LL-L "Etymology" 2008.03.15 (07) [E/LS]

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L O W L A N D S - L - 14 March 2008 - Volume 07
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From: orville crane <manbythewater at hotmail.com>
Subject: LL-L "Etymology" 2008.03.15 (04) [E]

Lowlander Ron,
  The Faroese have the 'hulda', (imaginary) being which is believed to hide
things which are right in front of one's eyes. These beings are believed by
some to be the unwashed children of Eve. There is a whole group of words for
this hidden group of beings and their everyday life;
1. huldubatur-boat manned by huldur(plural)
2. huldudrongur-fairy boy
3. huldafolk-hulda people
4. huldugenta- girl hulda
5. huldukona- hulda wife
6. huldukugv- cow belonging to huldufolk
7. huldumadur- male hulda
8. hulduneyt- cattle belonging to huldufolk
9. hulduseydur- sheep belonging to huldufolk.
  The Far. verb, 'hylja' means to cover, hide, conceal.
  A nighttime walk in the Faroese outfield might show the hiker this hidden
world.
Mann beim Wasser

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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Etymology

Lowlander Tom a.k.a. Orville a.k.a. Man by the Water (Low Saxon *Mann bi't
Water* (*Man by 't water*)),

Thanks for flying the Faroese flag during our etymological excursions!

Are you sure *hulda* and *hulja* are related?

It's also *hulda* in Icelandic, and apparently this is related to the Nordic
fairy queen Huldra or Hulda, also known in German folklore as (Frau) Holle.

As we discovered long before your arrival on board, there may be a
connection with *Holunder* (~ *Holder *~ *Holler*), German for "elder" (*<
holuntar *< **holun-træ* "hulda wood/tree," related to Dansih *hyld*,
Scanian *hyll(e)*, Middle English *hildir*). I guess Modern English "elder"
is related to it also. In Low Saxon it is *Eller*, earlier *elder*, also *
Ellholt*.

In Northern European traditions, this Hulda inhabits elder bushes and may
offer you shelter underneath them ("hiding" - see?). Their falling blossom
petals resemble snow, hence Frau Holle being in charge of snow in the
corresponding Grimms' fairytale. While this lady is generally benevolent,
you are not allowed to break and use twigs and branches of an elder bush, or
you'll be haunted. Worse still, if you use the wood for making a cradle, the
baby lying in it will be haunted, possessed or some such thing.

Oops! We crossed over to the "Traditions" type of thread.

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***
*Sambucus niger - *
*Fleeder du, du Krackholt*

vun Waltrud Bruhn

Dat Ellholt is en Krack, woll wahr!
Maal bleev keen Fleederbeernbusch ganz
dar in de Kinneertiet mit lüttje Söcken,
Fahnenrück
un backsig sengelt Swiegen,
wo all de Tanten Weetfruen Kummer harrn,
de Watersupp vun Wittkohl opwaarmt geven,
wo schöne Böker hopenwies in'n Keller tweifetzt legen.
Dar bleev keen Fleederbeerbusch ganz,
behöll sien nieen Telgen un wörr so grötter mit de Jahrn.
Oh, nee.

Alltieds in Harvst, wenn dar noch nich maal
swatt Vagelswarms un Fröstküllns
de Bitternis vun all de Heimatlosen starken deen,
denn broken Minschen twei, Junge un Ole. Dat Ellholt ok.
Rundüm Vandalen. Un wörr en Krack doch wedder stark un stevig,
denn reten se em wedder dal, un jammervull slappdüster
flapp dat Loff an't Holt.
So sehgn wi, jammervull un plünnenpaltern, ok alle Mannslüüd,
de ut Krieg, Gefangenschap nah Huus trüüchstaaken deen. Gefangen,
vun Greesen süük, bleev't in ehr Tarnbruun vun Beleeven.

Egaalweg jeedeen lüttjes Lachen klööv, sleet sik möör. Bloots Kinner
truen sik noch dat Smüüstern un heegen deep ehr
binnert Juuchen, wenn se sik in en hogen Boom versteeken kunn'n,
wenn speelen Wulken mit ehr Ogen speelen.
De scharpe Drangnis schreev sik jümmer langs ehr Stierns.

Veeljahren sneden wi Besinnen bi uns weg,
in'n Stückentakt, den sik en Scheer, de Haar snidd, klappt.
Wi schoven achter Wulken, achter söven Bargen,
den fuurig witten Kalk vun Kummer.
Jüst so harrn wi dat Stackelsüüchzen vun den drangsaleerten Fleeder
un all de anner Quaal wegdrammt, üm de de bleeken Fruenslüüd
's nachtens weenen müssen, liesen, liesen, heel alleen.

Man nümmer bleev de Ruuch vun doodmööd Minschenhuut vergeten,
de Töön vun't rische Viegelienenspeel verleern sik nich,
ok nich de Smack vun Bakalit in'n Feverdroom.
Bestännig stuuk dat Bild vun'n Dörchslag, twei un löckrig en Helm,
Perlmutternboom dat Ridderkruut in'n Gaarn,
sien Smack vun Honnig, dar stuuk de Smack vun Bangnis,
wenn över Popp un Poppenkarr deep
Fleegers huuljachtern un pielgenau scharp scheten deen.
Denn, gau! Deep achter't Ellholt kropen
un in't Versteek
vun'n blöhen Busch en witte Freedensfahn afplückt.
Mang sööt un bitter Rüüchels müssen wi an all sien
Wunnerbarkeit glööven, dat he de Kuckuck ropen,
Süükdom un Nood henwegweeln kunn.
Ok düsse Freeden klööv, de Struuk bröök twei.

Verfraren reet uns maal en scharpe Bitterruuch
vun'n Grund, bi dünne Huut ehr Sweet.
Wi fragen dar nix nah un leven so mit hen, bet nu –
daar brook een Woord vun allerhand swattdrückte Reegen vör,
een Woord sien Sinn verquer sik un boo Biller,
wöör Ellholt, Fleederbeernbusch, wo anners een Sireen,
de lilla Blööm, maal meent hett.
Blööm, de, duff un swaar vun Lillasööt,
nienümmer Feeverdöst stillt, ok nich Smacht un Bangen.
Hier nu ward heel vun't Ellhoornholt vertellt. Sambucus niger.
Ohmgröön dat Loff un smödigwitt als Melk de Blömkenbuschen
sweelt hachpachwild üm't Holt sien Aten.
He wörr dull stuur.

Dat Krackholt.
Wo slöög't an all uns Seer un Smarten
un reet ehr Döören wiet.

So maakt dat heel.

***
*Sambucus niger - *
*elder, you, you wimp wood*

[Translation: R. F. Hahn, (c)2001]:

The elder is a wimp. For sure!
Some time ago no elderberry bush would stay in one piece,
then, in the childhood days with little socks,
bunting skirts
and burnt-on silence,
when all the widowed aunts had grief,
would dish out watery soup made from white cabbage,
when gorgeous books would lie in basements, torn, in heaps.
Then no elderberry bush would stay in one piece,
would keep its new branches and would grow taller with the years.
Oh, no.

Always in autumn, already well before
black flocks of birds and frosty chills
would intensify the bitterness of all the homeless,
people would break to pieces, the young, the old. The elder too.
Vandals all around. And when a wimp would grow back strength and daring
they'd tear him down again, and pitifully limp and dark
would leafs be flopping from the wood.
That's how we'd see, too, all the menfolk, pitiful and dressed in rags,
staggering back home from war, imprisonment. Captive,
sick with terror—it stayed in the camouflage brown of their experiences.

All the while each little laughter would split, wear itself out. Just
children
would still dare to smile, would hold their cheering
deep within when they could hide in a tall tree,
when playful clouds toyed with their eyes.
The sharp pressure would always write itself across their foreheads.

For many years we'd cut away at memories,
each piece in time that scissors clack while cutting hair.
We'd shove the caustic white lime of sorrow
behind some clouds, behind seven mountains.
This way we'd push aside the tortured elder's wimpy sighs
and all the other torments that made the pale women
cry at night, quietly, quietly, all alone.

Yet never would we manage to forget the smell of dead-tired human skin.
The sounds of lively fiddle play would never disappear,
nor would the taste of Bakelite in feverish dream.
Constantly would the image squeeze: the impact, a helmet cracked and
riddled,
mother-of-pearl delphinium the garden's knightly plant,
its taste of honey; the taste of panic would then squeeze
when above doll and doll's carriage quite low
aircraft would come screaming, would shoot with arrow-like precision.
Then, quickly! Crawling far behind the elder wood,
into the hiding place,
picking a white peace flag off the blooming bush.
Amid sweet and bitter odors we would have to believe
in all its splendor, that it could call the cuckoo,
could drive away disease and deprivation.
This peace would also split; the bush would break.

Once a sharply bitter smell yanked us, frozen,
up from the ground by thin skin's sweat.
We took it in our stride and lived with it, so far ...
A word broke free from several printed black lines,
a word's meaning went awry and started building images,
turned into elder wood, elderberry bush, where someone else
would have meant lilac, the purple flowers.*
Flowers that, dull and heavy with purple sweetness,
will never satisfy feverish thirst, nor hunger and anxiety.
Here now there's talk of elder wood. Sambucus niger.
Uncle-green its leafs and smoothly white as milk its flowery tufts,
its breath glows wildly panting around the wood.
It went all stiff.

The wimp wood.
How it struck at our wounds and aches
and pushed their doors wide open!

That's how it heals.

*[Low Saxon *Fleder *(*vleyder*) and North German *Flieder *are used to
refer both to elderbushes and to lilac bushes.]
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