Grendel, suspicious of Beowulf's intentions with Hrothgar, set out to spy on the men. "It is not well," he thought, "when one's enemies receive reinforcement from the sea, nor when men value life so little." His efforts to evict the interlopers from his ancestral land have thus far proven ineffective. They are willing to give more life than he is willing to take. His mother knows little of their presence, and nothing of his campaign against them.
Sigrún
Glad that Grendel was gone _ absent from Grethe
Had wandered into the world _ and would not return
Until the sky-spirit _ began to nod,
Sigrún prepared the palace _ to make proud
Her beloved son _ that bright boy
Her only child _ who she cherished
More dearly than any miser _ more greedily than Midas
Relished in his riches. _ That son of Rasmus
Was the song in her heart _ and spring in her step.
She cleared floors _ and filled rooms
With glowing globes _ glorious fire from her fingertips
Driving out shadows _ that might dare to disturb
The gaieties to come _ with their lengthening
Fingers grasping at guests _ and teasing Time's hands
_ _ To a more fleeting tempo.
She hummed a tune _ as she hammer-headed nails
That sprouted up _ from the ancient floor
Like the thorns _ of a creeping briar
Ready to tear _ at tender feet,
As she honed Hjördís _ to a handsome edge
A singing sharpness _ that was Sigrún's song.
A dance floor cannot _ be dangerous to down-steppers
Nor a dull blade botch _ a beat in a syncopated battle
Even a stone-soled spectator _ and tone deaf friar
Know that so things are _ so they have been
And so they will stay. _ The security in uncertainty
The comfort in conflict _ and the cares of queens
Who keep their castles _ as if entire kingdoms.
Thus she prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and countless _ other creatures of the deep
Would spin about _ the light-soaked space
Boasting bright garb _ and feasting bountifully
On the wild riches _ found in her realm.
Each turret and tower _ teeming with friends
Each wall and window _ echoing with lifejoy
Such as comes _ solely from creatures
Without wickedness _ or sorrow weighty
Upon their hearts. _ Happy in life
And careful not to squander _ that coveted gift.
She prepared her home _ for that honored hour
When she and that _ shining horde
Would spar with words _ and also weapons
Carefully building their minds _ as well as their bodies
In strength and agility _ in tribute to their wonder
_ _ And in merriment.
She threw wide the windows _ and wove wildflowers
Into awesome arrangements _ their aroma borne
By a current _ which came cool and calm
And danced with the light _ that leapt about
From glistening crystal _ to glittering gold
Of a castle constructed _ of countless treasures:
Looking glass walls _ laced with webs
Of gold speckled _ with spidergems and stardust.
It was an ancient place _ of another age
Of souls long at slumber _ and songs long since sung.
The stars that shone _ upon those spires
When first they rose _ reaching ever upwards
Were not those _ which would throw down their light
On the night anticipated _ by Sigrún, anxious.
She readied her realm _ and rallied guests
To make revelry _ and when the time came
Give praising voices _ to glory-born Grendel
Who had seen _ his seventeenth September sun.
Grendel, aware of Beowulf's arrival and receipt by Hrothgar, goes to Herot to uncover their scheme. Wearing a disguise, he loiters outside the hall's main entrance, carefully collecting intelligence.
The Plot Against Grendel
They awoke with heads _ heavy from mead
And purses light _ from the lavish bacchanal
Of the bygone night. _ Those noble warriors
Those pillars among men _ who muttered of righteousness
During daylight hours _ not daring to offend
The eye of God _ but who gargled of misdeeds
Boasted of brutality _ and bore shame on banners
When that beautiful orb _ blinked, casting
The world into darkness _ and the Danes into sin
And with them the Gaets _ were as glorious by day
And as wicked by night _ as any warped man
_ _ Of Hrothgar's guard, court, or country.
These shamers of mankind _ malady upon the land
And upon the people _ and upon peace
Awoke with heavy heads _ and hearts hoping
To lessen a lord _ of the land that was
Rightfully his, _ yet wanted by Hrothgar.
Their tongues beat _ like booming war-drums
And their eyes glinted _ with dreams of gold
And of bloody scenes, _ shimmered at the thought
Of weeping wounds _ wrapped around the form
Of a majestic youth. _ A monster, said they
Unto the peasants. _ A demon, unto the priests.
Lies carefully concocted _ to crust the minds
Of men who may _ remember and respect
The truth of Grendel _ and his great ancestors.
All this he _ heard, and hated
His vehemence waxing _ with every word,
Spoken or soundless, _ that slithered
From foul tongues _ and fermented minds.
His anger festered _ and his heart feared,
The lord in him _ livid about this scheming
And the mortal _ mightily mindful of death:
A prince of peace _ perceiving war
In all its terror _ for his first time.
"Surely," thought he, _ "something can be said
Words can be woven _ with which we
Can curtail conflict. _ Cruel as they are
Their blood is also red _ their bones also break
They live and love _ and so, life-loving,
Cannot care _ to create death.
Let us talk together _ as men of thought.
Let me join them _ that we may joust
With words rather _ than with weapons."
And so speaking _ he swung wide
The double doors _ upon a drinking hall
Seasoned with sworded enemies _ and suddenly silent.
*This work inspired by characters and events from the Beowulf epic.
Saturday
My Garden
My garden's full of many things
likely to impress
And my mouth is full of many things
which I wish to profess
But I haven't got the flower and I haven't got the ear
the former the most lovely and the latter them to hear
My garden's full of many things
likely to impress
great stands of fragrant citrus trees beneath which I may rest
and eat their fruits and dream my dreams
there's no question that I'm blessed
For it's eternal spring-time
and the sky is always blue
the breeze is always gentle
and the flowers always bloom
and their beaming faces greet me as I move along my way
amidst the beds of poppies and through shade where violets lay
and 'neath the heads of sunflowers and o'er a sea of white
of clover swaying sweetly in the lazy, hazy light
Yes, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and hasn't a single sickly weed worthy of redress
But it hasn't got the flower that I hold to be most dear
and though I've many listeners
I've words that they can't hear
They come in fragrant phrases, they come at whispered whims
they explode like pyrotechnics, they sing like Seraphim
I try my best to lull them, to keep them held at bay
I chain them down, I bribe and beg
but they won't be locked away!
they fight and twist and pinch and punch 'till I must yield and have them said
They tumble out and give their show
but I haven't got those ears, you know
so neither they nor I win in the long run
Oh, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and my mouth is full of many things
which wish to be professed
But the garden stands for nothing and the words just sound absurd
when the former's something lacking and the latter go unheard
likely to impress
And my mouth is full of many things
which I wish to profess
But I haven't got the flower and I haven't got the ear
the former the most lovely and the latter them to hear
My garden's full of many things
likely to impress
great stands of fragrant citrus trees beneath which I may rest
and eat their fruits and dream my dreams
there's no question that I'm blessed
For it's eternal spring-time
and the sky is always blue
the breeze is always gentle
and the flowers always bloom
and their beaming faces greet me as I move along my way
amidst the beds of poppies and through shade where violets lay
and 'neath the heads of sunflowers and o'er a sea of white
of clover swaying sweetly in the lazy, hazy light
Yes, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and hasn't a single sickly weed worthy of redress
But it hasn't got the flower that I hold to be most dear
and though I've many listeners
I've words that they can't hear
They come in fragrant phrases, they come at whispered whims
they explode like pyrotechnics, they sing like Seraphim
I try my best to lull them, to keep them held at bay
I chain them down, I bribe and beg
but they won't be locked away!
they fight and twist and pinch and punch 'till I must yield and have them said
They tumble out and give their show
but I haven't got those ears, you know
so neither they nor I win in the long run
Oh, my garden's full of many things
likely to impress
and my mouth is full of many things
which wish to be professed
But the garden stands for nothing and the words just sound absurd
when the former's something lacking and the latter go unheard
Tuesday
A manifesto of sorts
To you: I believe, and yes, I love. I don't give a damn what those scientists with all their diplomas and test tubes say. I do not believe that anything as beautiful and perfect as this world, as the sky above and earth below and birdsandbeesanddaisiesandcocoatrees and everything else in between could have just HAPPENED. I can't watch the turn of the sun in the sky or feel the embrace of a cool breeze on a hot day or hear the whispered ecstasies of two young lovers and not know that someone is responsible. Someone amazing, and beautiful.
I can't watch the color come to your cheeks when you smile and think that you are an accident. I can't feel life pulsing through my veins and imagine that were it not for a highly specific, highly unlikely set of circumstances I wouldn't be here. I can't. I have someone to thank for you, and for me.
There are no accidents, there are no mistakes. Not when it comes to things as large and lovely as life and limes and leopards. Imagine the artistry, the intellect! Imagine what it took to design one wing of a plain brown moth! Imagine what care and patience it took to design each of the shells in the ocean. Can you? I can just barely grasp at it, like there's something much, much bigger and much, much more important to be seen..
What a master of art, of creation, of compassion and kindness and generosity. To have made all these beautiful things and not kept them horded away? To have been as proud of each and every one of them as it would be impossible not to be (of daisies and of lemons and of you and of me), and to have given it all away. Given us away. To free will. To each other. Given us everything that we need, and more. Not just the skills to survive, the skills to scavenge and hunt and keep safe in bad weather and avoid dangerous animals, but the ability to think! the ability to love!
We are given the ability to love, and as far as I am concerned that's good enough for me. I love and trust this creator much too much to begin questioning intentions. I am a work of this hand, in this image, and I am not so ungrateful as to reject the ability to love as it is given to me.
Some people worry that teaching us about evolution in school will make us question faith. Before that they feared that if we studied anatomy of the human body we would offend God. Before that, it was heresy to suggest that Earth was anything but flat, with Heaven above and Hell below. We now know that the world is a sphere. We have studied and labeled every piece of man's physical form. We are taught evolution. These things do not make me question my faith, rather, they make me believe even more strongly than before. And yet, how exquisite is the brain, the mind, that through its study even our most learned doctors are left with more questions than when they began so many centuries ago, and scarcely many more answers! How perfect that every creature in nature exists as part of a large-scale pattern! How appropriate that with the discovery of Earth's shape there is no longer room for Hell in the layout of our world.
But, oh! there is certainly room for Heaven! All you have to do is look up, and there is your proof. Look inside yourself; it is there, too. With as much care and precision as it took to construct the wing of that little brown moth just so perfectly that the creature can fly, my our aligned and arranged the cosmos to give us a glimpse of the wonderful world that is waiting for us (and in a way so that they don't get all tangled up and keep bumping into each other, besides.)
This is how I see my creator, who you may choose to call God, and this is where I see Him: in nature, in the heavens, in you, in me.
My creator, as I understand it, does not feel hate. Nor wrath. Nor the compulsion to damn any single one of we beautiful, perfect creations to an eternity of suffering. Each of us is loved unconditionally. My creator, as I understand it, would never even allow such a place as Hell to exist. My creator's forgiveness is too great; love, too strong. Such base sentiments as hate and loathing do not belong.
It sickens me to see how over the ages this messages of love, kindness, respect, generosity, and forgiveness have been muddled up and made subject to the whims and grudges of, pardon the term, mere mortals. I loathe to see atrocities carried out in the name of God, of Allah, or Yahweh, etc., against objects of the creator's adoration. Christianity and all other faiths, in essence, are about being the best that you can possibly be. They are about loving unconditionally, respecting uniformly, and forgiving absolutely. It isn't easy. That's the point.
My creator demands nothing, but expects everything. My creator expects me to see this wonderful world around me, and to see you before me, and to love it all, and to love him/her. And I do. My creator expects me to strive to be the best person that I can be, not in fear of eternal torment, but in anticipation of eternal paradise. My creator expects me to ensure that I feel as if I deserve to be there when finally my time comes.
I talk to my creator. I pray. I talk about my problems, I ask for strength to make it through tough times, I offer praise. Praise of those cocoa trees and those leopards and of you. Praise of my mind, thanks that for all the opportunities to use it that I have. Thanks for the glorious ability to love and be loved. Thanks for you.
I consider myself spiritual. I do not go to church. To me, it seems more appropriate to worship in nature, which was created by the hands of my creator, than in any structure made by the hands of men. I do not ridicule or disparage those who do choose to worship in these holy houses. However, I harshly condemn those who go through the motions, go to the services, claim that they're faithful.. but fail to show it. You know the type. They damn the people I love, the people that our creator loves, and praise God/Allah/Yahweh/etc. all in one breath. They beat down the spirits of others and then turn those same hands upward. It is they that I do not want praying for me. So, forgive me that I offended before.
I love my creator. I love the life that I am given. And I love you.
If this is a sin, then I understand neither the nature of right or wrong nor my creator.
To everyone else: I do not expect you to agree with me. I do not expect you to disagree with me. I do not expect you to respond. I would not mind hearing what you think, how you feel, how you react, though. However, if you can not keep it respectful, keep it to yourself. If you can not keep it to yourself, it will be deleted. These are my thoughts and beliefs, and I put them forth simply in order to clear the air of some misconceptions that may have been floating around lately. Finally, if you read all the way through, I commend you.
I can't watch the color come to your cheeks when you smile and think that you are an accident. I can't feel life pulsing through my veins and imagine that were it not for a highly specific, highly unlikely set of circumstances I wouldn't be here. I can't. I have someone to thank for you, and for me.
There are no accidents, there are no mistakes. Not when it comes to things as large and lovely as life and limes and leopards. Imagine the artistry, the intellect! Imagine what it took to design one wing of a plain brown moth! Imagine what care and patience it took to design each of the shells in the ocean. Can you? I can just barely grasp at it, like there's something much, much bigger and much, much more important to be seen..
What a master of art, of creation, of compassion and kindness and generosity. To have made all these beautiful things and not kept them horded away? To have been as proud of each and every one of them as it would be impossible not to be (of daisies and of lemons and of you and of me), and to have given it all away. Given us away. To free will. To each other. Given us everything that we need, and more. Not just the skills to survive, the skills to scavenge and hunt and keep safe in bad weather and avoid dangerous animals, but the ability to think! the ability to love!
We are given the ability to love, and as far as I am concerned that's good enough for me. I love and trust this creator much too much to begin questioning intentions. I am a work of this hand, in this image, and I am not so ungrateful as to reject the ability to love as it is given to me.
Some people worry that teaching us about evolution in school will make us question faith. Before that they feared that if we studied anatomy of the human body we would offend God. Before that, it was heresy to suggest that Earth was anything but flat, with Heaven above and Hell below. We now know that the world is a sphere. We have studied and labeled every piece of man's physical form. We are taught evolution. These things do not make me question my faith, rather, they make me believe even more strongly than before. And yet, how exquisite is the brain, the mind, that through its study even our most learned doctors are left with more questions than when they began so many centuries ago, and scarcely many more answers! How perfect that every creature in nature exists as part of a large-scale pattern! How appropriate that with the discovery of Earth's shape there is no longer room for Hell in the layout of our world.
But, oh! there is certainly room for Heaven! All you have to do is look up, and there is your proof. Look inside yourself; it is there, too. With as much care and precision as it took to construct the wing of that little brown moth just so perfectly that the creature can fly, my our aligned and arranged the cosmos to give us a glimpse of the wonderful world that is waiting for us (and in a way so that they don't get all tangled up and keep bumping into each other, besides.)
This is how I see my creator, who you may choose to call God, and this is where I see Him: in nature, in the heavens, in you, in me.
My creator, as I understand it, does not feel hate. Nor wrath. Nor the compulsion to damn any single one of we beautiful, perfect creations to an eternity of suffering. Each of us is loved unconditionally. My creator, as I understand it, would never even allow such a place as Hell to exist. My creator's forgiveness is too great; love, too strong. Such base sentiments as hate and loathing do not belong.
It sickens me to see how over the ages this messages of love, kindness, respect, generosity, and forgiveness have been muddled up and made subject to the whims and grudges of, pardon the term, mere mortals. I loathe to see atrocities carried out in the name of God, of Allah, or Yahweh, etc., against objects of the creator's adoration. Christianity and all other faiths, in essence, are about being the best that you can possibly be. They are about loving unconditionally, respecting uniformly, and forgiving absolutely. It isn't easy. That's the point.
My creator demands nothing, but expects everything. My creator expects me to see this wonderful world around me, and to see you before me, and to love it all, and to love him/her. And I do. My creator expects me to strive to be the best person that I can be, not in fear of eternal torment, but in anticipation of eternal paradise. My creator expects me to ensure that I feel as if I deserve to be there when finally my time comes.
I talk to my creator. I pray. I talk about my problems, I ask for strength to make it through tough times, I offer praise. Praise of those cocoa trees and those leopards and of you. Praise of my mind, thanks that for all the opportunities to use it that I have. Thanks for the glorious ability to love and be loved. Thanks for you.
I consider myself spiritual. I do not go to church. To me, it seems more appropriate to worship in nature, which was created by the hands of my creator, than in any structure made by the hands of men. I do not ridicule or disparage those who do choose to worship in these holy houses. However, I harshly condemn those who go through the motions, go to the services, claim that they're faithful.. but fail to show it. You know the type. They damn the people I love, the people that our creator loves, and praise God/Allah/Yahweh/etc. all in one breath. They beat down the spirits of others and then turn those same hands upward. It is they that I do not want praying for me. So, forgive me that I offended before.
I love my creator. I love the life that I am given. And I love you.
If this is a sin, then I understand neither the nature of right or wrong nor my creator.
To everyone else: I do not expect you to agree with me. I do not expect you to disagree with me. I do not expect you to respond. I would not mind hearing what you think, how you feel, how you react, though. However, if you can not keep it respectful, keep it to yourself. If you can not keep it to yourself, it will be deleted. These are my thoughts and beliefs, and I put them forth simply in order to clear the air of some misconceptions that may have been floating around lately. Finally, if you read all the way through, I commend you.
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