Two Poems from the Exeter Book
translated from the old english by gnaomi siemens. art by morag eaton.
‘hovel’
morag eaton. 2020.
monoprint with hand-stitching
on japanese paper. 11" square.
Ic þis giedd wrece bi me ful geomorre,
minre sylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg,
hwæt ic yrmþa gebad, siþþan ic up weox,
niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu.
A ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa.
ærest min hlaford gewat heonan of leodum
ofer yþa gelac; hæfde ic uhtceare
hwær min leodfruma londes wære.
ða ic me feran gewat folgað secan,
wineleas wrecca, for minre weaþearfe.
Ongunnon þæt þæs monnes magas hycgan
þurh dyrne geþoht, þæt hy todælden unc,
þæt wit gewidost in woruldrice
lifdon laðlicost, ond mec longade.
Het mec hlaford min herheard niman,
ahte ic leofra lyt on þissum londstede,
holdra freonda. Forþon is min hyge geomor,
ða ic me ful gemæcne monnan funde,
heardsæligne, hygegeomorne,
mod miþendne, morþor hycgendne.
Bliþe gebæro ful oft wit beotedan
þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana
owiht elles; eft is þæt onhworfen,
is nu swa hit no wære
freondscipe uncer. Sceal ic feor ge neah
mines felaleofan fæhðu dreogan.
Heht mec mon wunian on wuda bearwe,
under actreo in þam eorðscræfe.
Eald is þes eorðsele, eal ic eom oflongad,
sindon dena dimme, duna uphea,
bitre burgtunas, brerum beweaxne,
wic wynna leas. Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat
fromsiþ frean. Frynd sind on eorþan,
leofe lifgende, leger weardiað,
þonne ic on uhtan ana gonge
under actreo geond þas eorðscrafu.
þær ic sittan mot sumorlangne dæg,
þær ic wepan mæg mine wræcsiþas,
earfoþa fela; forþon ic æfre ne mæg
þære modceare minre gerestan,
ne ealles þæs longaþes þe mec on þissum life begeat.
A scyle geong mon wesan geomormod,
heard heortan geþoht, swylce habban sceal
bliþe gebæro, eac þon breostceare,
sinsorgna gedreag, sy æt him sylfum gelong
eal his worulde wyn, sy ful wide fah
feorres folclondes, þæt min freond siteð
under stanhliþe storme behrimed,
wine werigmod, wætre beflowen
on dreorsele. Dreogeð se min wine
micle modceare; he gemon to oft
wynlicran wic. Wa bið þam þe sceal
of langoþe leofes abidan.
T H E W I F E ’ S L A M E N T
I sing my song sadly, about the evils I’ve endured
ever since I can remember—but never more so than now.
Here it is—how I keep falling prey—
to the pain of my exile.
It all started with my lord leaving for the whim of the waves—
and my white nights
spent wondering where in the world he was.
So I set out to seek him and his company of men.
But after all the misfortunes found on that friendless flight
my lord’s men had already begun scheming for our separation
so that we two would live miserably—
split wide apart in this worldly realm.
And longing came over me.
Then my lord had me hole up in this hovel—in this forest far away
from the ones I hold dear—far away from my steadfast friends.
This is why my heart is so heavy—I thought I had found
such a good match in that man.
But I’ve not had such luck.
He hides what’s in his heart—makes plans to murder.
So often we had sworn, with shining faces, that only death
would separate us.
That has changed. Now it’s as if we had never even been friends—
I put up with my husband’s hatred.
He banished me to a bleak grove—a dirty cave under an oak.
This earth cell is old. I am full of longing.
The valleys here are dark, the hills steep. Bitter hedgerows,
overgrown with briars—a home without hope.
I am often overcome with his absence.
To think, all over the world, there are lovers—alive—
in their beds. All the while I walk back and forth
under my acorn tree, in this dirt-clogged hollow.
Here I have to sit out the long days of summer. Here I keep
the tears flowing over my exile angst—too many troubles.
That’s why I can never put my soul’s deep sadness to sleep,
nor all these longings that even in this life won’t let me go.
A young woman is forever forced to know pain. A smile
on her face, her heart-ache, a crowd of constant sorrows,
her only joy in this world.
May my lord himself become an outcast in a far off country—
have to huddle under cliff-hangings, freak storms covering
him in frost crystals. Worn-out, water will flood his dreary hall.
My friend, you will suffer so much woe. May the memories
of our happy home constantly haunt you.
I feel sorry for anyone left lonely for a lover.
‘. . . . a home without hope’
morag eaton. 2020.
monoprint on japanese paper. 11" square.
‘wulf and eadwacer’
morag eaton. 2021.
monoprint with hand-stitching
on japanese paper. 11" square.
Leodum is minum wylce him mon lac gife;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelic is us.
Wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre.
Fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen.
Sindon wælreowe weras þær on ige;
willað hy hine aþecgan, gif he on þreat cymeð.
Ungelice is us.
Wulfes ic mines widlastum wenum dogode;
þonne hit wæs renig weder ond ic reotugu sæt,
þonne mec se beaducafa bogum bilegde,
wæs me wyn to þon, wæs me hwæþre eac lað.
Wulf, min Wulf, wena me þine
seoce gedydon, þine seldcymas,
murnende mod, nales meteliste.
Gehyrest þu, Eadwacer? Uncerne earne hwelp
bireð wulf to wuda.
þæt mon eaþe tosliteð þætte næfre gesomnad wæs,
uncer giedd geador.
W U L F & E A D W A C E R
The people here think killing him
would be a gift—
and would do it
if he came with a threat.
We don’t think like that.
Wulf is on one island—I’m on another.
My island is secure—surrounded by swamps.
There are murderous men here.
They think killing him would be a gift—
and would do it—if he came with a threat.
We don’t think like that.
No, for my Wulf I had worked up
such wild expectations. When the weather
went rainy and I sat weeping—or when
the big bold warrior would wrap me in his arms—
I put up with it—
I would take what pleasure I could
with the pain.
Wulf—My Wulf— It was all my wild hopes
for you that made me this way—
how seldom you came to me.
My melancholy mind made me sick—
it wasn’t that I was going without.
Do you hear what I’m saying, Eadwacer?
A wolf has carried our sad whelp into the forest.
See how easily he tears apart
what was never together—
the story of our lives.