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Little of the Anglo-Saxon literature survived
the destruction of the Vikings and the burning of the monasteries by Henry
the VIII. One work that did survive
was the Exeter Book, a tenth century manuscript that includes several Old
English works. In this are several
riddles. These riddles were
probably told to pass the time up to 1066. |
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I'm by nature solitary, scarred by iron
and wounded by sword, weary of battle.
I often see the face of war, and fight
hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope
of help being brought to me in battle
before I'm cut to
pieces and perish.
At the city wall sharp-edged sword,
skillfully forged in the flames by smiths,
bite deeply into me. I must await
a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me
to find a physician on the battlefield,
one of those men who heals wounds with herbs.
My sword wounds gape wide and wider;
death blows are dealt me by day and by night. |
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Christ, the true giver of victories,
created me for combat. When my lord
urges me to fight, I often scorch mortals;
I approach the earth and, without a touch,
afflict a huge host of people.
At times I gladden the
minds of men,
keeping my distance I console those
whom I fought before; they feel my kindness
as they once felt my fire when,
after such suffering, I soothe their lives. |
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Wob is my name, if you work it out;
I'm a fair creature fashioned for battle.
When I bend, and shoot a deadly shaft
from my stomach, I'm very eager
to send that evil as far away as I can.
When my lord (he thought
up this torment)
releases my limbs, I become longer
and, bent upon slaughter, spit out
that deadly poison I swallowed before.
No man's parted easily from the object
I describe; if what flies from my stomach
strikes him, he pays for its poison
with his strength - speedy atonement for his life.
I'll serve no master when unstrung, only when
I'm cunningly notched. Now guess my name. |
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I saw
four creatures, wondrous beings,
travelling together. Their tracks were dark,
their path deep and black. They coursed swiftly:
faster than birds they flew through the air,
dove under a wave. He strove without rest,
the battling Prince, pointing the way
across plated gold
to the four creatures. |
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the four creatures are the thumb and first two
fingers of a hand, and a pen (probably a quill pen, given the allusion to
birds) in the act of writing. The "battling Prince" is the right
arm of the writer. |
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I'm a strange creature, for I satisfy
women,
a service to the neighbors! No on suffers
at my hands except for my slayer.
I grow tall, erect in a bed,
I'm hairy underneath. From time to time
a good-looking girl,
the doughty daughter
of some churl dares to hold me,
grips my russet skin, robs me of my head
and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl
with plaited hair who has confined me
remembers our meeting. Her eye
moistens. |
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On the way a miracle: water becomes bone. |
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An enemy came and took my
life
and all my strength. He soaked me,
submerged me in water, then took me out
and placed me in the sun -- there I lost
all of my hair. The sharp steel
of a knife's edge scraped me clean.
Fingers folded me. A bird's pride
bore the juice, covered me with tracks;
all over my brown skin I took in the dye of wisdom.
Some more of the liquor crossed me again
with dark prints. Then I was covered
with protecting boards,
bound in hyde,
brightened by gold; then I shone
gracefully crafted, banded in metal.
Now may my ornaments, my red dye,
my splendid illumination
spread the praise
of the lord of peoples. Not a thing of sorrow:
if the sons of men seek my wisdom
they will be safer, more sure of success,
stronger in heart, sounder of mind,
wiser in spirit; their friends will grow
dearer and closer, truer and stronger,
more useful and faithful--
their glory will spread,
their gladness increase, their prosperity multiply:
kindness will flourish, love will deepen,
friends will embrace. Do you know my name,
so useful to men? My name is glorious,
an aid to heros, a holy thing. |
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Bible. In the Anglo-Saxon context, the Bible is
a magical object, not simply a neutral record. Some of its strength comes
from the materials and processes that created the specific copy in hand.
This poem tells us a great deal about the magic powers of the Bible as a
ritual instrument, but, significantly, tells us nothing of its contents. |
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The
creature ate its words-- it seemed to me strangely weird
when I heard this wonder:
that it had devoured human speech.
A thief in the
darkness gloriously mouthed
the source of knowledge-- but thee thief was not
the least bit wiser for the words in his mouth. |
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http://www.thing.net/~grist/ld/young/ky-bkrid.htm |
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http://www.technozen.com/exeter/1-10.htm |
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Notes