Cynewulf

Cynewulf (pronounced “kin-eh-wolf”) is a 9th century poet of Old English — one of the few who are known by name, and one of only four whose work is known to survive today. There are only two manuscripts of his work which survive from the early medieval period. He is thought to have lived in Northumbria — due to the Anglian dialect of Anglo-Saxon he wrote in — and believed to be a monk or a priest, because of the sophistication of his poetry, and that he was well-educated enough to have knowledge of works written in Latin.

Because he signed each of the four long poems known to be his, with a runic acrostic signature, there is no debate as to their authorship. He has, at times, also been thought to be the author of other poetic works including The Dream of the Rood.

The following is a prose translation of the opening lines of Cynewulf’s extensive three-part poem The Christ as translated by Charles Huntington Whitman and published in 1900 by the Athenæum Press. The three sections are “The Advent,” “The Ascension,” and “The Last Judgment.”

From The Christ

Thou art the corner-stone which the builders once rejected in their work; fitting indeed is it for Thee, O king of glory, to become the head of this noble temple, and to join in bond secure the broad walls of adamantine rock, so that throughout the cities of earth all things endowed with sight may wonder evermore. Reveal then, righteous and triumphant One through Thy wisdom, Thine own handiwork, and leave wall firm against wall. The work hath need that the Master Builder, the King Himself should come forthwith restore the house that beneath its roof hath fallen into ruin. He formed the body, the limbs of clay; and now is it time for Him, the Prince of life, to deliver this miserable host from their enemies, the wretched from their fears as He full oft hath done.

O Ruler and righteous King, Thou who holdest the key and openest life, bless us with victory, with that glorious success denied unto him whose work availeth naught! Verily in our need do we speak these words: We beseech Him who created man that He chose not to pronounce judgment upon us who, sad at heart, sit yearning in prison for the sun’s joyous course until such time as the Prince of life reveal light unto us, become our soul’s defense, and compass the feeble mind with splendor; or all this may He make us worthy, we whom He admitted to glory when, deprived of our heritage, we were doomed to turn in wretchedness unto this narrow land.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

John F. Deane

John F. Deane was born on Achill, an island off the Irish coast. Not only is he the new editor for Poetry Ireland Review, but he founded that journal more than thirty years ago. He is known both for his own poems, and for his translations of European poets, including Tomas Tranströmer. In 1985 he also founded Dedalus Press, which has significantly contributed to poetry in Ireland. His poems have been translated into French, Bulgarian, Romanian, Italian and Swedish. Deane's poetry has brought him many international awards and honours.

He has written a new translation of “The Dream of the Rood” which appeared in his 1997 book, Christ, with Urban Fox. His most-recent collection Eye of the Hare was published by Carcanet in 2011.

Mercy

Unholy we sang this morning, and prayed
as if we were not broken, crooked
the Christ-figure hung, splayed
on bloodied beams above us;
devious God, dweller in shadows,
mercy on us;
immortal, cross-shattered Christ—
your gentling grace down upon us.

Prayer

Bring me ashore where you are
that I may still be with you, and at rest.

Your name on my lips, with thankfulness,
my name on yours, with love.

That I may live in light and know no terror of the
dark;
but that I live in light.

When I achieve quiet, when I am in attendance,
be present to me, as I will be to you.

That I may hear you, like a lover, whisper yes —
but that you whisper yes.

Be close to my life, my loves, as lost son to mother,
as lost mother to son.
But be close.

Come to me on days of heat with the cool breathing
of white wine, on cold
with the graced inebriation of red.
But that you come.

That you hold me in a kindly hand
but that you hold me.

Do not resent me when I fail
and I fail, and I fail, and I fail.

That I may find the words.

That the words I find to name you
may approach the condition of song.

That I may always love with the intensity of flowers
but that I love,
but that I always love.

Posted with permission of the poet.

*This is the first Kingdom Poets post about John F. Deane: second post.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca

The Dream of the Rood

The Dream of the Rood (the Cross) is, according to The Norton Anthology of English Literature, “the finest of a rather large number of religious poems in Old English.” It is one of the oldest works of Old English surviving today. It was preserved in the “Vercelli Book” found in northern Italy in the 10th century, but may be much older. Its author is unknown, although scholars have often suggested either of two Anglo Saxon Christian poets: Cynewulf or Cædmon.

The entire poem is about 1200 words, and was written in the alliterative style of Old English. The poem begins and ends with the story told by the dreamer; the central section is from the point-of-view of the Cross itself.

The Dream of the Rood portrays powerful paradox. The Cross is a symbol both of shame and of glory. It is a place of defeat and victory. The Cross submits to God’s will — not bending or breaking, although it could have fallen and crushed the crucifiers — and is thus used to crucify Christ. The Rood suffers along with Jesus, feeling the nails pierce its cross-beam, being stained with blood, even feeling the mocking that was flung at Christ.

The connections between the dreamer, the Cross, Christ himself, and ourselves are strongly felt in this poem.

from The Dream of the Rood

The choicest of visions I wish to tell,
which came as a dream in middle-night,
after voice-bearers lay at rest.
It seemed that I saw a most wondrous tree
born aloft, wound round by light,
brightest of beams. All was that beacon
sprinkled with gold. Gems stood
fair at earth's corners; there likewise five
shone on the shoulder-span. All there beheld the Angel of God,
fair through predestiny. Indeed, that was no wicked one's gallows,
but holy souls beheld it there,
men over earth, and all this great creation.
Wondrous that victory-beam—and I stained with sins,
with wounds of disgrace. I saw glory's tree
honoured with trappings, shining with joys,
decked with gold; gems had
wrapped that forest tree worthily round.
Yet through that gold I clearly perceived
old strife of wretches, when first it began
to bleed on its right side. With sorrows most troubled,
I feared that fair sight. I saw that doom-beacon
turn trappings and hews: sometimes with water wet,
drenched with blood's going; sometimes with jewels decked.
But lying there long while, I,
troubled, beheld the Healer's tree,
until I heard its fair voice.
Then best wood spoke these words...

The above translation is by Jonathan A. Glenn and may be viewed in its entirety here.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca