07-27-2014, 11:27 AM
Hi all! I'm new! I was doing a bit of experimentation (thus I'm not certainly if this is the best place to post this) in my poetry by taking inspiration from some of the original English poetic forms and writing sort a mythological poem.
BTW: a beag/beah is a type of gold or silver arm ring worn given to Anglo-Saxon warriors as reward perhaps for their brave deeds. Forgive the Old English in one of the last lines.
Near the green grasslands, where the great trees lie,
Where their roots rough dig, through the rich damp soil,
Into our low lone Yard, where little have gone,
Down in the deep earth, in a dark cave where lied
Eorthe’s lone tear, found in this earth-den, a beag.
Lined with lithics green and laced smooth with gold,
Twisting and turning, like a terrified snake.
Gold that could glisten true in such a degraded abyss!
Twas’ jollity from anger, whence such a jewel to us came.
Moved with solitude, by her, Midgeard was raised.
For love and for kindness, it was life she would need.
But Heofn, now angered, in the heat of rage,
Ran forth fiercely and fire struck her.
Midgeard was thrown to chaos, as was a mother’s tear.
All the ring-givers, with all their wealth,
This beag of Eorthe trumped them all in both beauty and pain.
The memories of its majesty went, as went the movements of time.
Her old wealth flows still, from old great dirt,
For the sacred book, the Songs of Lore,
Declares this must be so, in its clever runes:
“Cyning sceal on healle beagas dælan.”
“Apportion rings out, in a palace a king must.”
Now down in the deep earth, in that dark cave, the beag
Of nature in her mundane hall, helps to nourish us all.
BTW: a beag/beah is a type of gold or silver arm ring worn given to Anglo-Saxon warriors as reward perhaps for their brave deeds. Forgive the Old English in one of the last lines.
Near the green grasslands, where the great trees lie,
Where their roots rough dig, through the rich damp soil,
Into our low lone Yard, where little have gone,
Down in the deep earth, in a dark cave where lied
Eorthe’s lone tear, found in this earth-den, a beag.
Lined with lithics green and laced smooth with gold,
Twisting and turning, like a terrified snake.
Gold that could glisten true in such a degraded abyss!
Twas’ jollity from anger, whence such a jewel to us came.
Moved with solitude, by her, Midgeard was raised.
For love and for kindness, it was life she would need.
But Heofn, now angered, in the heat of rage,
Ran forth fiercely and fire struck her.
Midgeard was thrown to chaos, as was a mother’s tear.
All the ring-givers, with all their wealth,
This beag of Eorthe trumped them all in both beauty and pain.
The memories of its majesty went, as went the movements of time.
Her old wealth flows still, from old great dirt,
For the sacred book, the Songs of Lore,
Declares this must be so, in its clever runes:
“Cyning sceal on healle beagas dælan.”
“Apportion rings out, in a palace a king must.”
Now down in the deep earth, in that dark cave, the beag
Of nature in her mundane hall, helps to nourish us all.
Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre,
mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.
mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.
