Week 657: From the ‘Völuspá’

A good deal of what we know about Norse mythology, and in particular about Ragnarök, the Doom of the Gods, that has so haunted the northern imagination, comes from one tenth-century eddic poem, the Völuspá, or Prophecy of the Sibyl.

The text is difficult, probably corrupt in places, with different readings in different manuscripts. I remember watching in some awe one afternoon as my tutor in Old Norse at Cambridge, the great mediaeval scholar Ursula Dronke, at that time engaged on her masterwork ‘The Poetic Edda’, went through another of the Eddic poems amending and reordering at will; it was at that time I made my one and only contribution to world scholarship by supplying her with a cross-reference to Celtic mythology, which in due course she scrupulously acknowledged in a footnote.

The whole poem is quite long; I have selected just the stanzas from its climax which are probably the best-known and which describe the final battle between the gods on one side and the giants and monsters on the other.

I have long been fascinated by the weird complexity of Norse myth, with its cast of gods and giants, elves and dwarves, giant wolves and serpents, dragons and valkyries, and its cosmogony of nine worlds linked by a mighty ash-tree. And I am intrigued by the question of to what extent and in what way was it believed in. Was the whole scheme, maybe, dreamt up by some pre-mediaeval equivalent of Terry Pratchett after a few hornfuls of mead, and did people then subscribe to it because it made for damn good stories and those stories embodied, in however fanciful a way, profound truths about the human condition? Or were Odin, Thor and the rest as literally real to them as today, for example, to many people Jesus and the Buddha are? Hard to tell now: all we know is that the mythology inspired some fine poetry and offers in the form of the heroic ideal a philosophy of courage and resistance to the end which might not say everything but provides as good a basis as most for an outlook on life.

The translation offered is my own. Eddic poetry is a good deal more straightforward in its diction than skaldic poetry (see week 555) but it can still present difficulties by reason of mythical allusions that have become obscure and uncertainties about the verbal register. The temptation is to adopt a poetic and archaic vocabulary which misrepresents the original. Take the phrase ‘áðr veröld steypisk’. I have seen this translated as ‘ere the world waneth’, but the literal meaning of the verb ‘steypask’ is ‘to stumble or fall headlong’, so it’s more like ‘before the world goes splat’. I have steered a middle course with ‘before the world’s ruin’.

From the Völuspá, stanzas 45 to 57

45. Bræðr munu berjask ok at bönum verðask,
munu systrungar sifjum spilla;
hart er í heimi, hórdómr mikill,
skeggöld, skálmöld, skildir ro klofnir,
vindöld, vargöld, áðr veröld steypisk;
mun engi maðr öðrum þyrma.

45. Brethren will fight, and brother slay brother,
Sisters’ sons break kinship’s bonds;
The world grows hard and whoredom great,
An axe-time, a sword-time, shields are cloven,
A wind-time, a wolf-time, before the world’s ruin,
Nor shall any man spare other men.

45. Lines 4 and 5 look like an interpolation. Sisters’ sons: in all Germanic countries the relations between uncle and nephew were felt to be particularly close.]

46. Leika Míms synir, en mjötuðr kyndisk
at inu galla Gjallarhorni;
hátt blæss Heimdallr, horn er á lofti,
hræðask allir á helvegum.

46. The sons of Mimir sport, but doom
Dwells for them in Heimdall’s horn.
Hard he blows, the horn aloft,
And all upon the hell road quake.

46. The sons of Mimir: the reference is unclear. Heimdall: the watchman of the gods, who guards the Bifrost bridge.

47. Skelfr Yggdrasils askr standandi,
ymr it aldna tré, en jötunn losnar;
mælir Óðinn við Míms höfuð
áðr Surtar þann sefi of gleypir.

47. The ancient ash Yggdrasill trembles,
Its high limbs shake, the giant is loose.
Odin speaks with Mimir’s head,
But the kin of Surt shall slay him soon.

47. Yggdrasill: the world tree. The giant: the wolf Fenrir. The head of Mim: this refers to the story that Mimir was sent by the gods as a hostage to the Vanir after their war, and that the Vanir cut off his head and returned it to the gods. Odin embalmed the head, and gave it the power of speech, so that Mimir’s noted wisdom would always be available to him. The kinsman of Surt: the wolf Fenrir, who slays Odin in the final struggle; cf. stanza 53. Surt: the giant who rules the fire-world, Muspellsheim; cf. stanza 52.

48. Hvat er með ásum? Hvat er með alfum?
Gnýr allr Jötunheimr, æsir ro á þingi,
stynja dvergar fyr steindurum,
veggbergs vísir. Vituð ér enn – eða hvat?

48. How fare the gods? How fare the elves?
Giantland groans, and the gods are met.
The dwarves cry out by doors of stone,
The wreakers of rocks. Would you know yet more?

48. Jotunheim: the land of the giants.

49. Geyr nú Garmr mjök fyr Gnipahelli,
festr mun slitna en freki renna;
fjölð veit ek fræða, fram sé ek lengra
um ragna rök römm sigtíva.

49. The hell-hound howls by Gnipahellir,
The fetters burst and the hound runs free.
Much do I know and more I foresee
Of the great gods’ doom, the mighty in fight.

49. Garmr: the monstrous hound that guards the gates of Hel the land of the dead. Gnipahellir: the cave where Garmr is kept chained until his bonds break at Ragnarok.

50. Hrymr ekr austan, hefisk lind fyrir,
snýsk Jörmungandr í jötunmóði;
ormr knýr unnir, en ari hlakkar,
slítr nái niðfölr, Naglfar losnar.

50. From the east comes Hrym with shield on high,
The serpent writhes in giant wrath,
Weltering waves; the eagle feasts
On dead men’s flesh and the corpse-ship sails.

50. Hrym: the leader of the giants, who comes as the helmsman of the ship Naglfar. The serpent: Miðgarthsorm, one of the children of Loki and the giantess Angrboða. The serpent was cast into the sea, where he completely encircles the land. The eagle: the giant Hræsvelg, who sits at the edge of heaven in the form of an eagle, and makes the winds with his wings. Naglfar: the ship which was made out of dead men’s nails to carry the giants to battle.

51. Kjóll ferr austan, koma munu Múspells
of lög lýðir, en Loki stýrir;
fara fíflmegir með freka allir,
þeim er bróðir Býleists í för.

51. East over sea there comes a ship
With the people of Muspell, and Loki steers.
After the wolf the wild men follow,
And with them Byleist’s brother goes.

51. Muspell: the land of the fire giants. The wolf: Fenrir. The brother of Byleist: Loki. No more is known of Byleist.

52. Surtr ferr sunnan með sviga lævi,
skínn af sverði sól valtíva;
grjótbjörg gnata, en gífr rata,
troða halir helveg, en himinn klofnar.

52. From the south comes Surt with a flail of flame,
The sun of the battle-gods shines in his sword,
The mountains fall, the sky is sundered,
As heroes take the road to hell.

52. Surt: the ruler of the fire-world. ‘sviga laevi’: literaaly, the scourge of branches, i.e. fire. This is an unusual case in the Eddic poems of a ‘kenning’, more characteristic of skaldic verse.

53. Þá kemr Hlínar harmr annarr fram,
er Óðinn ferr við ulf vega,
en bani Belja bjartr at Surti;
þá mun Friggjar falla angan.

53. Now Frigg must suffer a second sorrow:
As Odin fares to fight with the wolf
And Beli’s bright slayer battles with Surt,
For now the joy of Frigg must fall.

53. Hlin: another name for Frigg, Odin’s wife. Her first sorrow was the death of her son Balder, and now she is fated now to see her husband slain by the wolf Fenrir. Beli’s slayer: the god Freyr, who killed the giant Beli with his fist. Freyr, who is fighting without his good sword, is killed by Surt. The joy of Frigg: Odin.

54. Geyr nú Garmr mjök fyr Gnipahelli,
festr mun slitna, en freki renna;
fjölð veit ek fræða, fram sé ek lengra
um ragna rök römm sigtíva.

54. The hell-hound howls by Gnipahellir,
The fetters burst and the wolf runs free.
Much do I know and more I foresee
Of the great gods’ doom, the mighty in fight.

54. A repeat of stanza 49.

55. Þá kemr inn mikli mögr Sigföður,
Víðarr, vega at valdýri.
Lætr hann megi Hveðrungs mundum standa
hjör til hjarta, þá er hefnt föður.

55. Now comes Viðar, the Allfather’s scion,
Mighty in battle, against the beast.
He thrusts his sword into Loki’s son
Full to the heart; his father’s avenged.

55. Sigföður: the Father of Victory i.e. Odin. Viðar is his son, known as the silent god, and famed for his strength. Loki’s son: Fenrir.

56. Þá kemr inn mæri mögr Hlóðynjar, gengr Óðins
sonr við orm vega, drepr af móði Miðgarðs véurr,
munu halir allir heimstöð ryðja; gengr fet níu
Fjörgynjar burr neppr frá naðri níðs ókvíðnum.

56. Then comes great Thor, the son of Odin,
Protector of earth; he slays the snake.
Men flee their homes; he takes nine steps,
Vanquished by venom, he dies undismayed.

56. Hlóðyn: another name for Jorth (‘Earth’), Thor’s mother; his father was Odin. The snake: The Midgard serpent.

57. Sól tér sortna, sígr fold í mar,
hverfa af himni heiðar stjörnur;
geisar eimi ok aldrnari,
leikr hár hiti við himin sjalfan.

57. The sun turns black, earth sinks in sea,
The bright stars vanish from the sky.
A fiery reek devours the all-feeder,
The heat takes hold of heaven itself.

57. The all-feeder i.e. the earth that nourishes all.

Week 656: Journal, by David Sutton

My eighty-first birthday this week. Ran my birthday mile in 8 minutes 27 seconds – disappointing but at least that’s ten seconds faster than last year’s pathetic effort. Extrapolating this improvement in a way that some may find questionable, I calculate that I should be down to a respectable four minutes by the time I am a hundred and eight. Watch this space.

Meanwhile I thought that as it’s my birthday week I might be excused for offering a poem of my own, a meditation on what is lost with age, and what can still be kept.

Journal

I write in my journal, ‘Thrushes in the lane,
A soft wind, and the blackthorn petals falling.’
There would have been much more when I was young:
Each scent of earth, each bird and flower of spring,
But youth is gone, I cannot visit again
The adventure of the blackbird’s first song.

And once, I might have wanted to share such words
But now it seems enough that they are for me,
And in time, if time allows, will quicken this day,
Since love, in the end, needs little for memory,
But makes of petals, soft winds, singing birds,
Its momentary, everlasting stay.

David Sutton

Week 655: From ‘An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland’, by Andrew Marvell

When it comes to the English Civil War I incline to the view of those eminent historians Messrs Sellar and Yeatman that the Cavaliers were romantic but wrong and the Roundheads were repulsive but right. I still feel it was a pity about King Charles I though. In July 1647 he was rather comfortably imprisoned for a few weeks at Caversham and used to visit Hardwick House, just along the Thames from Mapledurham, which is quite near where I live, and from there call in to a local pub at nearby Collins End to play bowls. I think of him making his way up through the woods in the light summer evenings, perhaps pausing to look back wistfully on the fine view he would shortly never see again, down across broad paddocks to the shining river beyond.

If only he hadn’t felt so entitled… it is easy to imagine him in our times, giving a TV interview, completely misjudging the mood of the room and insisting to the end on his divine right to be a complete wally. So where he might, I suppose, have gone into a peaceable exile, instead he got the chop. But at least by all accounts he met his end with considerable dignity, as celebrated by Andrew Marvell in this week’s piece, which is an extract from a longer poem ostensibly in praise of Oliver Cromwell, the subject of the opening lines, but which is, to say the least, ambivalent about the execution of the king and gives him due credit for his behaviour on the scaffold.

Hampton: Charles was for a time imprisoned at Hampton Court, where Cromwell visited him many times to discuss ways in which the dispute between the King and Parliament might be resolved, but received no cooperation from the King.

Carisbrooke: a castle on the Isle of Wight to which Charles was transferred after an attempted escape from Hampton Court.

From ‘An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland’

What field of all the civil wars
Where his were not the deepest scars?
    And Hampton shows what part
    He had of wiser art,

Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
    That Charles himself might chase
    To Carisbrooke’s narrow case,

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn,
    While round the armed bands
    Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
    But with his keener eye
    The axe’s edge did try;

Nor call’d the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
    But bowed his comely head
    Down as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.

Andrew Marvell

Week 654: Walls, by Ted Hughes

This week’s piece makes an interesting comparison with Norman Nicholson’s poem on the same theme (see week 136). I like both poems very much, but Norman’s is more concerned with conjuring up the walls themselves, whereas Ted’s is more about the anonymous lives that went into their making. That image of the faces and palms of the hands cooling in the slow fire of sleep is wonderfully tactile.

Walls

What callussed speech rubbed its edges
Soft and hard again and soft
Again fitting these syllables

To the long swell of land, in the long
Press of weather? Eyes that closed
To gaze at grass-points and gritty chippings.

Spines that were into a bowed
Enslavement, the small freedom of raising
Endless memorials to the labour

Buried in them. Faces
Lifted at the day’s end
Like the palms of the hands

To cool in the slow fire of sleep.
A slow fire of wind
Has erased their bodies and names.

Their lives went into the enclosures
Like manure. Embraced these slopes
Like summer cloud-shadows. Left

This harvest of long cemeteries

Ted Hughes

Week 653: Der Panther, by Rainer Maria Rilke

This week one of Rainer Maria Rilke’s most famous shorter poems. It exemplifies his poetic theory of empathic identification with the object of his vision, combined with the use of precise evocative language. At one level it is certainly about a majestic animal cooped up in a small cage, but clearly it owes its particular renown to a wider resonance, the panther standing equally for so many human lives, trapped in offices or factories, losing over the years any ability to see beyond the imprisoning bars of duty and routine, yet just occasionally half-remembering another world of freedom and joy, a glimpse, quickly extinguished, of how life might have been.

The translation that follows is my own.

Der Panther

im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäbe keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille —
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

Rainer Maria Rilke

The Panther

His gaze, from seeing bars go by, has grown
so weary there is nothing else it sees.
It is as if for him were bars alone,
a thousand bars, and no world beyond these.

His footfalls, soft and supple as they enter
the smallest of small circles, round and round,
are like a sacred dance about a centre
in which a great will stands forever bound.

Just sometimes, as the curtain of a pupil
lifts soundlessly, some image from before
traverses tense unmoving limbs, until
arriving at the heart it is no more.