[Below is my translation of the OE poem The Seafarer. The image above is ‘Contact’, an installation by the Japanese art collective 目 (pronounced Mé) presently in the Mori Art Museum.]
May I by my self reckon a strong song,
share my sea-travels, speak of struck sufferings,
weary weeks of wakeful worrying,
how burdens of bitterness brought me low.
a wrangling wavewash often worked me
nervy nightwatches navigating the ship
lest we be cliff-crashed. Cold-throttled
were my feet, frost-fixed,
hot in my heart, hunger slating my innards
marineweary mood. Most men never know it.
A fellow on farmland? Fine things befall him!
But I, always illstruck on an icecold sea,
bereft of fine kinsmen,
hung heavy with icicles harangued by hail.
Nothing to hear but the howling sea
and its icecold surge. A swan's song
and curlews' cries came to me as a comfort:
seamews' moans instead of mead-drinking!
Storms beat the stonecliffs where the terns sang
icy-feathered; eagles' fanfares
made this mourning man more comfortable.
Little does he realise, life's lucky-one
abiding in some borough far from all bad things,
proud, tipsy on wine, whilst I'm punchdrunk
Nightshadows enlarge. Snow gnarls from the north;
ice seals the soil; hail is sown on the ground,
glacial grains. How grievous now are
my heart's hard thoughts, and these high streams
Months mark my desire, measuring when next
I again unfurl sails heading far from here
to the stranger's land that I set out to seek.
For there is no man so majestic on earth,
no longshanks so lionhearted, none so loved by his lord,
but that as soon as he sails anxiety assaults him:
dreading what his lord might do with him.
No harp's glissando nor gifts of rings,
nor anything else either except ocean's agitation.
But he's driven by wanting, at war with the waves.
Forests blossom burghs become fairer,
the wolds look wonderful, the world renews
is inspirited to sail out, and sets itself to
follow the floodways as a far-traveller.
It's the cuckoo's counsel, her melancholy call:
summer's ward sings a prophecy of sorrow and
(though a celebrated soldier!) what others suffer
those that wander wide through exile's wilderness.
While my soul writhes under my ribs,
my spirit soars skimming the saltwater
to all earth's corners, coming back to me
eager, still greedy, a gabbling one-flier,
urging the whale-way on the unresisting heart
over heaving seas. Hotter for me the
brief on earth's bosom. I do not believe
that all this earth-wealth ultimately endures.
One of three things through it all
is destined to dissolve all dubeity:
will dig out the soul from those doomed-to-die.
It's this way for all of us: afterwards, eulogies and
love from the living the best last words,
this one's works before he went his ways:
his daring deeds defying those devils,
heirs yet unborn will be in awe of him,
and his after-fame will abide with the angels
always and ever, the honour of eternal life,
the regal renown of earthly riches.
There are not kings nor great commanders,
nor wealthgivers as once there were,
those mighty men who accomplished marvels,
That delight's dead now: the dream has departed.
Weaker ones now dwell with the world their holding;
hard-work made it theirs. Higher glory is humbled,
earth's nobleness and all its ages evaporate,
Old-age overtakes him, obscures his face:
his grey-hairs grieve for the friends who have gone,
aristocratic offspring all interred in the ground.
His flesh unfastens itself as his soul's fire fails,
no heft in his hand nor thought in his head.
Though his graveside will be strewn with gold
by brothers of his blood though they bury with him
cornucopias of cash you can't take it with you.
grasp such gold given God's displeasure,
though he'd hidden it all when he still had his health.
In awe of the Almighty earth averts her eyes.
It was He gave us the hefty ground,
Only a fool doesn't fear God; death finds such a fellow faceless.
The holy man is humbler husked in heaven's mercy,
the Maker sets his mind steady, who fathoms His might.
Man must steer a strong spirit, and keep a settled course,
his men must be mustered effectively
love him in the light times and be loyal in the dark.
He must firm his will to the final fall of fire
when the funeral pyre flames balefully
the Maker much mightier than any man's mind.
Come, consider where we can locate home,
and then think hard how best to get thither,
to make every effort, so that we might
whose life relies on loving the Lord,
in the hope of heaven. Thanks to the Holy One,
that he gave to the world, this gift of Glory,
everlasting God, in all the earth's ages!
Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan,
ReplyDeletesiþas secgan, hu ic geswincdagum
earfoðhwile oft þrowade,
bitre breostceare gebiden hæbbe,
gecunnad in ceole cearselda fela,
atol yþa gewealc, þær mec oft bigeat
nearo nihtwaco æt nacan stefnan,
þonne he be clifum cnossað. Calde geþrungen
wæron mine fet, forste gebunden,
caldum clommum, þær þa ceare seofedun
hat ymb heortan; hungor innan slat
merewerges mod. þæt se mon ne wat
þe him on foldan fægrost limpeð,
hu ic earmcearig iscealdne sæ
winter wunade wræccan lastum,
winemægum bidroren,
bihongen hrimgicelum; hægl scurum fleag.
þær ic ne gehyrde butan hlimman sæ,
iscaldne wæg. Hwilum ylfete song
dyde ic me to gomene, ganetes hleoþor
ond huilpan sweg fore hleahtor wera,
mæw singende fore medodrince.
Stormas þær stanclifu beotan, þær him stearn oncwæð
isigfeþera; ful oft þæt earn bigeal,
urigfeþra; ne ænig hleomæga
feasceaftig ferð frefran meahte.
Forþon him gelyfeð lyt, se þe ah lifes wyn
gebiden in burgum, bealosiþa hwon,
wlonc ond wingal, hu ic werig oft
in brimlade bidan sceolde.
Nap nihtscua, norþan sniwde,
hrim hrusan bond, hægl feol on eorþan,
corna caldast. Forþon cnyssað nu
heortan geþohtas, þæt ic hean streamas,
sealtyþa gelac sylf cunnige;
monað modes lust mæla gehwylce
ferð to feran, þæt ic feor heonan
elþeodigra eard gesece.
Forþon nis þæs modwlonc mon ofer eorþan,
ne his gifena þæs god, ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt,
ne in his dædum to þæs deor, ne him his dryhten to þæs hold,
þæt he a his sæfore sorge næbbe,
to hwon hine dryhten gedon wille.
Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge ne to hringþege,
ne to wife wyn ne to worulde hyht,
ne ymbe owiht elles, nefne ymb yða gewealc,
ac a hafað longunge se þe on lagu fundað.
Bearwas blostmum nimað, byrig fægriað,
Deletewongas wlitigað, woruld onetteð;
ealle þa gemoniað modes fusne
sefan to siþe, þam þe swa þenceð
on flodwegas feor gewitan.
Swylce geac monað geomran reorde,
singeð sumeres weard, sorge beodeð
bitter in breosthord. þæt se beorn ne wat,
esteadig secg, hwæt þa sume dreogað
þe þa wræclastas widost lecgað.
Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð ofer hreþerlocan,
min modsefa mid mereflode
ofer hwæles eþel hweorfeð wide,
eorþan sceatas, cymeð eft to me
gifre ond grædig, gielleð anfloga,
hweteð on hwælweg hreþer unwearnum
ofer holma gelagu. Forþon me hatran sind
dryhtnes dreamas þonne þis deade lif,
læne on londe. Ic gelyfe no
þæt him eorðwelan ece stondað.
Simle þreora sum þinga gehwylce,
ær his tid aga, to tweon weorþeð;
adl oþþe yldo oþþe ecghete
fægum fromweardum feorh oðþringeð.
Forþon þæt bið eorla gehwam æftercweþendra
lof lifgendra lastworda betst,
þæt he gewyrce, ær he on weg scyle,
fremum on foldan wið feonda niþ,
deorum dædum deofle togeanes,
þæt hine ælda bearn æfter hergen,
ond his lof siþþan lifge mid englum
awa to ealdre, ecan lifes blæd,
dream mid dugeþum. Dagas sind gewitene,
ealle onmedlan eorþan rices;
næron nu cyningas ne caseras
ne goldgiefan swylce iu wæron,
þonne hi mæst mid him mærþa gefremedon
ond on dryhtlicestum dome lifdon.
Gedroren is þeos duguð eal, dreamas sind gewitene,
wuniað þa wacran ond þas woruld healdaþ,
brucað þurh bisgo. Blæd is gehnæged,
eorþan indryhto ealdað ond searað,
swa nu monna gehwylc geond middangeard.
Yldo him on fareð, onsyn blacað,
gomelfeax gnornað, wat his iuwine,
æþelinga bearn, eorþan forgiefene.
Ne mæg him þonne se flæschoma, þonne him þæt feorg losað,
ne swete forswelgan ne sar gefelan,
ne hond onhreran ne mid hyge þencan.
þeah þe græf wille golde stregan
broþor his geborenum, byrgan be deadum,
maþmum mislicum þæt hine mid wille,
ne mæg þære sawle þe biþ synna ful
gold to geoce for godes egsan,
þonne he hit ær hydeð þenden he her leofað.
Micel biþ se meotudes egsa, forþon hi seo molde oncyrreð;
se gestaþelade stiþe grundas,
eorþan sceatas ond uprodor.
Dol biþ se þe him his dryhten ne ondrædeþ; cymeð him se deað unþinged.
Eadig bið se þe eaþmod leofaþ; cymeð him seo ar of heofonum,
meotod him þæt mod gestaþelað, forþon he in his meahte gelyfeð.
Stieran mon sceal strongum mode, ond þæt on staþelum healdan,
ond gewis werum, wisum clæne,
scyle monna gehwylc mid gemete healdan
wiþ leofne ond wið laþne bealo,
þeah þe he hine wille fyres fulne
oþþe on bæle forbærnedne
his geworhtne wine. Wyrd biþ swiþre,
meotud meahtigra þonne ænges monnes gehygd.
Uton we hycgan hwær we ham agen,
ond þonne geþencan hu we þider cumen,
ond we þonne eac tilien, þæt we to moten
in þa ecan eadignesse,
þær is lif gelong in lufan dryhtnes,
hyht in heofonum. þæs sy þam halgan þonc,
þæt he usic geweorþade, wuldres ealdor,
ece dryhten, in ealle tid.
Amen.
Years since I've read this...what a wonderful translation
ReplyDeleteThank you Philip!
Deleteperfectly done. Verse translations are rarely done this well, hope you do more
ReplyDeleteThank you, my friend!
DeleteI'm fascinated by the kenning 'geswincdaegum' or 'beating days' and why everyone follows Pound in translating this as 'hardships' when the poem's first kenning surely deserves a little more effort.
ReplyDelete