A. Z. FOREMAN is a poet and translator pursuing a doctorate in Near Eastern Languages at the Ohio State University. His work (both original compositions as well as translations from Arabic, French, Persian, Chinese, Latin, Occitan, Ukrainian, Russian, Hebrew, Welsh, Irish and Yiddish) has been featured in the Los Angeles Review, ANMLY, Asymptote, La Piccioletta Barca, Ilanot Review, Lunch Ticket, Metamorphoses, the Penguin Book of Russian Poetry and elsewhere. But really he’s most proud of having had his work featured in two people’s tattoos, and if you have a dog he’d love to pet it

For Two Old English Poets

              Beowulf Poet

              Oh have I heard of You before and yet

little about You other than Your tongue

of Marchen steel and a monk’s two-edged song

for God the Weird. Your heart let heathens fret

limbs off Cain’s kin. Your blood is red sunset

on Woden hanging Christlike. Tell again

of Yeatland’s thane and freaks who prowled the fen.

Let Beowulf burn and burn till I forget

              to ponder You, drop from dried floods of lore

rephrased molecularly into fame

who knew why Heorot fell to barbarous flame,

and what the Wolving chief was murdered for.

Dear last survivor of Deor’s shattered scene,

what would You have these monstrous treasures mean?

              Deor

              All of it passed. Your Wayland in the snows

eaten with frost and anger, your love-quick

Mathild, mad Thedrick, wolf-mad Armenrick…

Their English stories were a spring-starved rose,

which leaves us here to thresh their cameos

in you like lighting candles with no wick

or parsing ravings of a lunatic

in a half-cognate language no one knows.

              You are a name now and refrain, a true

bard in eternal exile, wandering

papers of scholars as they scratch for rue

to bleed beneath the wistful scab you sing.

              Your hurt song may have made whole legends ring

but they have passed. So too has most of you.

Deor    

Translated from Old English

              a translation for Christina von Nolcken

Wayland in Wormland　went through harrows,

The strongminded smith　suffered in exile.

Worry and longing 　walked beside him,

winter-raw anguish.　He ached for escape

after King Nithad　cramped his sinews　

and bound a slave　of the better man.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

To Beadild’s mind　her brothers’ deaths

weren’t as wounding　as what she faced

herself when she came　to clearly see

that she was pregnant.　That princess unwed

could not handle　what would become of her.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

We know the tale  　of tragic Mathild.

the Geat bore her　a bottomless passion,

all sleep banished 　by a baneful love

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

Tyrant Thedrick　for thirty winters

ruled the Mearings,　as many know.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

We have all heard tell　of Armenrick

and his wolfsick mind.　He was one cruel king,

That overlord　of the outland Goths

whose state was set　in strung-up hearts　

as strong men sat　in sorrow-chains

awaiting the worst,　and wishing so much

for a foe to liberate　the land of their king.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

A man sits mournful,　mind ripped from joy.

His spirit in dark,　he deems himself

foredoomed to endure　ordeals forever.

Then he may think　how throughout the world

the Wise God goes　and works around:

meting out grace,　mercy and certain

success to some,　suffering to many.

              Of myself I want　to say just this:

I was high poet　　to the Hedenings once,

Dear to my master.　”Deer” was my name.

For many winters　 I was a man in that hall

And the heart of my lord.　But Herrend came

And reaped the riches　and rights of land

That guardian of men 　once granted me,

And stole my place 　with a poet’s skill.

              That passed in time.　So too can this.

This poem refers to stock characters — real and fictional — from Germanic lore. Some of the figures are now obscure, and those that aren’t are not known directly from Old English versions of the story. I have modernized many of the names in my translation, giving them forms that would be plausible as Modern English versions of the name. The biggest exception is Wayland, whose Old English name would actually have been Weeland or more likely Weland had it survived into the modern period. Wayland (Old English Wéland, Old Norse Vǫlundr, Old High German Wiolant) is barely attested in English written sources, though there are visual representations of him. He was a legendary smith renowned for his metal working ability. From Norse sources it emerges that he was forced to work for Nithad (OE Niþhad, ON Níðuðr) who hamstrung him to stop his escape, and that he avenged himself by killing the king’s sons and impregnating his daughter Beadild (OE Beadohilde, ON Bǫðvildr). Mathild and Geat are totally opaque. They appear to be famous lovers that met a tragic end, like Romeo and Juliet, or Layla and Majnun. The ablest guess is that they correspond to Magnhild and Gaute of a Scandinavian ballad tale recorded in the 19th century, but even if so the story as it was known to the poet’s English audience may well have differed greatly from the version known from Scandinavia a thousand years later. Thedric is Theodoric, the Ostrogothic emperor who ruled in Italy from 493 to 526. Armenric is Ermanaric the Goth, another famous tyrant.

Lament of the Last Survivor (Beowulf 2231-2270)

Translated from Old English

              a translation for Nelson Goering

There was such ancient wealth　in that earthen vault.

In an age long past,　with an end in his mind,

someone now nameless　had known to hide

his dear treasure　in the darkness here,

the heaped legacy　of a highborn race

at dynasty’s end. 　Death already

had taken them all　in times gone by,

and left just this one:　the last warrior

of a fallen line　whose fate he mourned,

expecting the same.　This sad watchman

knew that ageless hoard　would be only his

to enjoy briefly.　The barrow stood

built and waiting 　by the breaking waves

crafted for safety,　set on the headland.

That keeper of rings　 then carried in

all the gold-plated 　goods he had there

worth protecting. 　His words were these few:

    “Hold now, O earth,　what heroes cannot:

Wealth of warriors.　It was worthy men

who delved it from you.　Death in battle

has mowed them down.　Mortal horror

has made away　with the mortal souls

of each of my clan　who have quit this life,

the hall-mirth of knights.　Nobody’s here

to bear me a blade　or bring my cup’s

burnished meadgold.　My band moved on.

The hard helmet　hasped in goldwork

must lose its hoop.　Helm-shiners sleep

that once burnished　my battle-mask.

War-coats that braved　the biting steel

when shields burst wide　will be worn to bits

with their brave wearers.　The whorled hauberk

will wander no more　on the warchief’s back

in a battle band. 　No more brilliant harp

with timbered tune,　no trained falcon

swooping the songhall,　no swift-hoof horse

prancing the courtgrounds.　Plundering carnage

ousts whole peoples　out of existence.”

   So he mourned who survived,　remembering hurts,

alone after them all,　aching and maundering

for days and nights 　till death’s tide reached

his beaten heart.　

This passage is traditionally known as the Lament of the Last Survivor, and it is one of my favourites from the poem. The hero finds treasure in the hoard left by a man of a vanished nation, the last of a people who lived even before the Migration Era in which the poem is set. The Beowulf poet elsewhere alludes to a number of legendary episodes (often from stories that are now unknown apart from their oblique mention in this poem), and normally names the participants. Sometimes that’s all he does. The audience would be expected to know, for example, who Hrothmund, Heorogar and Heoroweard were (the former two names are completely unknown outside of Beowulf, and the latter only from Scandinavian material). This larger narrative context gives point to the fact that the man here is completely anonymized. With no one left to carry on the tribe’s history, the whole heroic ideal of immortality through imperishable fame (or, if you like *ḱléwos *ń̥dʰgʷʰitom) is meaningless. His name is dead, and so too should his story be. And yet, the story lives in this poem. We are hearing a story we ought not to be able to hear. Invited to consider how many tribes and nations have simply disappeared and left not so much as a name, we imagine a memory we cannot really have. The man himself has no use for the treasures of his nation now, and so decides to bury in a hoard. With no one left to talk to, he addresses himself to the earth as it receives his tribe’s now-meaningless treasure.