Poetic Heathenry – Vǫlospá

I want to talk about poetry. Every Heathen knows the importance of poetry to the reconstruction of our religion; Eddic and skaldic verse from Scandinavia, as well as the charm-verses and epic poetry of the West Germanic literatures provide a wealth of material that shapes our understanding of what Germanic religion was, guiding us to an experience of it today. These poems are rightly valued for the lore that can be gleaned from them.


However, our ancestors did not experience these poems solely as chunks of religious, historical, or otherwise cultural information, but also – even primarily – as art. Specifically, in a primarily oral culture, they experienced these poems aurally; their internal structures, their rhythms, their assonances (primarily – but not exclusively – alliteration), gives each of these works of art its own character and texture beyond the meaning of the words. And that doesn’t even cover elements of performance such as whether the poems were declaimed, chanted, or sung, nor what melodies they might have had if sung – this is a somewhat debated topic that I want to go into in a later post.


So, having had a great desire to understand these works of art from a more originary point of view, I began to study everything I could find on the Germanic poetic tradition, as well as the wider Indo-European poetic tradition in which it occurs; I then studied what I could find on the pronunciation of early Germanic languages, and began to memorize poetry. I am still working on this project, but I feel that it is time to share some of what I have gained, including recordings of early Germanic poetry in the pronunciation that is as close as careful linguistic reconstruction can get to the sound of these languages at the time of the composition of the poems. So, two things remain to be said:


A Note on Pronunciation: I have based my pronunciation in each of the works in this series on that reconstructed in Early Germanic Grammar by Joseph Voyles. For Old Norse mythological poetry for instance, I am assuming a pronunciation of around 1000 CE, when the shift of /w/ to /v/ had not yet occurred; when long vowels had nasal variants for historical reasons; and when the consonants /l/, /r/, /m/, and /n/ had voiceless variants for other historical reasons. The occurrence of nasal vowels and voiceless sonorant consonants is an important aspect of spoken Old Norse that is not, however, reflected in the writing system (except for oral ár and nasal áss in the Younger Futhark). For instance, the word spelled hár has four different pronunciations, each with it’s own meaning:
/ha:r/ “hair”
/ha:ṛ/ “high”
/hã:r/ “tholing pin”
/hã:ṛ/ “shark”

A Note on Text: Some of these poems have more than one version. Many Eddic poems, for instance, occur both in the Hauksbók manuscript as well as in the Codex Regius manuscript; these versions can vary quite a bit, much as one might expect from poems in an oral tradition. Rather than trying to parse between the versions and come up with an Urtext, I take an additive approach: I don’t want to leave anything from any version out, and therefore I include it all. I think of this as an “Oral Omnibus” approach.


So, what follows is a recording of the Vǫlospá, performed in a declamative, sometimes chanting style. I encourage you to seclude yourself somewhere without other distractions, and just listen to the sounds of the Old Norse language, woven deftly together by a master skald more than a thousand years ago.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

Analysis (to be read after listening)

An important part of oral poetry is the use of repeated phrases or structures to link different parts of the poem; this gives the poem an internal structure. It seems that there are two kinds of repetition at work in the Vǫlospá: the first is a repetition of particular half-lines, full lines, or full strophes, such as:

Þá gengo regin ǫll· á rǫkstóla ginnheilǫg goð· ok um þat gættusk

or:

… vitoð ér enn eða hvat?

or:

Geyr (nú) Garmr mjǫk· fyr Gnipahelli, etc.

or:

Þá kømr…

This kind of repetition seems to have the purpose of cueing the listener to the section of the poem that they are listening to: the strophes beginning with “Þá gengo regin ǫll” do not overlap those ending with “vitoð ér enn eða hvat?”, for instance. These seem to be two distinct sections, the latter of which has a subsection within it: the series of strophes set off by repetition of the strophe beginning “Geyr (nú) Garmr mjǫk…”. So, we might see the first section as a recounting of what has happened up to the moment of Óðinn questioning the vǫlva, and the second section as being her predictions of what is to come, with a subset of that – Ragnarǫk – being intensely highlighted by the triple repetition of an entire strophe at the beginning, middle, and end of that section. The strophes beginning with “Þá kømr” seem to begin with the response of the gods to the events of Ragnarǫk, and extend past the end of the world to what happens after.

The second use of repetition seems to be used to draw parallels between specific strophes far distant from each other in the poem, as though to provide a sense of symmetry between earlier and later events. One subtle example is that both of the main sections mentioned above begin with a mention of Heimdallr and hljóðr, which latter term means “listening, hearing” (something for which Heimdallr was renowned) or even “silence”, presumably silence for the purpose of listening:

Hljóðs bið ek allar· helgar kindir meiri ok minni· mǫgo Heimdallar

and:

Veit hon Heimdallar· hljóð um folgit

Other examples are the parallels between the strophes beginning:

Þá kná Vála· vígbǫnd snúa…

and:

Þá kná Hœnir· hlautvið kjósa…

As well as between the strophes beginning:

Sal sá hon standa· sólo fjarri…

and:

Sal sá hon standa· sólo fegra…

So, we learn something about the craft of poetry from this analysis, over and above the skillful use of alliteration and meter that is on display. We also learn that periodic repetition of parts of verse, from phrases to strophes, can signal the existence of a sub-unit within a longer poem, parallel to how a musical phrase can define a movement in a piece of classical music. Similarly, specific combinations of words, or phrases within a line can set up parallels between verses in different sections, as indications of symmetry. A further study of early Germanic poetry will doubtlessly reveal new depths to the art of poetry, which I hope will inspire scops and skalds to come.

For Fôsite

Ik êdilena hebbe· aldsedzen hêred

thet fîand hêde twelef· farande setted

stiûrelâse on strâme· stallâse wêron

waterlâse on wêge· wêpherta bisetten

hopelâse on heve· herdtholiande.

Trâst in nêde· trachtadon swîthe

himelward stemma· hebbande semin.

Hwâ was thet god· hwâ hêrede thâm

the glîsandere egge· goldbrechtere mith

stiôrede stevene· stêdigum werthe

hêligum lande· and hove axa

hwēr Êsa wei· âsega bistôpen?

Hwâ godum under· glîande wêpne

thene huvel thanna hiû· hlemme swēra

â ondbindand· and êwen riucht

water lîvendich· wîdere erthe?

Lêsede hî lâre· lêrede bi walla

thet webb warlda· wordum timbrand

alderlâs werde· endelâse burna.

Âsegena êrist· êsa on himile

Fôsite formêst· felefiâ hêra

stilla strîda· stalle frâna

fram glîsanda sele· on goda felde

hleste ûs bilêf· hlûdere sunder bêre

lâre ûs lêr· lerninge erken

diâpeweven têknar· dâgolere wesinge

fêitha undertiuch· and fîanda hat

minrere nîtha· mêre stiôra

sôth ûs in swîge· swîklâse retha

fêra ûs wale· thet finden wî riucht

and alle unriuchte thing· âmmêr formîthen

Balderes bern· brecht riuchtere

thû nêdtriûwe· and Nêtha mâch

holda Hâga· hêliges blôdes

sâ mei â walla· êwalange.

Translation:

I have heard the ancient tales of ancestors

that an enemy had set twelve adrift –

rudderless on the current, they were steadless;

waterless on the wave, they owned weeping hearts,

hopeless on the sea, hard-suffering.

They eagerly desired help in hardship,

heavenwards lifting voices together.

Who was the god who heard them,

who with gold-bright, gleaming edge

steered the stem to a steady island,

to a holy land and the court of the axe

where law-speakers trod the path of the gods?

Who among gods with the glowing weapon

hewed the hill with a heavy blow,

releasing water and eternal law,

living water from wide earth?

He loosed lore, he taught by the well,

the weave of worlds into words building,

ageless truth at endless wellspring.

First of lawspeakers of the gods in heaven,

Fôsite foremost, many-cattled lord

stiller of strifes, firm judge

from glistening hall on the gods’ field

grant us a hearing apart from the loud uproar,

teach us lore, pure learning,

deep-woven tokens of secret being,

feuds quieten and foes’ hate

diminisher of enmity, glorious steersman

in silence tell us truth that does not forsake,

lead us well so that we may find right,

and always avoid all unright things

bold one’s child, bright judge,

thou true-in-need and keen one’s boy,

kinsman of the High One’s holy blood,

so may law well up for long ages!

A Wedding Song

In honor of Shane and Anna Ricks, two incredible people who absolutely belong together, and whose wedding was one of the best and most wonderful I have ever attended.

Þás wordrím mínne· wel geheorcna
bore gedéfe· Brósinga goldes
Holde ic singe· heortes sóðe
Fríge fægerost· fréocwén heofones.

Hwæðer on feorran· Felascíene hlýstest
hwæðer be neahha· Néomiende híerest
oþþe áhwǽr on eorðan· oþþe upheofone
Giefende geunne· gíedwillan úrne.

Þec mágena ond mǽgða· métunga gladiaþ
þec wera ond wífa· weddunga gladiaþ
þec bearn gladiaþ· beorðor gesynde.

Glædnessa ágief þú· þissum gódum twá
hǽl ond hǽlþo· ond heorþ trumne
welnesse ond weorþ· ond wǽrtréowe
líf ond lufusǽl· lang géar ætsamne
ond cildsǽlðe· for cynnéacan.

Þú blíðmód gyden· úrne gebéd unne
síen þás wermann Shane· ond þís wíf Anna
be þínum willan ond welan· geweddod sóðe.

Fríge fægerost· fréocwén heofones
Beorhte ic telle· breostcofan tréowðe
þú wísfæste ides· Wédnes þéoda
þás wordrím mínne· wel geheorcna.

Translation:


Listen well to this worn-rhyme of mine,
kind bearer of the Brósings' gold;
Gracious One, I sing heart's sooth,
Fríge fairest, noble queen of heaven.

Whether from afar, Greatly-Beautiful, thou listest,
whether nearby, Sweet-Sounding, thou hearest,
or anywhere on earth or up-heaven,
Giving One, grant our song-will.

Meetings of youths and maids gladden thee,
weddings of men and wives gladden thee,
sound births of children gladden thee.

Gladness give thou to these good two,
luck and health and a firm hearth,
wellness and honor and pledge-troth,
life and love-blessing, long years together,
and child-blessing for the increase of kin.

Thou blithe-mooded goddess, grant our prayer,
may this man Shane and this woman Anna
by thy will and weal be wedded truly.

Fríge fairest, noble queen of heaven,
Bright One, I tell breast-cove's truth;
thou firmly-wise lady of Wóden's tribes,
listen well to this word-rhyme of mine.
Weddunge Sang – “Wedding Song”

Blood & Fire

(originally published on Ordgeþanc, on 5/26/2014)

Modernity makes much of the revolutionary. Modern nations have been founded upon revolutionary wars, and the concept of revolution continues to supply an aesthetic ideal for youth, a heady mixture of equal parts anger and hope. One suspects that, in the West, this desire for revolution is the desire to make real the mythos of the Day of Judgement, to bring the desired terminus and dealing of justice upon the unrighteous.

Experience recommends caution.

The ethic of the revolution is the ethic of the avalanche, or better still, of the forest fire. It is the ethic that sets off vast destructive forces with their own patterns of being and movement that do not pay heed to men. The revolutionary raises voice and hand against the old and, to his mind, the corrupt; some forests need the fire, and are better afterwards for it. Revolutions feed themselves, though, and are rarely sated by the achievement of their initial aims: the revolution is never complete enough, never successful enough, but must be furthered and protected from “reactionary” tendencies. Thus, the revolutionary ethic sees any growth, any striving upward as a thing to be put down, as an invitation to the flame. All must be burned for the revolution, all cleansed by fire, over and over again in more violent and frequent conflagrations until all is reduced to equality in the democracy of ashes.

For those of us seeking to rebuild after centuries, millenia of destruction, I think the better ethos to follow is that of the forester: to find a place to defend against revolutions, wherein to allow growth, development, the burgeoning complexity that abides in healthy, living systems, be they ecologies or religions; to plant one’s deeds carefully and patiently, seeding what one wants to have flourish generations and centuries on. This must be long, patient work; what grows quickly does not stand long, and the sturdiest things grow the slowest.