I didn't really see a section for sharing our own creative projects, so I thought this might be the best place.
The following poem combines a number of intellectual interests I have. For one, I practice a number of Germanic languages in my free time, and I'm fascinated both by archaic English words that are cognate with German vocabulary and with the poetry of Germanic idiom. For example, when you say you are worried about someone in German, you literally say, "I make myself sorrows around thee." There is such a thing as Anglish, the project to reconstruct what English might have been without the Norman invasion infusing our language with words of French origin. The poem is written with that kind of linguistic project in mind. The title, "The Swighsome Heath," would be translated into modern speech as, "The Silent Plain."
Second, as I'll explain in a postscript, the genre of the story being told is very much in the tradition of Beowulf and 12th-century German troubadours. The Beowulf influence enters through the motif of demon-slaying, but the troubadours would often not only recount their unrequited love but get very specific as to the insult the lady hurled at them as they scrambled out the door. We have that going on here, mixed with the ethics of St. John Climacus.
Anyways, below I'm giving the raw form of the poem, but with a gloss below each line so that you can follow in spite of the unfamiliar words:
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THE SWIGHSOME HEATH
written 05/04/2025
In northern waste doth wend a rider swart,
In the wastes of the North there travels a black knight,
His onely friend a knape who know’th no thild.
His sole ally a squire who has no sense of patience.
Together fare they ‘long the bane athwart
Together they travel along the highway that runs perpendicular
The strand, t’ward frosty farm and grazeland chill’d.
To the beach; they ride toward frosty farms and frozen grasslands
Forebann’d is he, that grizzl’d Northman-knight.
The grizzled Nordic knight has been banished.
His landgravine hath cast him out with scorn.
His countess has cast him out with scorn.
For healdrink had he promised ‘gainst her blight,
For he'd promised her an elixir to heal her illness,
And she beworth’d it poison simon-sworn.
And she judged it be a bribe of poison.
Cried she, “ ‘Tis wifegeld, nothing less, thou knave!
She exclaimed, "This is nothing less than a bride price, you scoundrel!
Now get thee hence for once and all due tide!”
Now get out of here once and for all!"
Yet horseman swied, and answer none he gave,
But the knight was silent and didn't argue,
But rather fetch’d he squire and forth set ride.
And instead he fetched his squire and set out on a ride.
That squire, that knape, he now doth yammer stead:
That squire is now whining continually,
“Wherefore did ye, mine auldy sire, not plead?
"Why, Sir Knight, didn't you beg her to see reason?
Why left we home? Why swied ye so and fled?
Why did we leave our home? Why didn't you say something? Why did we run away?
Are ye not mansome knight? Withspeak her screed!”
This isn't very manly of you. Refute her slander!"
That winter heath is deck’d with hoary snow,
That winter plain is convered with white snow,
And hoof doth crunch as path the steed doth stride,
And the horses crunch in the snow as they walk,
Yet word doth not that athel-man bestow.
Yet that nobleman does not answer a word.
He hath no heart the knape, so rude, to chide.
He doesn't have the heart to chew out the squire.
In heath where Erica so sheen doth grow,
In the plain where heather grows so beautifully,
There bloom up also devils frightsome vile.
There also flower up demons most fearsome and evil.
From borough on to borough knight doth go
From fortified town to fortified town the knight goes
And wage campaign against their woeful guile.
And wages a war against their dreadful trickery.
The boors do think to thank him now and then
The farmers do think to thank him now and then
As into elves and mares his sword doth sink.
As he plunges his sword into Norse demons.
The knape, unripe, complaineth yet again,
The squire, so baby-faced, complains yet again,
“Our landgravine still needeth healsome drink!”
"The countess still needs that healing elixir!"
And ever yet knight’s speech in throat doth drown.
And on and on the knight's voice catches in his throat.
And ever yet he halteth striving tongue.
And on and on the knight holds his tongue.
The loff he earn’th from ev’ry stuff’ring town,
The praise he harvests from every suffering town,
He answ’reth not with even puff of lung.
He doesn't even acknowledge with a single breath.
So years do slowly pass and on break’th roo
So years slowly roll on by and a peace descends
Wide over swighsome landship in the North.
Broadly across that silent county in the North.
“Bedev’ling trolls and lindworms all he slew!”
"He slew the trolls and dragons that haunted us!"
The bards do sing and tell of rider swarth.
The minstrels sing and tell regarding the black knight.
In twenty tearful winters ne’er hath come
In twenty tearful winters he never received
A bodeship from beloved landgravine.
Any message from his beloved countess.
Though sound and whole become, beliv’th she dumb.
Though she regained her health, he keeps quiet.
Like heather, waxeth silence evergreen.
Like the flower heather, silence grows evergreen.
In all those toneless seasons knight did fly
In all those noiseless seasons the knight flew
The banner of his trothéd lady dear.
The flag of the great lady to whom he'd pledged himself.
Then cometh endly tide for knight to die,
Then finally the time comes for the knight to die,
And at his bed com’th devil black to sneer.
And at his bed comes a dark demon to taunt him.
“She cast thee out and curs’d thee, swarthy thain!
"She threw you out and cursed you out, you blackish slave!
Now skimp her loathsome name forevermore!
Now insult her insufferable name for eternity!
She never saw that thou didst not seek gain!
She never saw that you didn't want anything from her!
Give now thy gladsome word to thankful boor!”
Now give a joyful message to the farmers, who always thanked you!"
Then quoth the knight, “Ye knape, your lips do seal,
Then the knight said, "Squire, shut your mouth,
And learn ye well this truth I’ve never spoke:
And take care to learn something I never told you before:
‘A pool and not a flux of mouth doth heal.’
'Your mouth heals when it is like a still pool rather than a rushing river.'
Now salt ye heath with service t’ward her folk.”
Now, like seasoning to food, pepper this land with service toward the countess' people."
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There is a dynamic in the raw form that doesn't come across in my gloss. In medieval times, "Ye/you" was reserved for someone of higher station than yourself, whereas you used "thou/thee" with someone of lower station. At the beginning of the poem, we see this reflected in the respectful way the squire addresses the knight, in contrast with the disdainful way the countess addresses him. But by the end of the poem, the squire has grown so frustrated that he insults the knight by using "thou." Yet the knight, ever meek and forgiving, returns this with an address to the squire as "ye."
