As the frosty season comes upon us here in Canada, I thought I would make tribute to those first Norsemen who poked about in our great land, partially because I have been reading the new edition of Frans G. Bengtsson's
. It is a good time of year to read the traditional sagas and Eddur (?) as well.
I offer then to the coming of the Forst Giants, 11 original
dróttkvætt written to the best of my ability and following as closely as possible the original Norse rules. Unlike the verse of Norse narrative/legendary poetry (Eddic verse), dróttkvætt are notoriously difficult to compose. Called "lord's verse", these tricky poems were divised by the professional Skaldic poets of the Norse courts to praise the deeds of their chieftains.
Of all traditional formal poetic constraints, I think those of
dróttkvætt are especially beneficial for poetic practice. It is tightly a structured alliterative verse. At the same time, line length is syllabic (6 per line). But also accentual (every line must end on a trochee). Furthermore, every odd line must contain an internal assonance and whereas every even line must have an internal full rhyme. Finally, it is short (4 couplets or 8 lines). All of traditional poesy wrapped in a virtuosic package!
Being forced to cram all of that into eight six-syllable lines is as fun and difficult a challenge as a modern poet could ask for. The structure forces you to make melopoetic lines. The short lines favour monosyllabic words, and a sparing use of articles. As for the sense...The original poems are full of kennings, inverted/convoluted word order, and fragmentary phrases. Not at all clear, but striking nonetheless. Add to this the double meaning of political faction and satire, and you have a stanza so dense it could anchor a longship
I did not attempt to broach terribly modern subjects here, as these were done in the spirit of experimentation, fun, and Nordic person
ae-ficiation (a la Browning and Pound). Enjoy!
i
scouring the grey stall-shelves
stand rakes of the breakfast
ever waiting whether
we might yield the war field
bare to yolk of blooding ;
breach in fight white armour
and sate the red word snake
songmaker who wrongs men.
ii
by this the bank's river
breaking the fir's armour
blood chiefs were thieves' children
of her charging fur tax
ages akin long since
armed out they drove routers
bequeathed gods the cough leaf
cunning the thunder stream.
iii
though holding to hearsay
hewn from songs of yawning
dark ages approach far
aping goals of oarsmen
prows grey, prim, and clouded,
pruning tunes of merchants,
ill fame in game flying,
for birds fit news: chirping.
iv
his lord is no hoarder
who gives to those living
but who our dead barter
breaks faith with wraithdom
sees hunters unheeded
harassing his castle
marsh doom out of darkness
delights the rite-breaker.
v
among the mace-lungers
my king is no cringer
fell blood eels swell feeding
fatten on attackers
of gold rings a giver
grace to the skald's racings
Aesir, heavy handed
help glory our warlord.
vi
abore the firm fortress
fight not with the pithy
men clamour for closeness
cunning and unsleeping
while guiles outlast weekends,
water is diverted,
who feed on the foolish
feast on the unseeing.
vii
the harsh crow's cawing
corrupts the suppertime,
brings each from their beakers
bothers the verse-men.
but worse in deep winter
rats' unceasing chatter,
who nibble by knook-ends
names of great statesmen.
viii
many grim hours grate me
grieving among reavers
in the sword dance standing
strewing lives in hewing
or long speeches bleating
loathsome to men's earlobes
but worse than all worries:
waiting to die nameless.
ix
the Aesir's drink sloppings
sputter through the hut's moat
when she, fair shield maid
shimmering with grimness
fell deeds to us foretells
for one of our number
before we are homebound
breaks his fast in Asgard.
x
she wards the tree shadow
shedding near her tearfuls
the winds blow in westward
where, pearl of the jarl's kin
for carrion caring
cut of the birds' feasting
the mound is, her man's crown
mortar of dark troll-folk.
xi
berserks sharing bear hides,
born eldest, of hell men
wildly in winter
were-beasts, mad in feasting
swaddled in thin skin cloth,
summer finds them unnerved
augured cold by Odin
eating fire and iron.
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