Forgotten Ground Regained

Journey to the West

From the Old Norse Vestrfaravisur
Ship of speech, word-wave, sails westward, and I, speaking, hold hard to wind's unfolding across air's parchment, writing.
Lord and lackeys murmur and mill and I, outside, stoop and supplicate, seek king's councillors, crave access and audience, a prince who pays for tongue's treasure, mind's unfolding, richly wrapped in iron rings.
Earl's of earth's serpent spend safety, scorn stability, senses stripped; proud proclaimers, power-drunk, cast kings' cares to the wind's casket. let wariors wait hard on heath; hope under heaven favors flight.
Broad battles rage bitter, brave lords drain heart's mead, unstinting drink the wine of ravens, speak soft words, plough hard rows.
Mine is the gift of gold, speaking strong lines, yours is steel, a sharp sword, a worthy weapon. A wise warrior weighs God's words.
Wind's servant, across the shifting hills, I return, richer in words and welcomes, giving gifts undiminished, gaining grace of place, proud amongst peers.
Originally published in New Crops from Old Fields: Eight Medievalist Poets, ed. Oz Hardwick, Stairwell Press, 2015
Copyright © Oz Hardwick, 2015
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems