LL-L "Literature" 2005.11.15 (05) [E]

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A=Afrikaans Ap=Appalachian B=Brabantish D=Dutch E=English F=Frisian
L=Limburgish LS=Lowlands Saxon (Low German) N=Northumbrian
S=Scots Sh=Shetlandic V=(West) Flemish Z=Zeelandic (Zeeuws)
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15 November 2005 * Volume 04
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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Literature

Folks,

Our Arthur did it again.  He wrote a series of "gothiquesque" English poems 
about the history of the Goths, apparently lesser-known events that took a 
lot of research.

With his permission, I am passing it on to you, below.

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***

CHILDREN OF THE FLOOD

             By Arthur A. Jones
             ©2005 Arthur A. Jones

   PROLOGUE

             Ak háusjiþ jus Naúrneis!
             O Harken ye Norns!

   Dark souls approach to bid us sing
        Of those few Greuþung who took wing
   When rains incessant joined two seas
        And plunged our kingdom under.

   Our valiant flood-folk, stalked by death,
        Like ravens gyred, in length and breadth,
   Until they hewed great ships from trees,
        And sailed through Þor's own thunder.

   GREAT RAINS

   He came, an uninvited guest,
        That fog-cold night in fall,
   To sing and shriek as one obsessed
        In Berig's great mead hall.

   He sang in manner of the skaúlds,
        Of soon and lasting rains;
   And warned of waters' depths untold,
        Of floods o'er northern plains.

   Then cold, dark downpour straightway came,
        The waters stood in lakes;
   Both east and west great waves poured in,
        Giant oaks crashed in their wake.

   Black bird-flock shadows circled low,
        Escaping dank flood-vales,
   They raised their cries to leaden skies,
        Their wings to eastern gales.

   From Gotland to Burgunderholm,
        Men stripped the forests bare;
   And cut the planks of sailing ships,
        As first frost filled the air.

   Four riding-days across the land
        All farms and burghs went under;
   Still, waters poured and rushed and roared,
        Our homeland tore asunder.

   Ten nights our kinsmen rowed and steered,
        To reach the southern strand,
   Through miles of rotting, floating dead;
        All drowned by Woðan's hand.

   Seven clans reached the wheelwright's hill,
        Above the amber sands,
   They sat by watchfires day and night
        As the dead washed up on land.

   Saved was Berig, king of Amals,
        Followed soon by Rugians,
   Courageous Balths, then hunter Taifals,
        And warrior-grim Herulians.

   Proud were the chieftains who made land:
        One-eyed Áináugis Ansila,
   Argáith and Respa, Guntheric,
        Valamir and Treifila.

   When no more quick came off the flood,
        King Berig named the skilled,
   And sent the hungering troops to woods,
        Where fat wild game was killed.

   Then Berig raised a fortress strong,
        Upon the wheelwright's hill,
   Runa galagida! Sang the throng,
        It is our Woðan's will.

   MOTHER OF THE KUNI

   And sing we, too, of Almoda,
        Fair wife of Áiþarith,
   Who lifted blind and lame to boats
        To save them from flood-death.

   She laboured in the waning days,
        Then joined the final ship;
   It had no lodestone, lost its way,
        Ten days to southern cliffs.

   The Amal princess held to oath,
        And once her folk made fast,
   Set out on foot across the coast,
        To Áiþarith at last.

   THE JOURNEY SOUTH
   TO BLOOD-FATE

   Yet spirits black disturb us still,
        And bid us travel on;
   With flood-folk flying south by will,
        Wings spreading to the Don.

   Uncounted warriors came to grief,
        Cut down by blade, by wrath,
   Áirþa gaweída! By Gothic deeds,
        They trod the southern path.

   THE FUNERAL DIRGE
   FOR VALAMIR'S SON

   I saw them lay your still-warm corpse
        Into a rocky place.
   Wrapped only in coarse saddle-quilt,
        And covered with wet clay.

   Nor finger-gold nor brooches bronze
        Were you granted for your journey,
   Nor blade for battle-mangled hands:
        Unarmed, you faced eternity.

   ONE-EYED ÁINÁUGIS ANSILA
   FORESEES THE GOTHS' DESTINY

   Not men, but mold-green winds did burst
        Our eastern palisades,
   Not men, but rains spore-laden choked our borders;

   The wet-slate clouds grew darker still
        Above the sulfurous glades,
   Our lightning-slaves stood up and scorned our orders. 

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