Old English Poems

I Cannot Sea

I CANNOT SEA

A life unto of ebb & flow
The Masters seated down below
Or high above
I cannot tell
Heaven may beholden hell

My heart cries out
but I think I died
It doesn’t pound that it did before
For where I am, I am not to sure

I did not bleed, I did not scorn
Where did this rath come forlorn

I thought I’d

An Old English Proverb

Enough is as good as a feast.

Medieval Poetry Translations VIII by Michael R Burch

These are English translations of Medieval poems written in Old English.



The Battle of Maldon
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 991 AD or later
translation by Michael R. Burch
 
…would be broken.

Then he bade each warrior unbridle his horse,
set it free, drive it away and advance onward afoot,
intent on deeds of arms and dauntless courage.

It was then that

Widsith the Far-Traveler, Part III, translation of the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem

Widsith the Far-Traveler, Part III
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I was also with Eormanric for many years,
as long as the Goth-King availed me well;
he gave me six hundred shillings of pure gold
beaten into a beautiful neck-ring!
This I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings
and my protector when I returned home,
a precious adornment for

Widsith the Far-Traveler, Part I, translation of the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem

Widsith was a traveling minstrel who "sang for his supper" but may have been prone to exaggeration...

Widsith, the Far-Traveler, Part I of III
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 680-950 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Widsith the wide-wanderer began to speak,
unlocked his word-hoard, manifested his memories,
he who had travelled earth's roads furthest
among the races of men—their tribes,

The Wanderer, Part III, translation of the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem

The Wanderer, Part III 

The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:

“Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls’ friendly uproars?

Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes!

The Wanderer, Part II, translation of the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem

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

Medieval Poetry Translations VI by Michael R Burch

These are English translations/modernizations of Medieval poems written in Old English and Middle English.

Exeter Book Gnomic Verses or Maxims
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dragon dwells under the dolmen,
wizened-wise, hoarding his treasure;
the fishes bring forth their finned kind;
the king in his halls distributes rings;
the bear stalks the heath, shaggy and malevolent.

Frost shall freeze,
fire feast on

A Merrie Discourse Betwixt Two Ducks

Upon the pond, where lilies float,
Two ducks did meet, each fine of coat.
Their feathers gleamed ‘neath gilded light,
And thus began their feath’ry fight.
Quoth Drake to Dame, with pufféd chest,
“Good wench, thy quacking lacks finesse!
Thy tones do clatter, coarse and crude,
Like pebbles cast in solitude.”
The Dame, unruffled, gave a grin,
“Thy jests, dear Drake, art weak and

The Wife's Lament

"The Wife's Lament" or "The Wife's Complaint" is an Old English/Anglo Saxon poem found in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to 960-990 AD, making it the oldest English poetry anthology. "The Wife's Lament" may be the oldest extant English poem written by a female poet. 

The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I

To What Shall I Liken Thee?

Shall I liken thee to a sunrise?
Thou art the sunrise of a fall morning's glow.
Thou art the oaken breeze that bids you "hello."
Shall this describe to what I liken thee? No.

Shall I liken thee to a sunset?
Thou art a gold sunset, from the hills only seen,
To orange ribbon atop the city's crystal beam,
Reflecting heavenly diamonds,

Athelstan King of Albion

when Merlin 
knelte to Æthelstan
he bid'th wealthe
acrosse the lande
an' lo thy King
giveth his hande
presidin' o'er all Albion

from Alfred
in whose shadowe ran
emerg'd the court
of Æthelstan 
an' on to rule
the state-ly man
for all the souls of Albion

Tale of Woe

Thy young maiden,
Peck her Lily flower a shake. 
A brittle sound of break,
Sobbing till tears make.
 
Bare feet on wet grass. 
Alas, her life, soon ‘twill pass. 

The Rhyming Poem - Part I

The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
Old English Poem (i.e., Anglo-Saxon Poem) from the Exeter Book, ca. 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine. 
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues, 
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired

The Rhyming Poem - Part Ii

The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem - Part II
anonymous Old English Poem from the Exeter Book, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine. 
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues, 
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men

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