Long Anglo saxon Poems
Long Anglo saxon Poems. Below are the most popular long Anglo saxon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anglo saxon poems by poem length and keyword.
Caedmon's Hymn
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and time blew all around,
I paced those dusk-enamored grounds
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked there, too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon's ember,
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet.
I lay this pale garland of words at his feet.
Originally published by The Lyric. "Cædmon's Hymn," composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, angel, inspired, inspiration, inspirational, first English poem, Old English, oldest English poem, Anglo-Saxon, Bede, cowherd, Christian, monk, spiritual, god, sonnet
periodontal disease the bane
of *****Sapiens,
and many a canine species
such as Great Dane
or an alien pet smart tumblr trying to feign
bing the best faux pas footed friend
to kind hearted primates of man kind,
which latter perhaps an aristocratic
Anglo Saxon overlord
generously re pay hay'n
his/her diligent indentured serfs,
and more importantly air
unlimited pro bono dental care
at Ivy League storied University of Pennsylvania
School of Dentistry
which demonstrably crafts aspiring
reputable Dentists,
many anon dis track did Engineer
or among other additional
competitive uber pursuits
nonetheless, said accredited blessed charges
per this institution of higher learnin'
paying back every single buck
renown for plethora of duck
quacking supremely smart graduated students
drooling to bark out
bone a fide intelligence fluct
chew waiting genius stratosphere
comprising grueling vetting process
scoring acceptance,
a combination menu demanding
eminent genetic luck
incorporating top notch
flying colors and pluck
initial pre admission screening interview
(from prospective students
leaving a positive first impression stuck
thru rigorous quizzing presentation paces),
which gauntlet on par with Olympic ardor
assiduously, modestly,
swimmingly convincing board
with collective listening ear
comprising decision makers, judging fair
how fated genetic sprig wrought
(from imponderable hereditary blend his/her
that above average intelligent head gear
to be applied at afore
mentioned die hard lessons here
trials and tribulations didst ap pear
at timely juncture at me then young life
Now this month was called Solmonath
the anglo Saxons gave it this name
to mean the month of cakes no less
offered them to their gods being their aim
This is no favourite time of year
at least not in the North Hemisphere
filled with cold wet winds and snow
many aspects of winter appear
Waking up one February morn
can be cold seeking frost outside
heavy clothes needed to go out
wrapped securely so warmth may abide
The sun can be a rare thing
catch a glimpse while its there
for it hides itself behind a tree
even if you watch and stare
At least in midst of this time
bringing sun's rays to lift one's gloom
one's mind plays tricks upon itself
look forward to spring to come soon
(Solmonath is the English Anglo Saxon word for February, they gave it the month of cakes as they were offered to their gods, this was their aim.)
Mine Impossible Self Educating Mission...
Finds muss elf facing Lenovo
(external Macbook
Pro screen) whoosh'n
with all manner
of thoughts cascading,
flowing and swoosh'n
thru ma mind like
yoyo wing thoughts,
whether right now
aboot me late Russian
maternal grandfather,
who made a
lasting imp Prussian
though whose departure
more'n deuce
score years ago,
nonetheless left
many a question
on me boyhood
memory, no matter
he predominantly talked
Yiddish with smidgen
of English peppering conversation
with scant sprinkling of
Anglo Saxon known to him
despite crossing ocean
as a scrappy young lad,
(and hightailing to America
as a possible stowaway)
for some notion
never told, hence I prevaricate
whipping oop tall tales
courtesy magic potion
of spellbinding words,
not the least bit concerned
freely falsifying any quotation,
cuz no paper trail
extant for citation,
nor other medium survived
attesting to birth family
of said relation
Morris (Moishe) Kuritsky,
his near half century ago
passing into oblivion,
sans after major life mission
emigrating to Ellis Island
bing faux scion of
attending sewing spool
as self taught
harried styled swift tailor
finding goo goo
doll young bride
(eighteen Earth orbitz
round the sun his junior),
she died during her late 50's
(during early nineteen sixties)
attributed to poor nutrition,
which definitely aggravated
by poor dentition
tooth fully, not
fondly remembered for
doting o'er my mama
(the last born)
as favored offspring
at psychological expense
for beastly crush'n
life source of two eldest daughters.
Upon (die) re rhea ding previous poem
All In The Name Of "Progress" zen
a glaring, leering,
and twittering left par wren
dared to a right (i.e. bribe)
corrective punctuation measure
slyly slipping Special Ops symbol ")"
for so many yen,
thus see slipped thru my excellent
proof reading, when
lo and behold consternation,
inconsideration, and perturbation
I thought to take a page
from playbook of Sylvia Plath,
and stick my head in the oven
but lo, a sardine recipe
(though a bit fishy),
could be found necessitating cauldron
only available for purchase in Turin
thus donned with a shrouded cape,
aye didst make whoosh,
hence, went there and came back
and frankly tubby earnest,
thence began stir'n
a bubbling concoction brew
though duration for perfect consistency
aye lacked any clue
thus, needed to contact
Hannibal the cannibal
asper what to do
in order (I explained)
to sever livingsocial,
and forever hang my head in shame
cuz, accidentally omitting
one right parenthesis too few
hence, esteemed flawless glory,
(sans error free grammarian
reputation pitched downward
where careless evinced
Kamikaze nosedive, where
matter of fact gross humiliation
instantaneously grew
and the only viable option
forced me to hew
admitting to egregious, fatuous, abhorent
and readily confesses
compunction viz, grievously
blatant Anglo Saxon
Horrifying transgression
involving backward curved "C" sin bent
a most execrable,
incorrigible, and unforgivable
literary faux pas incurring
major cosmic event
stripped of title special
Das Scribe double bubble "A" gent!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Upon complying never to err again
Matthew Scott Harris since
accepted plea bargain
accepting sentence resting his chin
til indelible necklaced "U" lettered grin
forever visible to kith and kin.
Whiting a poem without the lette r
The lette r on the Macbook Po laptop compute
doth not function, thus I connected
an extenal keyboad coutesy USB pot,
and need to each ove ight hand ove left
and attempt to type the coect key
most often pessing othe then the coect lette
quite an impossible mission
afte daylight fades to dakness,
when dak shadows
glom the inteio light of the bedoom
essentially esembling the oute limits
of the twilight zone
whee the edge of night encoaches
challenging me to caft
an undestandable silly vese
letting these finges of mine
appea to andomly skitte
acoss the qwety keyboad,
but quite an effot went into painstaking effot
to shae how difficult communication would become
if (fo no paticula hyme o eason,
only twenty lettes compised
the Anglo Saxon alphabet,
o wose case scenaio
omitting the most common lette
namely the vowel e,
which does esult
in a baely compehensible output
of essentially esulting in utte gibbeish
pue gobbledygook to the most skilled English majo,
yet I must add how humoous the esultant output,
yet completely lacking sense and sensibility
gatis yous tuly (me),
an aticulate, chaming,
eudite, fun loving, pinteresting,
wodsmith yielding an outcome shifting
fom the idiculous to the sublime,
yet inteestingly enough
an anonymous eade
can fill in the blank omissions,
but afte slogging thu just this bief liteay example,
one could not imagine dagons
getting into a fiestom
tying to ead a stoy book about mythical beasts
that oam acoss the teestial fimament
as happened to be the case
when dinosaus dominated
as species numeo uno
duing the Mesozoic Ea,
also known as the "Age of Dinosaus,"
which spanned from appoximately
252 to 66 million years ago,
which ea divided into thee perods:
the Tiassic Period (252-201 million yeas ago),
the Juassic Peiod (201-145 million yeas ago),
and the Cetaceous Peiod (145-66 million yeas ago),
and fo whateve explanation Dinosaus became extinct
at the end of the Cetaceous Peiod,
with the exception of avian dinosaus,
which ae the birds that exist today.
Written by Gail DeBole
and included in PS: It's Poetry
A PoetrySoup.com anthology published in 2020
Note: Grendel was the monster in the old English Heroic poem titled Beowolf written by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet. John Gardner wrote a related book titled Grendel in the 1970's that told the same story from the monster's point of view. Soon after reading Grendel, I wrote this poem from the point of view of Unferth.
"My God, Grendel! Are you Godless?
You hold heads that drip with hate-deeds!
All your fury 'voids compassion.
Are you spiritless? Don't eat me!
I see eyeballs in your teeth-sneers.
Faded lips you chew with ease.
You are laughing - yet I've cry-tears.
Here's a toothpick. Now let me be!
I, leathery, bony, meatless;
Old gruff meat that breaks your teeth.
Unferth's ready, willing, fearless.
For you, I'll fetch younger meat.
Backed up now, your breathing eats me.
Close as bricks glued back to back.
Grendel, hear me! I will save you!
I will give you what you lack!
Name the fortune that you'd like.
I have charts of riches hid.
Under soil, far from man-sight.
I will give you what you bid.
Or think of mothers. You have one.
They're forsaken without sons.
And my mother's just the same.
For her sorrow, you'll take blame!
Grendel! Grendel! Let me go!
I am old, but I will fight.
Why, you vile, formless, foe!
I will tell you where"...
Caedmon’s Face
by Michael R. Burch
At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,
while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound
of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
—perhaps by God, perhaps by need—
to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Caedmon’s ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.
***
He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike—as father unto son.
But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known;
his father’s face becomes his own.
***
He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth
suspended under heaven’s roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:
his face was Poetry’s, from youth.
“Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon’s verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker’s ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, oldest English poem, England, Christian, spiritual, angel, poets, poetry, Whitby, Bede, Carroll, Stoker
The Wanderer, Part II
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, translation, Old English, wanderer, winter, ice, snow, frost, sea, ocean, seabirds, heart, heartbreak, loss, loneliness, alienation, sorrow, death, ghosts, dark, darkness, wise, wisdom, war, bird, birds, wolf, giants
Bearing a European polymorphism, I should be branded by shame.
I am the White Devil as they claim.
The Ciakara, a bipedal reptilian that fades in and out of gamma rays.
The Ivory Dragon with razor fangs.
He who breathes flames of artillery; consuming the indigenous cultures of men.
I who supposedly slaughtered, raped, and evangelized my own fen.
A Caucasian falsely accused, I must defend.
I sigh with Celtic lungs.
Long ago in antiquity, they cut my foreskin and Gaelic tongue.
Apprehending my crown and bride while the rebels hung.
Enslaved and hate I have not done, but due to this achromatic shell, their numbers I am among.
But I am the blank hero who is sullied and unsung, for an enemy of all is an enemy of mine
Yet compassion’s tide is on the rise, I am consumed by love for all races and all colors of hides.
Reds, blacks, browns, yellows, blancos and pinks.
An alabaster bastard I may seem to be, but in the utmost totatality, I am proud I am me.
Despite my lack of melanin; my reverence and acceptance of self sets all others free.
So I will slay the Neo-Nazi supremacists and ethnocentrisms, by nationalist and patriotic decree.
To reorient this cumbersome narrative; as such that I see fit in my mind’s eye.
The Maverick Abolitionist of Light, I let my skin audaciously shine.
So yet again, the fierce Anglo Saxon attacks; swiftly and valiantly one more time.
Only to redefine the phrase “White Pride” so I may make it mine.