Friday, September 5, 2014

From the Complete Works of Anonymous (2)



I am fire-fretted and I flirt with Wind;

my limbs are light-freighted and I am lapped in flame;
storm-stacked, I strain to fly;

I am a grove, leaf-bearing, and a glowing ember.
From hand to friend’s hand about the hall I go,
so much do lords and ladies love to kiss me.
When I hold myself high, and the whole company
bow quiet before me, their blessedness
shall flourish skyward beneath my fostering shade.


The wave, over the wave, a weird thing I saw,
thorough-wrought, and wonderfully ornate:
a wonder on the wave – water become bone.


I saw four fine creatures
travelling in company; their tracks were dark,
their trail very black. The bird that floats
in the air swoops less swiftly than their leader;
he dived beneath the wave. Drudgery was it
for the fellow that taught all four of them their ways
on their ceaseless visits to the vessel of gold.


My home is not silent: I myself am not loud.
The Lord has provided for the pair of us
a joint expedition. I am speedier than he
and sometimes stronger; he stays the course better.
Sometimes I rest, but he runs on.
For as long as I live I live in him;
if we leave one another it is I who must die.


Men are fond of me. I am found everywhere,
brought in from the woods and the beetling cliffs,
from down and from dale. In the daylight, wings
raised me aloft, then into a roof’s shade
swung me in sweetly. Sweltered then
by men in a bath, I am a binder now,
soon a thrasher, a thrower next:
I’ll put an old fellow flat on the ground.
A man who tries to take me on,
tests my strength, soon finds out,
if his silly plan doesn’t pall on him,
that it is his back that will hit the dust.
Loud in words, he has lost control
of his hands and feet; his head doesn’t work;
his strength has gone. Guess my name
who has such mastery of men on earth
that I knock them about even in broad daylight.

   A much overlooked, even disparaged form of poetry, these riddles – and dozens of others which only lack of space precludes inclusion – have given me hours of fun in the classroom over many years; a marvellous way of introducing children to more difficult and more serious poetry without losing them amidst the obscurities of language. Each riddle is really an extended metaphor; a rhetorical metaphor, in that it asks you, the reader, to figure out what the metaphor is in itself, rather than its purpose in describing something else. But it functions as a game, rather than an academic travail, which is why schoolchildren enjoy trying to resolve them. Perhaps my readers might like to compose a riddle of their own, poetically of course, and submit them to my publisher for inclusion in a modern volume?

    I have not, myself, any definite certainty about the solutions. I take the first to be a Yule log; the second to be ice; the third – goose feather and sheep’s blood – to be handwriting; the fourth, though it could be any strong liquor, because of its early mediaeval date, to be mead; the fifth a fish, perhaps a salmon, swimming up a river.

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