The Third In an Occasional Series of Guest Posts

Every so often we put up a Guest Post written by SN3. The last was on February 26^th of this year; prior to that we published an essay on October 21^st of last year. And here’s the latest, forwarded on to us by The Second Mrs. Pennington this weekend. This time Robert has ventured off into the realm of poetry, this particular piece written for a Society for Creative Anachronism event in South Dakota. “Robert the Brave” is Robert’s SCA name, so that explains the by-line. Further notes as provided by TSMP are below the poem.

Doomed

by Robert the Brave (©2009)

Ten are doomed to die in ages future as in ages past.

One will be smite by cold metal far from home;

One is to feel cold winter’s bite out near the edge;

One is to die fighting for what he thinks is right;

One will fall in chasms deep;

One will die weeping for a loved one lost;

One has died creeping past a treasure guarded;

One shall die old and wise;

One to be dead for boldness shunned;

One has died with no will to live.

The tenth one shall die last, before and after the end.

Notes as provided by TSMP:

(1) He (Robert) wrote it to tell at the bardic campfire at Quest for Camelot in South Dakota and published in the local SCA newsletter.

Also, he was inspired by the Poetry Slam we went to last month. You can take off "the Brave" if you like, but on the other hand, with the topic as it is, being brave fits.

(2) Robert’s poem echoes the expressions in the late 10^th century poem The Fortunes of Men, also called The Fates of Men or The Fates of Mortal. This gnomic poem, translated from Old English is found in the Exeter Book, fols. 87a–88b. A gnomic poem includes phrases that are maxims or words to live by. This genre of poetry goes back to the ancient Greeks and was a popular form in early Medieval England. Robert had no knowledge of this poem before writing his own version of fates of men. The poem starts out with how a child comes into the world and is nurtured by both mother and father until grown. Then the fates take over…

The Fortunes of Men

Very often it happens, through God’s might,

that man and woman bring into the world a child by birth and clothe him in colors,

teach him and tame him until the time comes, after a number of years,

that the young limbs become quickened and the child is grown.

So the father and mother fare along, trying, they give and prepare.

God alone knows what, while the child grows, the winter will bring.

To one it happens that the final letter sadly comes up; there is suffering in youthtime.

The wolf, the hoary heath-stepper, will eat him.

Then afterward the mother will mourn.

Such things are not man’s to control.

Hunger shall devour one; one shall be driven by weather.

The spear shall get one and war will destroy another.

One shall be deprived of the light of his eyes and will have to grope with his hands.

One will be lame in the foot, sick with sinew-disease, sorely lamenting and mourning against fate, troubled in mind.

One, featherless, shall fall from the high branch in the forest.

One needs to walk along the far-ways, has to tread the track of the alien roads, the dangerous earth, carrying what little he has with him.

One shall ride the crooked gallows, hang at death, until his soul-hoard, his bloody bone-coffer, becomes broken.

Fire shall kill one, the brands consume the perilous life of the fated man.

One at the mead-bench is deprived of life by the edge of a sword. The angry ale-swallower, the wine-sated man — his words were too hasty.

One shall, by the steward’s hand, become intemperate by beer and mead; he will know no moderation, no measuring of his mouth, but will mindlessly yield up his wretched life, endure the anger of his lord, be deprived of joy.

One shall, with God’s power, spend all his misfortune in youth.

Afterwards in age he will become wealthy, dwell in joy days and indulge himself with riches, treasures and mead cups, in the house of his kin — as much as any person may hope to hold and keep.

So diversely the mighty Lord, around the surface of the earth, deals out all, declares and ordains the shape of things that are.

To one, wealth; to one a share of miseries; to one glad youth; to one glory in war, mastery in battle; to one skill at throwing or shooting and glorious fame, to one dice-skill, talent at chess. Some become wise scholars.

To one wonder-gifts become furnished through goldsmithing.

Full often he tempers and well-ornaments the mail-coat of a mighty king, who will give wide lands to him in return. He will accept it with eagerness.

One shall amuse men in the hall, cheer them at beer,

the bench-sitters will be drinkers — there will be great joy.

One shall sit at his lord’s feet with the harp, he will always receive his fee,

and always keenly wrest the strings, let the nail pick the strings to ring sweetly,

their voices leap forth with great desire.

One shall tame the wild bird, the proud hawk on his hand,

until the savage-swallow becomes a joy.

He does on the jesses, feeds him while in fetters, deals out little gifts to the air-swift, feathered one, until the slaughterer, in decorations and trappings, becomes subservient to his provider and is hand-trained for the young warrior.

So with beauty, the savior of peoples, around the middle-earth, the strength of men, shaped and decreed and guided the shaping of each of humankind on earth.

Therefore, let each man thank him for what he in his mildness has ordained for us all.

(3) Text and an audio reading of this poem in Old English can be found here: The Fortunes of Men.

―:☺:―

While I don't intend for a moment to take anything away from Bobby's Robert's poem... which is serious, quite good, and should be the sole focus of this post (and your comments, Gentle Reader, if you should choose to comment)... I have to admit the SCA thing is not a shared interest. I've never been to an event of theirs of any kind whatsoever, and what little I know of SCA has been obtained strictly through reading and second-hand accounts from TSMP... of which there have been few. That said, this is what comes to MY mind whenever the subject of SCA comes up:



Dang me, anyway.