcame adversity; so Deor may also be able to overcome the injustice done to him when his lord gave his position to a rival. It is even possible that Deor intended the poem to be a spell, incantation, curse or charm of sorts.

Techniques

"Deor's Lament" is an alliterative poem: it uses alliteration rather than meter to "create a flow" of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry. “Deor's Lament" is one of the first Old English poems to employ a refrain, which it does quite effectively. What does the refrain "Thaes ofereode, thisses swa maeg" mean? Perhaps something like: "That was overcome, and so this may be overcome also." However, the refrain is ambiguous: perhaps the speaker believes things will work out the same way; or perhaps he is merely suggesting that things might work out for the best; or perhaps he is being ironical, knowing that they won't.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is employing irony. All the previously-mentioned heroes and heroines are dead. I believe Deor is already dead, or knows that he is an old man soon to also be dead. "Passed away" maybe a euphemism for "dead as a doornail." But I don't "know" this, and you are free to disagree and find your own interpretation of the poem.

Analysis of Characters and References

Weland/Welund is better known today as Wayland the Smith. (Beowulf's armor was said to have been fashioned by Weland.) According to an ancient Norse poem, Völundarkviða, Weland and his two brothers came upon three swan-maidens on a lake's shore, fell in love with them, and lived with them happily for seven years, until the swan-maidens flew away. His brothers left, but Weland stayed and turned to smithing, fashioning beautiful golden rings for the day of his swan-wife's return. King Nithuthr, hearing of this, took Weland captive, hamstrung him to keep him prisoner, and kept him enslaved on an island, forging fine things. Weland took revenge by killing Nithuthr's two sons and getting his daughter Beadohild pregnant. Finally Weland fashioned wings and flew away, sounding a bit like Icarus of Greek myth.

Maethhild (Matilda) and Geat (or "the Geat") are known to us from Scandianavian ballads. Magnild (Maethhild) was distressed because she foresaw that she would drown in a river. Gauti (Geat) replied that he would build a bridge over the river, but she responded that no one can flee fate. Sure enough, she drowned. Gauti then called for his harp, and, like a Germanic Orpheus, played so well that her body rose out of the waters. In one version she returned alive; in a darker version she returned dead, after which Gauti buried her properly and made harpstrings from her hair.

The Theodoric who ruled the Maerings for thirty years may have to be puzzled out. A ninth-century rune notes that nine generations prior a Theodric, lord of the Maerings, landed in Geatland and was killed there. In the early sixth century there was a Frankish king called Theoderic. But the connections seem tenuous, at best. Perhaps the thirty year rule is a clue to consider the Ostrogoth Theodoric, born around 451. He ruled Italy for around thirty years, until 526. Toward the end of his reign Theodoric, then in his seventies, named his infant grandson heir. There were rumours that members of his court were conspiring against his chosen successor. Furthermore, the Catholic church was opposing the Arian Theodoric. As a result of these tensions, several leading senators were arrested on suspicion of conspiracy, including Boethius. It was while he was imprisoned and awaiting execution that Boethius wrote his famous Consolation of Philosophy. Theodoric's final years were unfortunately marked by suspicion and distrust, so he may be the ruler referred to by Deor.

Eormenric was another king of the Ostrogoths who died in about 375; according to Ammianus Marcellinus, he killed himself out of fear of the invading Huns. According to other Old Norse Eddic poems (Guðrúnarhvöt and Hamðismál, Iormunrekkr), Eormenric had his wife Svannhildr trampled by horses because he suspected her of sleeping with his son. So he might qualify as a "grim king" with "wolfish ways."

Deor has left no trace of himself, other than this poem. Heorrenda appears as Horant in a thirteenth century German epic Kudrun. It was said that Horant sang so sweetly that birds fell silent at his song, and fish and animals in the wood fell motionless. That would indeed make him a formidable opponent for the scop Deor.

Keywords/Tags: Deor, Lament, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, translation, scop, mrbtr, Weland, Wayland, smith, exile, fetters, dungeon
Joshua David Nov 2017
Pounding and grinding,
Toiling and bending,
The steel bends to the hammer's blows,
Something attempted, something made, my life laid bare upon the anvil of life, Forged in the fires of loss, and quenched in the waters of fear. I am how I was Forged, sharp and strong, yet with the loss I am facing, I feel dull and weak.
In one bright, rainless, warm, non-sombre and cloudless morning of April 2014,
Skirmishes began at ten in the morning, among the roaming street children
As if they were only playing hopscotch among themselves, and their mates,
It was an unfolding in the dust filled non tarmacked streets of Lodwar town,
Town located in the savannah desert belt of north western Kenya,
A non local police man who was on patrol shot dead a rioting local,
A hungry local had attempted to ****** a shot-gun from the policeman,
He shot him twice in the head, scattering whitish brain tissues all over,
He shot another local sympathizer of the riot in the leg, in the heel,
The remaining riff-raff of rioting locals took off on their heels, like rats,
Once picturized in the word-smithing power of James Herbert,
The hoards of local rioters, most of them motorbike riders, rushed back,
To their places of abode, known as Manyatta,
                                                  or poor hamlets, more sorriest than ghettos,
They pulled out their fellow manyatta dwellers
For military reinforcement
They came back in throngs
All armed with rusty guns
Swearing to **** all
By the brute guns,
All the non locals
Not from their tribe.


They rampaged a whole town
Mercilessly looting and plundering
Each and every shop, business vessel, all outlets
Of the non-locals, all the migrants; black and white,
Chinese and Arabs, Indians and Somalis, Just but to mention,
They looted while singing tribal war songs, shooting all the non locals
Identified by differences in outfits; especially loincloths, Ekijolong, etc
They shot non local women, children and vandalized their trade wares
Those with guns holding the police station hostage, those without guns looting shops
Some tried ******, but their uncircumcised ***** proved a snag in this satanic venture
With a sardonic remorse they stopped the terror of **** against womenfolk of non natives
Women folk of non local ethnicity, but still not safe as shooting followed without ruth,
Puncturing the *******, ****** and bladders, spilling and splashing blood on each gunshot,
Human wailing, crying, hysterical running, farting, falling, and brute of the gun’s cannon
Gripped the town in a flower of curling dark smoke from burning tires,
Gunmen walked from door to door in a feat of amok anger,
Asking names of each person on their way
To decipher out the tribe or the clan
Lest they mayhem a native son
Instead of the non- local
Which they are bound to ****
By dutifully releasing
Deathly bullets
Into the head
Of emoit.
Jack Piatt Jul 2013
Beautiful
Is a colorless flower
If I am to use it
Describing you
The wordsmiths
Must work well
Into the night
Smithing away
Until morning light
To find a word
Suiting your definition

Unearthing
Is a waterless brook
If used to convey the look
Radiating from your enchanting eyes
The same that left my heart wounded today
When you used them to drill to the core of me
No doubt making a profound discovery

Love*
Is overused and clichéd to ruin
Much too pedestrian to capture what you found
When drilling deep into my underground
Without a sound it happened
That word we can’t use
Due to its short and burnt up fuse
Turned on its light this afternoon
And in a magic moment we both knew

That beautiful, unearthing, love
Built a bridge between us
Founded in truth
Always open and fireproof

Today around 2 o’clock
(c) June 8th, 2013
(Tonight around 10 o'clock)
ponny jo Oct 2013
fall down in new town
and break down while unbound
laughing while melting
and smiling making no sound
finding things hidden
and riding things unridden
while taken long lost unbidden
but leftovers are long given
from raiders undriven
and nonlooking foes unsmitten
burning the smithies
with weeds so pity
the trade and grade
of long lost givings
and unlearnt ideas
melting down in the smithing
because clothes so ripping
cause morality dipping
and effort slipping
and real gifts ungifting
Jay Dec 2017
You wanted to be
My savior
My rescuer
The one to spirit me away
From all the hurt

You wanted to be
The one to fix all
My issues
And solve
All my problems

You wanted to be
The one to glue the
Itty bitty shards of myself
Back together

You wanted to be
My savior
Was it because you thought
That I was too weak
To save myself?

You can be many things
But I will not allow you
To be my savior

I am the only one
Who can save myself
That's the wonderful thing
That's the awful thing

In the end
I am the only one
Who can save myself
I am the only one
Who can **** myself

I think that you
Wanted to be my savior
Because you wanted to
Rescue a broken girl
Glue me back together

But instead of glue
Which leave broken glass people
Weak after it's all together
I used the scorching
Fires from that suffering
That you weren't allowed
To take me out of
I forged a new self from those flames
One made of steel
Instead of glass

I may have lots of
Burn scars
From smithing myself
But I think it's better
Than no scars at all

You wanted to be
My savior
Perhaps it wasn't because
You thought I was too
Weak
But maybe because
You didn't
Couldn't
Trust me to
Try to save myself

maybe you were right
But I'd rather not have saved myself
then have someone else
save me
Colm Nov 2017
Descriptive that is you
Intensive that is me
Smithing you could be my steel
And I the bellowing breath beneath
To coax the coal until it bursts
And explodes into this
The burning flame
Because all words of fire are in some way...the same.
Fall Nov 2018
Lucious storm , outburst the gut , grinding my peaceful turmoil

Bringer of chaos , unrestrained sensuality you say , heaven's promise you are

Disgusting yet admired , craving like the beast I am , for the fleeting moments you have

Inmeasurable pleasures bought by simple touches , Helene , Narcisse , Venus , witches

Enough and tired did I say , more and more do I beg , bodies mixes skins and blood ...

Spits and fluids bathing the parts of it's wepons , nectar and sweat pouring as vin

Plain ******* , pores ignites the arousing cold , yet taming the hell's fires

*******, honey , first sweet you taste, wishing the encore again and again

Waist , slick as milk drowning my desire , tempting snake smithing my burning flame

****** aching , flowing , first sight , mesmerising my hands , commanding this filthy tongue

Glutes , savoring my hips , setting the pace , correcting my core , by it's simple precense

Legs , where I lie , pleading for the feel , for my want , unconceled lust , unavoidable gluttony , just for it ...


Demonne , illusion , godness , so many words for it , none enough to paint it
Stevie Ray Nov 2016
Blade sheathed in despair
Forged from the heat of passionate hatred
Man melted with metal
smithing dealt death with every blow
Cold blood to cool steel
A heart you'd judge lost
But his wavers not.

The vulnerability of Life
blood spatters
like pink leaves leaving the Sakura tree
Slow, as your life withers'n'witnesses
A heart you'd judge lost
But his wavers not.

Back'n'forth the Eb'n'Flow of blood
as life comes and goes
balancing on ropes
unseathed the wind blows
Fall'n'die, unfair
Your arrogance punished by
A heart you'd judge lost
But his wavers not.

Fail to witness, Fail to see
Fail to feel, Fail to flee
disposition to disharmony
Death doesn't cause a scene
Taken by
A heart you'd judge lost
but his wavers not.
He who forged the scythe of Death, is fair beyond human comprehension.
******, accidents and the like is unfair. Death itself is not. It is our judgement that make it seemingly so.
The harsh truth of Death is the function of the inescapable cycle we're all part of. Besides the goals we set ourselves we have a function and duty to fullfill to nature. To Earth.
Positioning yourself outside of the very nature we are part of is arrogant.

But all of this is easy talk for a young man wishing to be immortal.
William Robinson Feb 2016
A lot of poets are smithing words
in the middle of the night.
A new tunnel of memories and feelings
are being made every second.
And as a poem written in blank letters.
I will soon be forgotten. Drowned.
In the ocean of  poetry.
Night is the time of the poet!
Jerry M Jun 2014
Vivid flashes barrage my sight,
Down in bed as day turns to night.
Across a plain of no logic nor reason,
Slandered mentality of pseudo'd treason.

Risky thought and reckless decision,
Bear no mind to glamored vision.
No smithing of word may ever describe,
The amorphous pictures I may imbibe.

Pulsating images dot the land before me,
No explanation of the enigmatic mystery.
Symbolic representation of formless creatures,
Celestial silhouettes of their physical features.

At last, a reason, to the madness that surrounds,
To why I'm trapped in my sleepless grounds.
Awake with a start and a startled gasp,
Back to reality where I shall live at last.
Wonder what I'll do when I grow up
I could tend to a mighty blaze on the ladder
of a city firetruck
Feed dolphins on the high seas
Explore Antartica with snow up to my knees
I'm the window cleaner high atop -
the skyscrapers of Atlanta
I can see myself driving a dump truck with a load of granite
Leading an orchestra , a game warden in the forest , a candler
at the egg farm , a cobbler in a tiny shop , a blacksmith
hammering horseshoes in the smithing barn* ..
Copyright November 30 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
storm siren Nov 2016
Your voice and the color of your tone
Plays on repeat in my head,
And I'm stuck, stuck, stuck,
On everything I should have said.

Sometimes I'm a broken record,
And that's okay, that's kinda neat,
At least I'm a record at all,
Vinyl just won't admit defeat.

I'm glass work,
Built by wind and flame and coarse earth,
To create something so fragile and beautiful,
With colors spiraled about.

You are cold metal,
Only warm with the heat of my skin
Holding you tight.
Built from the iron of the blood from 4000 grown men,
And water and heat and other bits of science and smithing I don't quite understand.

I am air,
Soft and warm but cool in the heat of summer,
Gently kissing leaves, wind chimes, and your face in the humidity
In order to allow you to breathe again.
I am the harsh winds of a hurricane,
Destroying all in its path,
Reducing houses and homes to shrapnel and rubble and dust.
I am your first breath of fresh, cold winter air, when you cannot breathe
Because it was all too much, too much, and you're too young to really know why.
I am cold but comforting, there and real without being seen or known.
I am the whisper within the trees, from the waters, carrying smoke along my back to warn you of danger.

You are earth.
Steadfast and solid,
Stubborn and real.
Honest.
You are the rocks and stones that hold meaning and power within their pools of color and opaque surfaces.
You are the avalanche of boulders and pebbles that fall and destroy
All that so choose to come in its' path.
You are the soft soil in which you urge new life to grow,
Within soft and gentle hands, urging it forward and through the surface,
So that all may look in awe of its' beauty,
While you are wrapped tight around its roots so that you may protect
And nurture it with all that you are.

I am the color that spirals through your heart and within noise,
I am the burst of soft light that grows too large, too bright, too quickly,
And I am simultaneously too much and not enough.

And you are soft and stark shades of gray and black,
Pooling in to balance the colors that I have poured everywhere,
Adding definition and understanding
Of why they are what they are,
You are just in time and you are just right.

Thoughts of you are warm and lulling me to sleep.
Thoughts of me are dizzying and overpowering.

There's not much to what I have to say,
It could be said softly,
"I love you,"
Or loudly,
"My love for you is vastly infinite, more so than the universe, and more so than the expanse of the mind."

Your voice and the color of your tone
Plays on repeat in my head,
And I'm stuck, stuck, stuck,
On everything I should have said.
I'm tired.
Bluebirds under the farm bell
Rejoicing in morning rain , relaxing
for a spell , patiently awaiting their
turn to sing a tale , sailing from house
to cover on the minute without fail

Gray squirrels working the oak leaves
Busy , busy bees , up and down
the hardwood , jumping from tree
to tree , filling their tummy's with
acorns in the sun drenched canopy

Mr. Roseberry's smithing a plow
Greasing his tractor , counting his cows
Milling corn to feed his chicks
Thrashing creek cane and filling the
molasses licks* ...
Copyright November 29 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

**A molasses lick is a wood box filled with molasses with a belt on the inside that turns as the cow licks the syrup ...
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2022
As with the most slipping tears
The wettest eyes only to cry at night
The moon is my comfort as an afterthought
On the bright side after dark, it burns to fall in love
Hoping it never loses its spark

Smitten remarks, smithing words to say
Fabrication of the moments of a first date
You'd bite your words desire like a sweet cake

Bones lie where they weight
Death of lovers comes as an eternity being apart
And in the heavens we'll meet to entwine separate hearts

The heartstrings pull and toil time
Incessantly working upon gaining trust
But in an instant a lie could break a love
Stick to vow, solemnly not only heart
Mind, heart, body and soul in place for beloved
To have been cut by love—forever carved

— The End —