July 9, 2012

• Weary Hands (poem — rough draft)

  Critiques are welcome: this is still rough.

  Weary Hands

   

  Hwaet!—now weak    are weary hands

  that hardly hold    the hilt of sword.

  Hoar-frost on beard,    hoard-silvered head,

  and vellumed skin    all sing the tale

  of far-fled youth.    Full fifty winters

  have I sat     with  crown-ringed brow

  since Heardred’s death,    and costly weregild

  claimed by spear    from Sweden’s son,

  Onela king.    

  Then last I drew

  a blade from belt   in battle-blood.

  Many a battle     won I when young;

  now I am old.     I used to swim

  all armor-clad     for countless nights,

  so strong was I.     I could not now.

  And do the sceopes    sing hero-songs

  of how the king,    Ecgtheow’s bearn,

  sits aging here?

                                      These harrowed nights,

  when sweat-soaked dreams    drive waking cries

  from shadowed sleep,    I oft bethink

  that kinder death    had lingered there

  in Grendel’s maw,    or had the hag,

  the demon’s dam,    drowned me deep.

  Age is more cruel,    a grimmer gaest,

  that spills no blood,    yet makes a king

  but half a man.

                                      I wait alone.

  There is no Cain-kin    left to kill,

  and every steadt    is stale with peace.

  E’en the wyrm     of Earanaes

  a sleeper is,    unsoured by dreams

  of youthful years    and waning strength.

  My byrnie rusts,    and Naegling’s blade

  sticks to its sheath,    as unused as

  my fighting arm.

  When final breath

  escapes my lips,    and leaves me lying

  ashen-white,     who will welcome

  Geatland’s king,     conquered by years,

  overcome by time,    no sword in his hand—

  No battle-dirge,    no bloodstained shroud,

  no wealth of foes    beneath his feet?

  What barrow shall board    this broken body

  that fails with age?

                                      Be it not so.

  I’ll turn on Time,    that dauntless devil,

  and like old Grendel    tear his arm.

  He shall not claim me.    To the North,

  to Earanaes,     I’ll thrust my thrall

  that he may plunder    the wyrm’s warren:

  my end be writ     in wrath and fire

  before I’ll bow     to Man’s decline.

  Drag up the drakon,     the deep-sleeper

  from golden bed,    and let us dance.

  • 11:18 pm
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