poetry caty it is that sea of words that we cannot understand, which holds all of life's experiences. 981005 ... dallas the rhythm and the flow of the characters across time is more fundamental to the human condition than any number of dollar signs. 981027 ... allie is describing one hitng in the terms of another 990501 ... allie is describing one thing in the terms of another 990501 ... stephen the only way to turn a man into a puddle. 990502 ... ceorl the art of expressing something in words without actually saying it 990502 ... Zed and um what I mean you know. beautiful, beautiful words all that expressing of stuff I can feel it now. 990503 ... Krishone it's the heart and soul of the human language. no matter how someone thinks, no matter how someone feels, no matter what someone believes in, if they have any kind of heart, a poet out there can find a way to touch it. everything is poetic in some sort of way. the real trick is seeing the poem where it shouldn't be. 990503 ... Nate Higgins Poetry poetry poetry Always metaphor For Something else Speak plainly please So we may see If you Really do Have something to say 991030 ... marjorie the way things should be said existence put into words 991203 ... ready2run you don't understand yet you can't understand from there you have to come here is it worth it? you can't know from there you have to come here then, if not, it's too late but it is 991221 ... Q besides play, write poetry and read it 000104 ... bellee my salvation... my sanity... my soul... 000121 ... apr!l "although they are only breath, words which i command are immortal" --sappho #9, as translated by mary barnard 000122 ... ace the poets shall gain the universe back, eventually. 000224 ... amorfus i dont pretend to be good at it but that's my own poetry... how much of this is repated? how much of this is original? is_this what its supposed to be like? 000302 ... Mika If i had all the time in the world, the poet would be pleased. The world would cease to turn and the snowflake would be easy to catch with your tounge. 000306 ... Midnight Bliss as they ash i breathe camoflaged corpses of disappointment and watch as the cold mourning air burns babies into molded gasses of vastness that liquefy into sound under pressure. maybe not the best peice of poetry, but it's deep and i like it. i give props to the person who wrote it. poetry is a way to free a part of yourself. 000402 ... MollyGoLightly Write it about icky things. Disease. Crime. Leave out the message and the platitudes. You're making a contribution to a language and a craft. 000402 ... Brad If your name is langston_hughes, then by all means let me read yours. If not, keep it to yourself. Let the painters paint, the musicians make music, and the writers write. Don't make a mockery of it, please. 000402 ... MollyGoLightly I see what you're getting at, Brad. But do you think that poetry died with langston hughes? One day i'll let you read some Charles Bukowski if i can remember to bring it with me to th boys' side. 000402 ... Brad I didn't mean it quite so literally Molly. I was thinking more along the lines of anyone on the level of Hughes, i just thought it sounded cooler to phrase it like i did. Haha. At any rate i would love to read some of this cat's stuff if you bring it over. 000402 ... MollyGoLIghtly I walked into one of my classes last week and as soon as I shut the door behind me this girl at the chalkboard said "Molly, we're taking a poll. What is a poet?" She was taking the list down on the chalkboard. I said "Mount Rushmore" because the question irritated me and made me nervous and I wanted it over with. The other responses worried me a little, especially number 3: "A tortured soul." UGH! 000404 ... Midnight Bliss sometimes, poetry can be a cry from a tortured soul...a lot of poetry is depressing, on the other hand, there are also those poems out there that are romantic, funny, etc. but don't be disgusted by depressing poetry, or the fact that others think the way #3 did. it's sort of disrespectful because maybe that is beautiful and special to the author and others. 000404 ... Brad I'm sorry, but there's simply very little value in being trite. If it's already been well said before, you're probably not going to say it better. #3 strikes me as trite. Very banal. 000404 ... MollyGoLightly It was a disrespectful thing for me to say. I am a very disrespectful person. Nyah! :P 000413 ... Tank www.eneri.net Go and be amazed... 000621 ... daxle is shit 000628 ... Grendels theory of everything see: not_really_jazz_slang_of_the_day Bradley, Bradley, Bradley... *shaking head, sadly* Banality, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. see also: there_is_no_true_vision There are more things under heaven than are dreamed of in your philosophy, but there is nothing new under the sun. trite, maybe, but try and dispute it. if it can be thought of IT HAS BEEN THOUGHT OF (repeatedly) 000629 ... Zoe poets should be the most respected people on the earth. i have tried to write good poetry and it all turned out shitty. i just don't understand how good poetry is ever produced. 000718 ... daisy311 he comes to me in the faint light his hands, his touch feels so right I inhale his scent and a strong force comes over me The passion I have for him he can see My heart beats a million miles an hour But be careful, for it is as sensitive as a budding flower. 000718 ... Brad Grendel: cf. Charlie Parker: "There is nothing new under the sun, everything is a derivation of something else." One of my favorite quotes from one of the masters. Yardbird = birdmad? 000718 ... guitar_freak The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both, And be one traveler, long I stood, And looked down one as far as I could, To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there, Had worn them really about the same; And both that morning equally lay, In leaves no step had trodden black, Oh, I kept the first for the other day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back; I shall be telling this with a sigh, Somewhere ages and ahes hence, Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ~Robert Frost~ 001110 ... gigolo aunt yeh, me too 001110 ... splinken that frost poem: i hated it all throughout highschool. thought it was trite. then we studied frost in one of the lit. courses i took this semester, and...KA-POW! i learned that this poem is really about how and why people lie to themselves--the "road less traveled by" is just as worn as the other road, and the speaker is justifying going down this road by creating a little fiction in their head about it. i used to dismiss frost as some fluffy-poo, "do your own thing," vague kind of writer. now i feel stupid. read "Fire and Ice," too. that's my favorite. 001206 ... Dafremen Milky silken soft caress of light cupped breast in wolfen hand Runs the course of gentle curves til caution sighs its reprimand Rounding rounded netherworld does stoke the flame of passions fire To the tune of beating hearts now racing onward to desire Then STOPPED. Accursed conscience pleas, it begs to stop the hot debate. For heartstrings pluck fidelity then open eyes to sleeping mate. ...is a piece of me that I give to you, that you can't take from me. 010216 ... little blond who thinks too much incredible depth of emotion put into words most of wish we'd have thought of first. 010318 ... 13lueee . . . . When I saw you. . . . . I was afraid to talk to you. . . . . When I you talked to I was afraid to hold you. . . . When I Held you...I was afraid to love you. . . .Now that I love you. . .I'm afraid to lose you. . . .Yesterday is a history. . . . Tomorrow is the future. . . .and Today is a gift . . . ..that's why it's called the present. . . . I was born when you kissed me. . . . .and I died when you left me. . . . But I lived for the two months you loved me. . . .. .Until there was you, I cried myself to sleep... while I had you, I fell asleepwith a gentle smile on my face...Before I lost you, I worried myself tosleep... Now that I know you are gone, I sit up at night, waiting for you to come back. . 010326 ... camille http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/2850/mag.html 010408 ... phil I don't like feeling stupid, but I guess I have too. Although it seems to me, I will one day learn this is not true. And I will put a knot in my head from hitting it so hard. I also had not realized the poem's lie to be true, and now I am like you. I wish life would open up to me, from what little I've seen. It would be fun to do. -to splinken 010426 ... m_e no one would care if a prisoner froze to death, but what if he tried to escape? prisoners had escaped, but the never got far. 010519 ... m_e *they* never got far 010519 ... god your reading it. 010522 ... the corrector you're 010522 ... god oops... yep, you're reading poetry 010522 ... m_e i'm not reading poetry. i'm paraphrasing important comments from a novel. 010529 ... burden Blood on pulp. 010529 ... the corrector it's a poem. i'm serious. 010628 ... The Truth a_glimps_of_the_inside of an artists mind. 010723 ... bandaids go to: my_story 011221 ... Avalanched this morning i rose out of rain and questionable intentions honorable perhaps but never clear i painted a smile and erased the sleep all those pictures in your head were false reaenactments of who i am so there. see through the fog and flash light just thinking of you made me stop in the road caught me in your high beamed stare so who i am to suppose anything about what you want. so it’s time for me to go home again. i hate how when i woke up i felt in control and by midnight my life is on the floor at my feet about sadness that feeling in your chest. it’s just a dull pain but it throbs there inside of you, reminding you that it is slowly eating you outside from in. and it’s there, it tears at your heart whenever you let it loose, it’s icy teeth knaw at you, never letting you rest easy with yourself. and when you are actaully alone it swells up and rises into your throat bringing tears and wet pillows and clenched fists. and it makes you realize how unfair the world is. it brings to light how unfortunate you are, how much you have against yourself and how much you loathe other people. it shows you how much your skin doesn’t fit. it wallows in your self-pity until you can’t stand bathing in your own tears. only then, when you are disgusted with sadness are you able to cleanse yourself. free yourself of the ache and then you smile. indifference is the death of all interests. locked in. bordem chases the rosy health from love’s cheeks. blocked in. solitude makes either peace or hunger. caught. feelings i long for are slipping through my fingers and time (escaping my hold on them) is flitting away from me why do i want this and yet run from it as i am looking back? so chain them, capture them. see that green eyed boy loitering behind the tree the sunshine missed him must have forgotten to see him wondering if it’s going to rain wondering if i’ll see him again my heart is that somewhere in between in between the sleeping and waking what i feel is real and what’s reality, between the nightmare and the dream. understands the ground beneath is quaking but not sure where the quicksand’s found. not quite sure how to leap haven’t learned that yet (gotta work on getting up higher) cause my heart’s been nailed ground and it’s trying to jump, to skip that beat but i don’t even know what to think what is there to do now that i can’t sleep can’t even lie there anymore because my heart is wondering when love goes out the window who’s there to open the door? a friend wrote them, tell me, what do you think? 011221 ... ClairE I can't believe I love you so. 011221 ... the eye it's funny: she detests poetry but the thought of her makes me think in poetic terms not the trite rhyming couplets that we first experience as poetry but the random flow of well placed words which can, when arranged properly set hearts and souls in motion 011221 ... ClairE Je veux que tu l'ecrives pour moi. 011222 ... Miffey My best friend He always tells the truth, and what I really feel on the inside. My psychiatrist God knows I need one. My Lover Sometimes my only one, other times he brings me a few ;) My art When I write a good one My hobby When I write a bad one :) My pride When I write a good one My shame the rest of the time :) Hey, that's enough about my poetry, go read some!! http://members.home.net/jake.mueller 020105 ... kerry poetry... i hate reading it, but love writing it it's yet another weird thing about me 020106 ... sabbie little presents in my inbox when i get to work 020209 ... linden needs help 020214 ... Dafremen Breeze Moves On (Blather_Improvisation Number 2) R. Dafremen Feel a while The air, the sky Upon your face The breezes try To dry your cheeks Of tears you cry For gusts of wind Still don't know why You weep. For with No heart to break The wind knows not The sound you make The sobbing sound You can't contain The wind feels you You feel the pain And suffer it And make it real By dwelling on The hurt you feel Yet as the wind It won't be long Til this shall pass And you'll move on. 020215 ... . please 020611 ... god every day's a drinkin' day when yer drawin' a crazy check. 020719 ... daxle is that like going off the rails on a crazy train? 020719 ... Osinoche Poetry Poetry is an expression An Expression of the heart An Expression of the mind It represents fantasy It represents reality It is beautiful It is inane It is illogical It is impecable It is the images I put in words from my brain 030323 ... megan -a man's body -psalms -song of solomon -young girls picking daisies -playing on the railroad tracks -the state fair in the morning -riding horses -blather -love 030323 ... pipedream i can't describe the way it moves me, in any form, written or sung or spoken, whatever langugage i can understand...magic. pablo neruda, sonnet 17- dynamite, will reduce anyone to gibbering mush 030324 ... wakinglife Richie Havens: Let the river rock you like a cradle, close your fingertips and fly where I can’t hold you Let the sun rain fall and let the dewy clouds unfold you And maybe you can sing to me the words I just told you If all the things you feel ain’t what they seem Then don’t mind me ‘cause I ain’t nothing but a dream Come here where your ears cannot hear And close your ears child and listen to what I tell you Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you And the song that I am singing may deserve or serve to quell you If all the sounds you hear ain’t what they seem Then don’t mind me cause I ain’t nothing but a dream The color of your eyes are fiery bright While darkness blinds the sky with all its light Come see where your eyes cannot see And close your eyes child and look at what I’ll show you Let your mind go reeling out and let the breezes blow you Then maybe when we meet suddenly I will know you If all the things you see ain’t what they seem And you can follow 030429 ... wakin Let the river rock you like a cradle, close your fingertips and fly where I can’t hold you Let the sun rain fall and let the dewy clouds unfold you And maybe you can sing to me the words I just told you If all the things you feel ain’t what they seem Then don’t mind me ‘cause I ain’t nothing but a dream Come here where your ears cannot hear And close your ears child and listen to what I tell you Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you And the song that I am singing may deserve or serve to quell you If all the sounds you hear ain’t what they seem Then don’t mind me cause I ain’t nothing but a dream The color of your eyes are fiery bright While darkness blinds the sky with all its light Come see where your eyes cannot see And close your eyes child and look at what I’ll show you Let your mind go reeling out and let the breezes blow you Then maybe when we meet suddenly I will know you If all the things you see ain’t what they seem And you can follow (Richie Havens) 030429 ... farmer a moment in time please 030430 ... lookn for toxic_kisses 030507 ... Ella You honour the poet by reading the lines and you read till your soul is sore and you read till one day the words say something other than what you first saw. 030630 ... phil pick a topic a. b. c. d. going on for infinity 030724 ... Diabla two different eyes where givinn to me, to view the bad and good you see, i did not know that love brought pain, for with out sun light who'd know rain, but in the darkness of my day, the sun i see yet look away, when night time falls the sea is black, when i see love i'll turn my back. 030725 ... delial haiku 030725 ... joshua I don't have the intensity for it. Too loquacious really. I let big words do the work of thinking. That's why I'm stuck in a relationship that makes me unhappy and that I don't understand. Stupid boy. 030803 ... Dafremen My first book is on its way. There is finally an illustrator who can do the words justice. The goal is and has been by the end of this year. Thanks blatherskites. I wouldn't have been able to do this without you. Daf - - 030804 ... etoiles i remain firmly convinced that those who write poetry do so only because they lack the sheer mental capacity to write fiction. poets tend to hide commonplace emotions and feelings behind flowery and convoluted language; they overanalyze the most animlistic instincts within man, trying to pardon them with a sleight-of-word - make us seem like more than animals, we cry! and the poets of society happily oblige. those poor poets, down on their luck and down on their hope, pen their metaphors only because they are incapable of writing fiction. 030906 ... misstree oh, my darling etoiles, how much i want to leap upon you, how much i am willing to hold back... you say that poets are poets because they can't write fiction? have you considered that the pure savagery, the delicate filgiree that is found in poetry, has no place in fiction? fiction is movement, it is plot, it is character, whereas poetry is a moment in a bubble, a single thrust to penetrate the thoughts, stimulate the center. you think that poets try to hide the animal nature of man? then you have been reading only half of poetry; poetry plays with our vision, pulls lids wide open when we would rather sleep, lulls us to comfort with placid platitudes. i am not down on my hope *or* down on my luck, precious sweetmeat, i simply worship words too fervently to waste them on "jane said to bob," i refuse to squander them for paragraphs and paragraphs to simply carry one nugget of glowing, bloody truth. so, darling etoiles, if you believe that poets are simply lousy fiction writers, i would call you both ignorant, and useless as a poet. of course, that would be my very own opinoin. but without poetry, everything becomes long-winded and trivial. 030907 ... minnesota_chris Dear rambling etoiles: if you could write your message as poetry, I would be very impressed. But I doubt you have the talent. 030908 ... camille an ocean i love to float in 030912 ... oldephebe my God!!! misstree that was !@#%!! beautiful!! You are incredible. My heart is filled with thunder and breaking Light flowing over with the passion and glory your word have illicited..do i even do it justice in trampling upon the sacred space, the glimmering lacunae of sound, and thought you have created in me..thank you thankou WONDROUS!! t h a n k y o u!!!!! for sharing your art and saying what we all were dying to say..and yet couldn't marshall the sheer prodigies of passion poetic vision give me a canvas, give me a brush, give me paint, give me the open air and let my soul leap free.. your words really wound me all up and set me spinning, a mad shirling dervish of delight..thankyou again misstree ... 030912 ... oldephebe you so inspire me!! what if the world were bereft or exanguinated of all the celestial lights i've encountered here in blather - okay i'm calming down now.. still mean it though i'm oldephebe and i can't i can't i STILL can't !@@#$ing believe the things you incredible souls write here!!! ... umm..yeah ... 030912 ... misstree i just speak it as i feel it, darlin'. poetry is an annoying, whiny child that no one understands, to the rest of the world. i've fought all my life for my right to express myself in sideslips and metaphors, i've seen eyes go baffled or hard at the mere mention of it, i feel a trickle of guilt and a rush of pride every time i say i'm a poet. i will staunchly defend anything that has value to me, and dammit, my words are the only thing that i know (hope) will stay. you can't imagine the crazy grin that i have right now, just because you came the closest i've seen you to swearing. ;) seriously, though, thanks for the enthusiasm, it helps feed my drive to write, to send out something to other seeking souls, so said the man. 030912 ... oldephebe (sigh) again... "i feel a trickle of guilt and a rush of pride every time i say i'm a poet" 'nuff said.. ... 030912 ... calum There was a young sailor called rex Who avoided premarital sex; He thought about jesus And penile diseases And beat his meat below decks. 030912 ... freddy I am triumphant in your place, worshiping as you do the very ground, yes, the very dust surrounding the soul of God. Do not allow others to blaspheme but to praise your light and space and give us the honor to know who you really are. Provide us with the insight, the bravery, the fortitude to face that unknowing, unknowable universe of trials, pleasures, fires and blessings of this, our time on earth. And help us to surmount the impossibility of writing poetry without the access to spellcheck and a built in thesaurus. 030928 ... Eowithien Curving softly and sharply, I watch the shadows on the wall. What is that part that seems to stick out too much? Somewhat like a knife, I notice my nose That was once told it was cute. The small chin lacks the dimple on the wall That it shows with pride in real life. Curving softly and sharply, I watch my face cry on the wall, With quiet shadows slinking away From the dark masses. That sucked. Oh well, off the top of my head poetry is fun sometimes. Poetry is life, inspiration, and dreams, all thrown together into a beautiful mixing pot of metaphors and similies to describe anything and everything. 031126 ... justapoem i pull the trigger there goes the sound releasing pressure in my head here goes, yeah, i see the light a sure sign i must be dead. flashing pictures of the ones i loved and the pain and torture i served them, God only knows North or South if ill ever see them again. I only wish that God understands and for gives my horrible sin, he had to have seen the pain and torture MY poor little heart was in. 040216 ... pete take a wing try to understand the words that are never sung yet the hang there like a dead cat squng around the head one too many times until its eyes went black and its arteries exploded. words that flow words that never seem to stop coming as i wrock back and forth on this chair of mine listening to godspeed you black emperor typing the words taht come to mind with my eyes of hso closed here in my room all al one. time to tell time to take time is nothing but a slim piece of cake delet out with a moment's notice and then left to go and seen again together forever and never before yo estoy leyendo todos y nunca. siempre nunca y siempre todos. what is that you say and i hear nothing but the tapping of a thousand thoughts finding refuge in this thing we call language which creates great messes such as religion and the belief in a god that is everything but the that first beginning when hydrogen A and hydrogen B thought that it would be nice to stand by eachother and what does the bible say if not this: "in the beginning crated god" and god is but YHWH I am waht I will be How true that is and forever a lie so I guess the unasked question is answered so why don't we all lift our skinny fists like atenneas to heaven? which just means raise your arms and cheer as loud as you can because after all when the system falls we will still exists and our life will become holy, that means sacred you know and no longer will any incentimetre (the inch is truly illogical) be profane as the temple is everywhere everywhere is the temple and alone i sit here in my room listening to this song typing to you whoever takes the time or the care to read this long and rather wierd passage which some fools call poetry for no one reads poetry but a fool and it takes one to no one. 040217 ... Anonymous Beowulf by Anonymous Works PRELUDE OF THE FOUNDER OF THE DANISH HOUSE LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. Famed was this Beowulf:[1] far flew the boast of him, son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. So becomes it a youth to quit him well with his father's friends, by fee and gift, that to aid him, aged, in after days, come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds shall an earl have honor in every clan. Forth he fared at the fated moment, sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God. Then they bore him over to ocean's billow, loving clansmen, as late he charged them, while wielded words the winsome Scyld, the leader beloved who long had ruled.... In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel, ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge: there laid they down their darling lord on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,[2] by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure fetched from far was freighted with him. No ship have I known so nobly dight with weapons of war and weeds of battle, with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay a heaped hoard that hence should go far o'er the flood with him floating away. No less these loaded the lordly gifts, thanes' huge treasure, than those had done who in former time forth had sent him sole on the seas, a suckling child. High o'er his head they hoist the standard, a gold-wove banner; let billows take him, gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits, mournful their mood. No man is able to say in sooth, no son of the halls, no hero 'neath heaven, -- who harbored that freight! [1] Not, of course, Beowulf the Great, hero of the epic. [2] Kenning for king or chieftain of a comitatus: he breaks off gold from the spiral rings -- often worn on the arm -- and so rewards his followers. I Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings, leader beloved, and long he ruled in fame with all folk, since his father had gone away from the world, till awoke an heir, haughty Healfdene, who held through life, sage and sturdy, the Scyldings glad. Then, one after one, there woke to him, to the chieftain of clansmen, children four: Heorogar, then Hrothgar, then Halga brave; and I heard that -- was --'s queen, the Heathoscylfing's helpmate dear. To Hrothgar was given such glory of war, such honor of combat, that all his kin obeyed him gladly till great grew his band of youthful comrades. It came in his mind to bid his henchmen a hall uprear, a master mead-house, mightier far than ever was seen by the sons of earth, and within it, then, to old and young he would all allot that the Lord had sent him, save only the land and the lives of his men. Wide, I heard, was the work commanded, for many a tribe this mid-earth round, to fashion the folkstead. It fell, as he ordered, in rapid achievement that ready it stood there, of halls the noblest: Heorot[1] he named it whose message had might in many a land. Not reckless of promise, the rings he dealt, treasure at banquet: there towered the hall, high, gabled wide, the hot surge waiting of furious flame.[2] Nor far was that day when father and son-in-law stood in feud for warfare and hatred that woke again.[3] With envy and anger an evil spirit endured the dole in his dark abode, that he heard each day the din of revel high in the hall: there harps rang out, clear song of the singer. He sang who knew[4] tales of the early time of man, how the Almighty made the earth, fairest fields enfolded by water, set, triumphant, sun and moon for a light to lighten the land-dwellers, and braided bright the breast of earth with limbs and leaves, made life for all of mortal beings that breathe and move. So lived the clansmen in cheer and revel a winsome life, till one began to fashion evils, that field of hell. Grendel this monster grim was called, march-riever[5] mighty, in moorland living, in fen and fastness; fief of the giants the hapless wight a while had kept since the Creator his exile doomed. On kin of Cain was the killing avenged by sovran God for slaughtered Abel. Ill fared his feud,[6] and far was he driven, for the slaughter's sake, from sight of men. Of Cain awoke all that woful breed, Etins[7] and elves and evil-spirits, as well as the giants that warred with God weary while: but their wage was paid them! [1] That is, "The Hart," or "Stag," so called from decorations in the gables that resembled the antlers of a deer. This hall has been carefully described in a pamphlet by Heyne. The building was rectangular, with opposite doors -- mainly west and east -- and a hearth in the middle of the single room. A row of pillars down each side, at some distance from the walls, made a space which was raised a little above the main floor, and was furnished with two rows of seats. On one side, usually south, was the high-seat midway between the doors. Opposite this, on the other raised space, was another seat of honor. At the banquet soon to be described, Hrothgar sat in the south or chief high-seat, and Beowulf oppo- site to him. The scene for a flying (see below, v.499) was thus very effectively set. Planks on trestles -- the "board" of later English litera- ture -- formed the tables just in front of the long rows of seats, and were taken away after banquets, when the retainers were ready to stretch them- selves out for sleep on the benches. [2] Fire was the usual end of these halls. See v. 781 below. One thinks of the splendid scene at the end of the Nibelungen, of the Nialssaga, of Saxo's story of Amlethus, and many a less famous instance. [3] It is to be supposed that all hearers of this poem knew how Hrothgar's hall was burnt, -- perhaps in the unsuccessful attack made on him by his son-in-law Ingeld. [4] A skilled minstrel. The Danes are heathens, as one is told presently; but this lay of beginnings is taken from Genesis. [5] A disturber of the border, one who sallies from his haunt in the fen and roams over the country near by. This probably pagan nuisance is now furnished with biblical credentials as a fiend or devil in good standing, so that all Christian Englishmen might read about him. "Grendel" may mean one who grinds and crushes. [6] Cain's. [7] Giants. II WENT he forth to find at fall of night that haughty house, and heed wherever the Ring-Danes, outrevelled, to rest had gone. Found within it the atheling band asleep after feasting and fearless of sorrow, of human hardship. Unhallowed wight, grim and greedy, he grasped betimes, wrathful, reckless, from resting-places, thirty of the thanes, and thence he rushed fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward, laden with slaughter, his lair to seek. Then at the dawning, as day was breaking, the might of Grendel to men was known; then after wassail was wail uplifted, loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief, atheling excellent, unblithe sat, labored in woe for the loss of his thanes, when once had been traced the trail of the fiend, spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow, too long, too loathsome. Not late the respite; with night returning, anew began ruthless murder; he recked no whit, firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime. They were easy to find who elsewhere sought in room remote their rest at night, bed in the bowers,[1] when that bale was shown, was seen in sooth, with surest token, -- the hall-thane's[2] hate. Such held themselves far and fast who the fiend outran! Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill one against all; until empty stood that lordly building, and long it bode so. Twelve years' tide the trouble he bore, sovran of Scyldings, sorrows in plenty, boundless cares. There came unhidden tidings true to the tribes of men, in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly Grendel harassed Hrothgar, what hate he bore him, what murder and massacre, many a year, feud unfading, -- refused consent to deal with any of Daneland's earls, make pact of peace, or compound for gold: still less did the wise men ween to get great fee for the feud from his fiendish hands. But the evil one ambushed old and young death-shadow dark, and dogged them still, lured, or lurked in the livelong night of misty moorlands: men may say not where the haunts of these Hell-Runes[3] be. Such heaping of horrors the hater of men, lonely roamer, wrought unceasing, harassings heavy. O'er Heorot he lorded, gold-bright hall, in gloomy nights; and ne'er could the prince[4] approach his throne, -- 'twas judgment of God, -- or have joy in his hall. Sore was the sorrow to Scyldings'-friend, heart-rending misery. Many nobles sat assembled, and searched out counsel how it were best for bold-hearted men against harassing terror to try their hand. Whiles they vowed in their heathen fanes altar-offerings, asked with words[5] that the slayer-of-souls would succor give them for the pain of their people. Their practice this, their heathen hope; 'twas Hell they thought of in mood of their mind. Almighty they knew not, Doomsman of Deeds and dreadful Lord, nor Heaven's-Helmet heeded they ever, Wielder-of-Wonder. -- Woe for that man who in harm and hatred hales his soul to fiery embraces; -- nor favor nor change awaits he ever. But well for him that after death-day may draw to his Lord, and friendship find in the Father's arms! [1] The smaller buildings within the main enclosure but separate from the hall. [2] Grendel. [3] "Sorcerers-of-hell." [4] Hrothgar, who is the "Scyldings'-friend" of 170. [5] That is, in formal or prescribed phrase. III THUS seethed unceasing the son of Healfdene with the woe of these days; not wisest men assuaged his sorrow; too sore the anguish, loathly and long, that lay on his folk, most baneful of burdens and bales of the night. This heard in his home Hygelac's thane, great among Geats, of Grendel's doings. He was the mightiest man of valor in that same day of this our life, stalwart and stately. A stout wave-walker he bade make ready. Yon battle-king, said he, far o'er the swan-road he fain would seek, the noble monarch who needed men! The prince's journey by prudent folk was little blamed, though they loved him dear; they whetted the hero, and hailed good omens. And now the bold one from bands of Geats comrades chose, the keenest of warriors e'er he could find; with fourteen men the sea-wood[1] he sought, and, sailor proved, led them on to the land's confines. Time had now flown;[2] afloat was the ship, boat under bluff. On board they climbed, warriors ready; waves were churning sea with sand; the sailors bore on the breast of the bark their bright array, their mail and weapons: the men pushed off, on its willing way, the well-braced craft. Then moved o'er the waters by might of the wind that bark like a bird with breast of foam, till in season due, on the second day, the curved prow such course had run that sailors now could see the land, sea-cliffs shining, steep high hills, headlands broad. Their haven was found, their journey ended. Up then quickly the Weders'[3] clansmen climbed ashore, anchored their sea-wood, with armor clashing and gear of battle: God they thanked for passing in peace o'er the paths of the sea. Now saw from the cliff a Scylding clansman, a warden that watched the water-side, how they bore o'er the gangway glittering shields, war-gear in readiness; wonder seized him to know what manner of men they were. Straight to the strand his steed he rode, Hrothgar's henchman; with hand of might he shook his spear, and spake in parley. "Who are ye, then, ye armed men, mailed folk, that yon mighty vessel have urged thus over the ocean ways, here o'er the waters? A warden I, sentinel set o'er the sea-march here, lest any foe to the folk of Danes with harrying fleet should harm the land. No aliens ever at ease thus bore them, linden-wielders:[4] yet word-of-leave clearly ye lack from clansmen here, my folk's agreement. -- A greater ne'er saw I of warriors in world than is one of you, -- yon hero in harness! No henchman he worthied by weapons, if witness his features, his peerless presence! I pray you, though, tell your folk and home, lest hence ye fare suspect to wander your way as spies in Danish land. Now, dwellers afar, ocean-travellers, take from me simple advice: the sooner the better I hear of the country whence ye came." [1] Ship. [2] That is, since Beowulf selected his ship and led his men to the harbor. [3] One of the auxiliary names of the Geats. [4] Or: Not thus openly ever came warriors hither; yet... IV To him the stateliest spake in answer; the warriors' leader his word-hoard unlocked:-- "We are by kin of the clan of Geats, and Hygelac's own hearth-fellows we. To folk afar was my father known, noble atheling, Ecgtheow named. Full of winters, he fared away aged from earth; he is honored still through width of the world by wise men all. To thy lord and liege in loyal mood we hasten hither, to Healfdene's son, people-protector: be pleased to advise us! To that mighty-one come we on mickle errand, to the lord of the Danes; nor deem I right that aught be hidden. We hear -- thou knowest if sooth it is -- the saying of men, that amid the Scyldings a scathing monster, dark ill-doer, in dusky nights shows terrific his rage unmatched, hatred and murder. To Hrothgar I in greatness of soul would succor bring, so the Wise-and-Brave[1] may worst his foes, -- if ever the end of ills is fated, of cruel contest, if cure shall follow, and the boiling care-waves cooler grow; else ever afterward anguish-days he shall suffer in sorrow while stands in place high on its hill that house unpeered!" Astride his steed, the strand-ward answered, clansman unquailing: "The keen-souled thane must be skilled to sever and sunder duly words and works, if he well intends. I gather, this band is graciously bent to the Scyldings' master. March, then, bearing weapons and weeds the way I show you. I will bid my men your boat meanwhile to guard for fear lest foemen come, -- your new-tarred ship by shore of ocean faithfully watching till once again it waft o'er the waters those well-loved thanes, -- winding-neck'd wood, -- to Weders' bounds, heroes such as the hest of fate shall succor and save from the shock of war." They bent them to march, -- the boat lay still, fettered by cable and fast at anchor, broad-bosomed ship. -- Then shone the boars[2] over the cheek-guard; chased with gold, keen and gleaming, guard it kept o'er the man of war, as marched along heroes in haste, till the hall they saw, broad of gable and bright with gold: that was the fairest, 'mid folk of earth, of houses 'neath heaven, where Hrothgar lived, and the gleam of it lightened o'er lands afar. The sturdy shieldsman showed that bright burg-of-the-boldest; bade them go straightway thither; his steed then turned, hardy hero, and hailed them thus:-- "Tis time that I fare from you. Father Almighty in grace and mercy guard you well, safe in your seekings. Seaward I go, 'gainst hostile warriors hold my watch." [1] Hrothgar. [2] Beowulf's helmet has several boar-images on it; he is the "man of war"; and the boar-helmet guards him as typical representative of the marching party as a whole. The boar was sacred to Freyr, who was the favorite god of the Germanic tribes about the North Sea and the Baltic. Rude representations of warriors show the boar on the helmet quite as large as the helmet itself. V STONE-BRIGHT the street:[1] it showed the way to the crowd of clansmen. Corselets glistened hand-forged, hard; on their harness bright the steel ring sang, as they strode along in mail of battle, and marched to the hall. There, weary of ocean, the wall along they set their bucklers, their broad shields, down, and bowed them to bench: the breastplates clanged, war-gear of men; their weapons stacked, spears of the seafarers stood together, gray-tipped ash: that iron band was worthily weaponed! -- A warrior proud asked of the heroes their home and kin. "Whence, now, bear ye burnished shields, harness gray and helmets grim, spears in multitude? Messenger, I, Hrothgar's herald! Heroes so many ne'er met I as strangers of mood so strong. 'Tis plain that for prowess, not plunged into exile, for high-hearted valor, Hrothgar ye seek!" Him the sturdy-in-war bespake with words, proud earl of the Weders answer made, hardy 'neath helmet:--"Hygelac's, we, fellows at board; I am Beowulf named. I am seeking to say to the son of Healfdene this mission of mine, to thy master-lord, the doughty prince, if he deign at all grace that we greet him, the good one, now." Wulfgar spake, the Wendles' chieftain, whose might of mind to many was known, his courage and counsel: "The king of Danes, the Scyldings' friend, I fain will tell, the Breaker-of-Rings, as the boon thou askest, the famed prince, of thy faring hither, and, swiftly after, such answer bring as the doughty monarch may deign to give." Hied then in haste to where Hrothgar sat white-haired and old, his earls about him, till the stout thane stood at the shoulder there of the Danish king: good courtier he! Wulfgar spake to his winsome lord:-- "Hither have fared to thee far-come men o'er the paths of ocean, people of Geatland; and the stateliest there by his sturdy band is Beowulf named. This boon they seek, that they, my master, may with thee have speech at will: nor spurn their prayer to give them hearing, gracious Hrothgar! In weeds of the warrior worthy they, methinks, of our liking; their leader most surely, a hero that hither his henchmen has led." [1] Either merely paved, the strata via of the Romans, or else thought of as a sort of mosaic, an extravagant touch like the reckless waste of gold on the walls and roofs of a hall. VI HROTHGAR answered, helmet of Scyldings:-- "I knew him of yore in his youthful days; his aged father was Ecgtheow named, to whom, at home, gave Hrethel the Geat his only daughter. Their offspring bold fares hither to seek the steadfast friend. And seamen, too, have said me this, -- who carried my gifts to the Geatish court, thither for thanks, -- he has thirty men's heft of grasp in the gripe of his hand, the bold-in-battle. Blessed God out of his mercy this man hath sent to Danes of the West, as I ween indeed, against horror of Grendel. I hope to give the good youth gold for his gallant thought. Be thou in haste, and bid them hither, clan of kinsmen, to come before me; and add this word, -- they are welcome guests to folk of the Danes." [To the door of the hall Wulfgar went] and the word declared:-- "To you this message my master sends, East-Danes' king, that your kin he knows, hardy heroes, and hails you all welcome hither o'er waves of the sea! Ye may wend your way in war-attire, and under helmets Hrothgar greet; but let here the battle-shields bide your parley, and wooden war-shafts wait its end." Uprose the mighty one, ringed with his men, brave band of thanes: some bode without, battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief. Then hied that troop where the herald led them, under Heorot's roof: [the hero strode,] hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared. Beowulf spake, -- his breastplate gleamed, war-net woven by wit of the smith:-- "Thou Hrothgar, hail! Hygelac's I, kinsman and follower. Fame a plenty have I gained in youth! These Grendel-deeds I heard in my home-land heralded clear. Seafarers say how stands this hall, of buildings best, for your band of thanes empty and idle, when evening sun in the harbor of heaven is hidden away. So my vassals advised me well, -- brave and wise, the best of men, -- O sovran Hrothgar, to seek thee here, for my nerve and my might they knew full well. Themselves had seen me from slaughter come blood-flecked from foes, where five I bound, and that wild brood worsted. I' the waves I slew nicors[1] by night, in need and peril avenging the Weders,[2] whose woe they sought, -- crushing the grim ones. Grendel now, monster cruel, be mine to quell in single battle! So, from thee, thou sovran of the Shining-Danes, Scyldings'-bulwark, a boon I seek, -- and, Friend-of-the-folk, refuse it not, O Warriors'-shield, now I've wandered far, -- that I alone with my liegemen here, this hardy band, may Heorot purge! More I hear, that the monster dire, in his wanton mood, of weapons recks not; hence shall I scorn -- so Hygelac stay, king of my kindred, kind to me! -- brand or buckler to bear in the fight, gold-colored targe: but with gripe alone must I front the fiend and fight for life, foe against foe. Then faith be his in the doom of the Lord whom death shall take. Fain, I ween, if the fight he win, in this hall of gold my Geatish band will he fearless eat, -- as oft before, -- my noblest thanes. Nor need'st thou then to hide my head;[3] for his shall I be, dyed in gore, if death must take me; and my blood-covered body he'll bear as prey, ruthless devour it, the roamer-lonely, with my life-blood redden his lair in the fen: no further for me need'st food prepare! To Hygelac send, if Hild[4] should take me, best of war-weeds, warding my breast, armor excellent, heirloom of Hrethel and work of Wayland.[5] Fares Wyrd[6] as she must." [1] The nicor, says Bugge, is a hippopotamus; a walrus, says ten Brink. But that water-goblin who covers the space from Old Nick of jest to the Neckan and Nix of poetry and tale, is all one needs, and Nicor is a good name for him. [2] His own people, the Geats. [3] That is, cover it as with a face-cloth. "There will be no need of funeral rites." [4] Personification of Battle. [5] The Germanic Vulcan. [6] This mighty power, whom the Christian poet can still revere, has here the general force of "Destiny." VII HROTHGAR spake, the Scyldings'-helmet:-- "For fight defensive, Friend my Beowulf, to succor and save, thou hast sought us here. Thy father's combat[1] a feud enkindled when Heatholaf with hand he slew among the Wylfings; his Weder kin for horror of fighting feared to hold him. Fleeing, he sought our South-Dane folk, over surge of ocean the Honor-Scyldings, when first I was ruling the folk of Danes, wielded, youthful, this widespread realm, this hoard-hold of heroes. Heorogar was dead, my elder brother, had breathed his last, Healfdene's bairn: he was better than I! Straightway the feud with fee[2] I settled, to the Wylfings sent, o'er watery ridges, treasures olden: oaths he[3] swore me. Sore is my soul to say to any of the race of man what ruth for me in Heorot Grendel with hate hath wrought, what sudden harryings. Hall-folk fail me, my warriors wane; for Wyrd hath swept them into Grendel's grasp. But God is able this deadly foe from his deeds to turn! Boasted full oft, as my beer they drank, earls o'er the ale-cup, armed men, that they would bide in the beer-hall here, Grendel's attack with terror of blades. Then was this mead-house at morning tide dyed with gore, when the daylight broke, all the boards of the benches blood-besprinkled, gory the hall: I had heroes the less, doughty dear-ones that death had reft. -- But sit to the banquet, unbind thy words, hardy hero, as heart shall prompt thee." Gathered together, the Geatish men in the banquet-hall on bench assigned, sturdy-spirited, sat them down, hardy-hearted. A henchman attended, carried the carven cup in hand, served the clear mead. Oft minstrels sang blithe in Heorot. Heroes revelled, no dearth of warriors, Weder and Dane. [1] There is no irrelevance here. Hrothgar sees in Beowulf's mission a heritage of duty, a return of the good offices which the Danish king ren- dered to Beowulf's father in time of dire need. [2] Money, for wergild, or man-price. [3] Ecgtheow, Beowulf's sire. VIII UNFERTH spake, the son of Ecglaf, who sat at the feet of the Scyldings' lord, unbound the battle-runes.[1] -- Beowulf's quest, sturdy seafarer's, sorely galled him; ever he envied that other men should more achieve in middle-earth of fame under heaven than he himself. -- "Art thou that Beowulf, Breca's rival, who emulous swam on the open sea, when for pride the pair of you proved the floods, and wantonly dared in waters deep to risk your lives? No living man, or lief or loath, from your labor dire could you dissuade, from swimming the main. Ocean-tides with your arms ye covered, with strenuous hands the sea-streets measured, swam o'er the waters. Winter's storm rolled the rough waves. In realm of sea a sennight strove ye. In swimming he topped thee, had more of main! Him at morning-tide billows bore to the Battling Reamas, whence he hied to his home so dear beloved of his liegemen, to land of Brondings, fastness fair, where his folk he ruled, town and treasure. In triumph o'er thee Beanstan's bairn[2] his boast achieved. So ween I for thee a worse adventure -- though in buffet of battle thou brave hast been, in struggle grim, -- if Grendel's approach thou darst await through the watch of night!" Beowulf spake, bairn of Ecgtheow:-- "What a deal hast uttered, dear my Unferth, drunken with beer, of Breca now, told of his triumph! Truth I claim it, that I had more of might in the sea than any man else, more ocean-endurance. We twain had talked, in time of youth, and made our boast, -- we were merely boys, striplings still, -- to stake our lives far at sea: and so we performed it. Naked swords, as we swam along, we held in hand, with hope to guard us against the whales. Not a whit from me could he float afar o'er the flood of waves, haste o'er the billows; nor him I abandoned. Together we twain on the tides abode five nights full till the flood divided us, churning waves and chillest weather, darkling night, and the northern wind ruthless rushed on us: rough was the surge. Now the wrath of the sea-fish rose apace; yet me 'gainst the monsters my mailed coat, hard and hand-linked, help afforded, -- battle-sark braided my breast to ward, garnished with gold. There grasped me firm and haled me to bottom the hated foe, with grimmest gripe. 'Twas granted me, though, to pierce the monster with point of sword, with blade of battle: huge beast of the sea was whelmed by the hurly through hand of mine. [1] "Began the fight." [2] Breca. IX ME thus often the evil monsters thronging threatened. With thrust of my sword, the darling, I dealt them due return! Nowise had they bliss from their booty then to devour their victim, vengeful creatures, seated to banquet at bottom of sea; but at break of day, by my brand sore hurt, on the edge of ocean up