Wor(l)d Wonder
Wonder formed in wave; water turned to bone.
In certain Anglo Saxon poems, language is used not to explain the world, but to render it strange: uncanny, astonishing, wonder-full.
The Anglo Saxon term wundor is, initially, a noun – an object of astonishment, drawing and unexpectedly expanding our attention. But the riddling element in much Anglo Saxon poetry spins from wundor a verb, a way of regarding the world.
Anglo Saxon poetry is infused with a sense of wonder. Wonder is the bright thread of magic running through much of the remaining poetry, interlaced with darker threads of homesickness and alienation.
And it is understandable. Old English poetry is often a poetry of displacement. The Anglo Saxons were at once refugees and invaders on Britain’s shores, part of that heaving mass of migrants that altered the Imperial Roman landscape of the 5th century.
The Anglo Saxon term wundor is, initially, a noun – an object of astonishment, drawing and unexpectedly expanding our attention. But the riddling element in much Anglo Saxon poetry spins from wundor a verb, a way of regarding the world.
Anglo Saxon poetry is infused with a sense of wonder. Wonder is the bright thread of magic running through much of the remaining poetry, interlaced with darker threads of homesickness and alienation.
And it is understandable. Old English poetry is often a poetry of displacement. The Anglo Saxons were at once refugees and invaders on Britain’s shores, part of that heaving mass of migrants that altered the Imperial Roman landscape of the 5th century.
And so when a poet -- part of a mobile, warrior society that knew nothing of permanent architecture -- beheld the stone ruins of some magnificent old Roman building, fallen into decay, wonder was evoked:
“The Ruin” is a riddle poem. Observing such massive, crumbling masonry, the noun wundor becomes a verb: the poet’s awe becomes a question, and the imaginative reconstruction of those ruins is the answer.
Wondrously wrought and fair its wall of stone,
Shattered by Fate! The castles rent asunder,
The work of giants moldered away!
Its roofs are breaking and falling; its towers crumble
In ruin. Plundered those walls with grated doors --
Their mortar white with frost. Its battered ramparts
are shorn away and ruined, all undermined
By eating age. The mighty men that built it,
Departed hence, undone by death, are held
Fast in the earth’s embrace.
Shattered by Fate! The castles rent asunder,
The work of giants moldered away!
Its roofs are breaking and falling; its towers crumble
In ruin. Plundered those walls with grated doors --
Their mortar white with frost. Its battered ramparts
are shorn away and ruined, all undermined
By eating age. The mighty men that built it,
Departed hence, undone by death, are held
Fast in the earth’s embrace.
Tight is the clutch
Of the grave, while overhead of living men
A hundred generations pass away.
Long this red wall, now mossy gray, withstood,
While kingdom followed kingdom in the land,
Unshaken beneath the storms of heaven — yet now
Its towering gate hath fallen. . . .
Radiant the mead-halls in that city bright,
Yea, many were its baths. High rose its wealth
Of hornèd pinnacles, while loud within
Was heard the joyous revelry of men --
Till mighty Fate came with her sudden change!
Wide-wasting was the battle where they fell.
Plague-laden days upon the city came;
Death snatched away that mighty host of men. . . .
There in the olden time full many a thane,
Shining with gold, all gloriously adorned,
Haughty in heart, rejoiced when hot with wine;
Upon him gleamed his armor, and he gazed
On gold and silver and all precious gems;
On riches and on wealth and treasured jewels,
A radiant city in a kingdom wide.
There stood the courts of stone. Hot within,
The stream flowed with its mighty surge. The wall
Surrounded all with its bright bosom; there
The baths stood, hot within its heart. . . .
Of the grave, while overhead of living men
A hundred generations pass away.
Long this red wall, now mossy gray, withstood,
While kingdom followed kingdom in the land,
Unshaken beneath the storms of heaven — yet now
Its towering gate hath fallen. . . .
Radiant the mead-halls in that city bright,
Yea, many were its baths. High rose its wealth
Of hornèd pinnacles, while loud within
Was heard the joyous revelry of men --
Till mighty Fate came with her sudden change!
Wide-wasting was the battle where they fell.
Plague-laden days upon the city came;
Death snatched away that mighty host of men. . . .
There in the olden time full many a thane,
Shining with gold, all gloriously adorned,
Haughty in heart, rejoiced when hot with wine;
Upon him gleamed his armor, and he gazed
On gold and silver and all precious gems;
On riches and on wealth and treasured jewels,
A radiant city in a kingdom wide.
There stood the courts of stone. Hot within,
The stream flowed with its mighty surge. The wall
Surrounded all with its bright bosom; there
The baths stood, hot within its heart. . . .
This is one of the magnificent qualities of Anglo Saxon poetry, in fact: to use the verb “wonder” to transform commonplace objects into “wonders.” And riddle poems are how they accomplished that.
For a sailor in Northern Seas, an iceberg would’ve been an awe-inspiring sight: terrifyingly powerful, incomparably immense, largely hidden, stark and beautiful: a wonder.
And for a sailor of English shores, it would have been unusual enough to provoke that emotion, wonder.
And for an old English poet, then, fit subject of a riddle (two, in fact, of the 90 odd riddles left us in the Exeter Book) whose answer we shall wonder about.
And for an old English poet, then, fit subject of a riddle (two, in fact, of the 90 odd riddles left us in the Exeter Book) whose answer we shall wonder about.
(Here's the other)
An awesome beauty angled the wave;
The deep-throated creature called to land,
Laughed loud-lingering, struck terror
Home to men. Her blades honed sharp,
She was slow to battle but battle-grim,
Savage wound-worker. The Slaughterer
Struck ship walls, carried a curse.
The cunning creature aid of herself:
“My mother, who comes from the kind of women
Dearest and best, is my daughter grown
Great and pregnant; So it is known to men
On earth that she shall come and stand
Gracefully on the ground in every land.”
The deep-throated creature called to land,
Laughed loud-lingering, struck terror
Home to men. Her blades honed sharp,
She was slow to battle but battle-grim,
Savage wound-worker. The Slaughterer
Struck ship walls, carried a curse.
The cunning creature aid of herself:
“My mother, who comes from the kind of women
Dearest and best, is my daughter grown
Great and pregnant; So it is known to men
On earth that she shall come and stand
Gracefully on the ground in every land.”
Now remember, the people who wrote these down (and almost certainly composed most of them) were monks. And probably the same ones who toiled hour after hour copying out manuscripts. Thus, many of the riddles remaining to us (nearly all are from a single text known as The Exeter Book) reflect rather monkish concerns. Here are two that would be familiar to a scribe, fingers-aching from toil over a precious vellum manuscript:
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.
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.
During the reign of Alfred the Great, an effort was begun to clean up the Benedictine orders, which in part meant replacing a secular, often married clergy with celibate monks. As such, the struggle with the fascinations of the flesh became, no doubt, an issue. So it's easy to imagine a wry monk composing the following riddles, Rorschach tests for supposedly pious readers. Take the test yourself: just how lascivious is your wondering imagination?
Swings by his thigh / a thing most magical!
Below the belt / beneath the folds
Of his clothes it hangs / a hole in its front end,
stiff-set and stout / it swivels about.
Levelling the head / of this hanging tool,
its wielder hoists his hem / above his knee;
it is his will to fill / a well-known hole
that it fits fully / when at full length
He's oft filled it before. / Now he fills it again.
Below the belt / beneath the folds
Of his clothes it hangs / a hole in its front end,
stiff-set and stout / it swivels about.
Levelling the head / of this hanging tool,
its wielder hoists his hem / above his knee;
it is his will to fill / a well-known hole
that it fits fully / when at full length
He's oft filled it before. / Now he fills it again.
I am a wondrous creature, a joy to women,
useful to neighbors; not any citizens
do I injure, except my slayer.
Very high is my foundation. I stand in a bed,
hair underneath somewhere. Sometimes ventures
a fully beautiful churl's daughter,
licentious maid, that she grabs onto me,
rushes me to the redness, ravages my head,
fixes me in confinement. She soon feels
my meeting, she who forced me in,
the curly-haired woman. Wet is her eye.
useful to neighbors; not any citizens
do I injure, except my slayer.
Very high is my foundation. I stand in a bed,
hair underneath somewhere. Sometimes ventures
a fully beautiful churl's daughter,
licentious maid, that she grabs onto me,
rushes me to the redness, ravages my head,
fixes me in confinement. She soon feels
my meeting, she who forced me in,
the curly-haired woman. Wet is her eye.
Sometimes the riddles are uttered from the perspective of the wondering observer; another translation of the iceberg riddle at the top reads:
I saw a creature wandering the way: / She was devastating-beautifully adorned. / On the wave a miracle: water turned to bone.
But more often it is the object forming the answer itself that speaks, asking you to guess it's identity. I love this aspect of Anglo Saxon poetry:inanimate objects are given voice! It's a rather extraordinary act of empathy, imagining life and consciousness into everything around them. Often the objects seem to wonder themselves at their own capacious identities. Listen to the speaker in the first few lines of this much longer riddle, for instance. It is the voice of the wind, wondering at its own power:
I saw a creature wandering the way: / She was devastating-beautifully adorned. / On the wave a miracle: water turned to bone.
But more often it is the object forming the answer itself that speaks, asking you to guess it's identity. I love this aspect of Anglo Saxon poetry:inanimate objects are given voice! It's a rather extraordinary act of empathy, imagining life and consciousness into everything around them. Often the objects seem to wonder themselves at their own capacious identities. Listen to the speaker in the first few lines of this much longer riddle, for instance. It is the voice of the wind, wondering at its own power:
What man is so mind-strong and spirit shrewd
He can say who drives me in my fierce strength
On fate's road when I rise in vengeance,
Ravage the land, with a thundering voice
Rip folk homes, plunder the hall-wood:
Gray smoke rises over rooftops -- on earth
The rattle and death-shriek of men. I shake
The forest, blooms and boles, rip trees,
Wander, roofed with water, a wide road,
Pressed by mighty powers...
He can say who drives me in my fierce strength
On fate's road when I rise in vengeance,
Ravage the land, with a thundering voice
Rip folk homes, plunder the hall-wood:
Gray smoke rises over rooftops -- on earth
The rattle and death-shriek of men. I shake
The forest, blooms and boles, rip trees,
Wander, roofed with water, a wide road,
Pressed by mighty powers...
So, here are a few more Anglo-Saxon Riddle poems. See if you can guess the answesr before clicking on the riddle. And once you've clicked, let the wonder of words do its work, and see the world strangely.
My dress is silver, shimmering gray,
Spun with a blaze of Garnets. I craze
Most men: rash fools I run on a road
Of rage, and cage quiet determined men.
Why they love me – lured from mind,
Stripped of strength – remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power
When they raise high the dearest treasure,
They will find through reckless habit
Dark woe in the dregs of pleasure.
Spun with a blaze of Garnets. I craze
Most men: rash fools I run on a road
Of rage, and cage quiet determined men.
Why they love me – lured from mind,
Stripped of strength – remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power
When they raise high the dearest treasure,
They will find through reckless habit
Dark woe in the dregs of pleasure.
Head down, nosing -- I belly the ground.
Hard snuffle and grub, I bite and furrow –
Drawn by the dark enemy of forests,
Driven by a bent lord who hounds my trail,
Who lifts and lowers me, rams me down,
Pushes on plain, and sows seed.
I am a ground-skulker, born of wood,
Bound by wizards, brought on wheel.
My ways are weird: as I walk one flank
Of my trail is gathering green, the other
Is bright black. Through my back and belly
A sharp sword thrusts; through my head
A dagger is stuck like a tooth: what I slash
Falls in a curve of slaughter to one side
if my driving lord slaves well.
Hard snuffle and grub, I bite and furrow –
Drawn by the dark enemy of forests,
Driven by a bent lord who hounds my trail,
Who lifts and lowers me, rams me down,
Pushes on plain, and sows seed.
I am a ground-skulker, born of wood,
Bound by wizards, brought on wheel.
My ways are weird: as I walk one flank
Of my trail is gathering green, the other
Is bright black. Through my back and belly
A sharp sword thrusts; through my head
A dagger is stuck like a tooth: what I slash
Falls in a curve of slaughter to one side
if my driving lord slaves well.
The wind carries small creatures
Over hill-slopes and headlands: dark-
Coated, black-bodied, bursting with song –
They chirm and clamor like a troop on wing,
Winding their way to wooded cliff-walls,
Sometimes to the halls of men-singing a name-song.
Over hill-slopes and headlands: dark-
Coated, black-bodied, bursting with song –
They chirm and clamor like a troop on wing,
Winding their way to wooded cliff-walls,
Sometimes to the halls of men-singing a name-song.
My race is old, my seasons many,
My sorrows deep. I have dwelt in cities
Since the fire-guardian wrought with flame
My clean beginning in the world of men,
Purged my body with a circling fire.
Now a fierce earth-brother stands guard,
The first to shape my sorrow – I remember
Who ripped our race, hard from its homeland,
Stripped us from the ground. I cannot bind
Or blast him, yet I cause the clench of slavery
Round the world. Though my wounds are many
On middle-earth, my strength is great.
My craft and course, power and rich passage,
I must hide from men. Say who I am.
My sorrows deep. I have dwelt in cities
Since the fire-guardian wrought with flame
My clean beginning in the world of men,
Purged my body with a circling fire.
Now a fierce earth-brother stands guard,
The first to shape my sorrow – I remember
Who ripped our race, hard from its homeland,
Stripped us from the ground. I cannot bind
Or blast him, yet I cause the clench of slavery
Round the world. Though my wounds are many
On middle-earth, my strength is great.
My craft and course, power and rich passage,
I must hide from men. Say who I am.
I am a warrior with a white throat.
My head and sides are tawny. Two ears
Tower over my eyes. My back and cheeks
Are furred. I bear battle-weapons.
My gait is swift. I lope through green
Grass on battle-toes. My song is sorrow
If the slaughter-hound scents the narrow
Hall where I lie hidden with a brood
Of children and we wait nestled in the curve
Of love while death snuffs at the door.
The dog drags doom – so quick with terror
I seize my children for a secret flight.
If he bellies down, stalking in my chamber,
I cannot choose to fight –that is fools’
Counsel – I must tunnel a quick road
Through a steep hill, paw for the light
Rush mothered babes through the burrow
Safely on secret streets out the hill-hole.
Brood free I do not fear the hound’s rush.
If the death-foe tracks the fierce mother
Through side streets, he will find
A narrow road through Grimsgate and a hard
Meeting on hilltop as I turn battle-tooth
And war-claw on the foe I once fled.
My head and sides are tawny. Two ears
Tower over my eyes. My back and cheeks
Are furred. I bear battle-weapons.
My gait is swift. I lope through green
Grass on battle-toes. My song is sorrow
If the slaughter-hound scents the narrow
Hall where I lie hidden with a brood
Of children and we wait nestled in the curve
Of love while death snuffs at the door.
The dog drags doom – so quick with terror
I seize my children for a secret flight.
If he bellies down, stalking in my chamber,
I cannot choose to fight –that is fools’
Counsel – I must tunnel a quick road
Through a steep hill, paw for the light
Rush mothered babes through the burrow
Safely on secret streets out the hill-hole.
Brood free I do not fear the hound’s rush.
If the death-foe tracks the fierce mother
Through side streets, he will find
A narrow road through Grimsgate and a hard
Meeting on hilltop as I turn battle-tooth
And war-claw on the foe I once fled.
In battle I rage against wave and wind,
Strive against storm, dive down seeking
A strange homeland, shrouded by the sea.
In the grip of war, I am strong when still;
In battle-rush, rolled and ripped
In flight. Conspiring wind and wave
Would steal my treasure, strip my hold,
But I seize glory with a guardian tail
As the clutch of stones stands hard
Against my strength. Can you guess my name?
Strive against storm, dive down seeking
A strange homeland, shrouded by the sea.
In the grip of war, I am strong when still;
In battle-rush, rolled and ripped
In flight. Conspiring wind and wave
Would steal my treasure, strip my hold,
But I seize glory with a guardian tail
As the clutch of stones stands hard
Against my strength. Can you guess my name?