More Phoenix keeps emerging

Here is the end of section I and the start of section II, which emerged as I was preparing for my trip tomorrow. Maybe some more will join these before the day is through, I don't know yet.

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There are groves hanging with blossoms,
fair fruits which never fade there —
holy beneath the heavens, treasures of the forest.
The flowers never fall fallow to the ground there
from the lovely wood-beams, but there wondrously
the boughs in the trees are always bearing fruit again—
at every season the brightest bowers stand
on the green grassy plain, joyously adorned
with power of the Holy One. The form of the forest
is never broken. There a sacred odor abides
throughout that delightful land. It will never be changed
ever forever, not before the Wise One who shaped it
at its origin finishes his ancient work. (71-84)


II.

That wood is watched over by a wondrously fair
fowl, strong of feathers, which is called the Phoenix.
There that lone-dweller observes that land,
brave-minded of bearing. Death shall never harm him
in that desired land, so long as the world remains.
He must behold the course of the sun
and come toward God’s candle,
the gem of gladness, eagerly attending it,
when up comes the most noble of stars
over the waved sea, gleaming from the east,
the Father’s olden work dazzling with jewels,
the bright token of God. The stars are hidden,
departed beneath the waves towards the west,
obscured in the daybreak and the dark night
descends dusky. Then the strong-winged bird
proud in its wandering, in the mountain stream
under the sky, eagerly makes witness over the water
when the light of the heavens comes up from the east
gliding over the broad expanse of the sea. (85-103)

More Phoenix I

A little bit more before I go home for the holidays--

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There are no hated foes there in that land,
neither weeping nor pain, no grief-signs at all,
old age nor misery nor the goading of death,
neither the life’s losing nor the hateful coming,
no sin nor strife nor sore-wrack’s knife,
not the struggle of poverty nor the want of prosperity,
not sorrow nor sleep nor the sad grave—
neither storming snow nor change of weather,
harsh under the heavens, nor the stern frosts,
with icicles cold and chilly crashes down upon any. (50-59)

There neither hail nor frost falls to the earth,
nor windy cloud; no waters tumble down there,
troubled by the breeze, but there streams of water,
wondrously intricate, springs forth in wells,
in fair surgings of flood. The ground is slaked
with winsome waters from the midst of the woods.
Then every month from the turves of the earth
they break forth sea-cold, cross every grove,
gloriously at times. That is the order of the Lord:
that twelve times a year that majestic land
overflows with the delights of watery floods. (60-70)

Baby steps with the Phoenix

The Phoenix is one of the more lovely pieces of Anglo-Saxon verse, filled with internal rhymes and careful repetition. So I'm going slowly on this one. Just taking tiny steps until I really get the feel for it. I would love to have it done in time for my poetry class to read in March, but I have a feeling that that can't happen. Not at the rate this must go.

Anyways, I'll be gone and without computer for a few weeks starting Saturday. So have a happy holiday season and catch up on the Genesis while I'm gone. :)

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Prosperous is that victory-plain, shining the sunny groves,
joyful the wooded forests. The flowers never fail,
the bright blossoms, but the trees ever stand green,
just as God commanded. The woods in winter and summer
are alike, hanging with fruit. The leaves under the breeze
are never corrupted, nor does the flame ever harm them—
as it was before the change of the world occurred.
When the majesty of the water, the sea-flood covered
all of middle-earth of old, the circle of the world
so that noble plain, altogether perfect, stood steadfast
against the heaving way of the rough waves
blessed, unspoiled, through the mercy of God.
It endures blossoming until the coming of the blaze,
of the judgment of the Lord, when the death-halls,
the shadowy coffers of men, become unclosed. (33-49)

Retry: the start of the Phoenix part I

I have learned that there is the best of lands far from here,
in eastern places, according to the report of men.
This corner of the world cannot be reached by folk-rulers,
many across middle-earth, for it is withdrawn beyond them
the sin-makers, by the might of the Measurer. Lovely is this whole land,
blessed with joys and with the fairest odors of the earth.
Unique is that well-watered realm, noble that wright, proud
and abounding in might, he who established that ground.
Often there is open the door of heaven’s empire and revealed
to the blessed the bliss of singing. That is a joyful place,
the groves green and roomy beneath the heavens.
Neither the rain or the snow can spoil it a bit—
not the frost’s blowing nor the fire’s throwing,
not the hail’s tumbling nor the rime’s fumbling,
not the heat of the sun nor the everlocking cold,
not the warm weather nor winter’s shower—
but that realm endures, prosperous and absolute. (1-20a)

The noble province is blown with blossoms.
Neither peaks nor steep hills stand there, nor stony cliffs
hang over the heights, as they do here among us,
not caves nor clefts nor carvings in the hill-sides,
rills neither ridges, nor any kind of rough scarps
but that worthy plain ever burgeons under the skies,
increases its pleasures. That bright land is higher
than the surrounding earth by twelve fathoms—
as is revealed to us by the report of the wise,
the prophets through the wisdom of the Scriptures—
than any of these bright mountains that here among us
hang over the heights under the stars of heaven. (20b-32)

The Phoenix has begun!

Hello,

I have tried to be assiduous about working on other projects, teaching, and editing the finished translations (lots of commas to get rid of!), and so have let the forward progress of the website founder a bit. But last night I got bit again by the translation bug, and started work on The Phoenix. I just got through the first twenty lines or so and am still trying to figure out the right poetic voice for the poem, since it stands out among the other ASNPP translations in that it is hardly a narrative poem, more just a description of a wonder and then an explication of that wonder set into verse. The results of this new jag will appear here sporadically and the complete translation so far will be collected on its own page (the link can be found to the right).

In other news, I am teaching a course in the spring semester called "Woven Word-hoards: A Survey of the Earliest English Poetry" where we will go through at least a sample of everything in Anglo-Saxon verse (except the Metres of Boethius and the Paris Psalter), but including the full Genesis A & B (now that there's a low-cost verse translation available :P). It already has 31 students enrolled, so I'm happy that it seems interesting to so many.

I'm wondering about the textbook I ordered for the class: the brand-new collection called The Word Exchange (Norton, 2011). It's too late to change it now, but I am interested about your thoughts on the translations there. Do you like the book? Would you use it to teach from? What do you think are its strengths and weaknesses? I think the Riddles are spotty, but am generally happy with the rest of the volume, and especially love that it includes an Anglo-Saxon text on the facing page. Should be useful in imparting that these poems are important and urgent enough to justify such an audacious new effort to translate them by so many renowned poets.

I'll keep you all posted about how the class is going and how the various poems strike me as I prep for class as well as how the class reacts to them. It'll sort of be an ongoing blog book review...

Anyways, here's what I have of The Phoenix:

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So I have learned that there is the best of lands far from here,
in eastern places, according to the report of men.
This corner of the world cannot be reached by many folk-rulers
across middle-earth for it is withdrawn beyond the sin-doers
by the might of the Measurer. Lovely is this whole land,
blessed with joys and with the fairest odors of the earth.
Unique is that well-watered land, noble that wright, proud
and abounding in might, he who established the world.
There often open is the door of heaven’s realm and revealed
to the blessed, the bliss of singing. That is a joyful place,
the groves green and roomy beneath the heavens.
Neither the rain or the snow can spoil it a bit—
not the frost’s blowing nor the fire’s throwing,
not the hail’s tumbling nor the rime’s fumbling,
not the heat of the sun nor the everlocking cold,
not the warm weather nor winter’s shower—