Grief And Loss In The Early Middle Ages

Hello friends,

Welcome to this guided meditation and poetry reading.

Today we meditate with two poems from the Middle Ages,

One from England and one from Iceland.

Both reflect on the loss of one's kin,

The pain of grief and the power of poetry as a response to such experiences.

Before we begin,

Settle yourself into a comfortable position,

Either seated or lying down.

Place your hands on your knees or lay them gently by your sides.

Close your eyes and take three deep breaths.

Breathing in and out.

Breathing in and out.

And one more time,

Breathing in and out.

I will read the poems in their original languages first and then in modern English.

Don't worry if the words mean little to you at first,

Simply listen to the sounds and a translation will follow.

If thoughts or feelings arise in your mind,

Notice them but let them go.

When you can,

Return to the sound of my voice.

The Lament of the Last Survivor is part of the poem known to us today as Beowulf.

Perhaps one of the most famous works from the Middle Ages,

It tells of the hero Beowulf and of his struggles against a series of monsters.

The last of these is a dragon who begins ravaging Beowulf's kingdom after the hero has ruled for fifty years.

In one last courageous act,

The aging king rides out to confront the dragon and so save his people.

Before he does so,

However,

The poet pauses to describe the origins of the dragon's treasure hoard.

It is,

We learn,

The fortune of an ancient tribe hidden in the earth by the last of them to survive.

The poet imagines this lonely figure and the words he might have spoken as he buried the treasure of his people.

Haltsu nuu ruse nu haleth ni mostam eor le achte quat it aranté gord beyeaton guzdeas gord nam seor beaalu frachle sira huilchne leor aminra darthe sis lief onyeath isaon sere drean.

Now earth,

May you hold what the heroes cannot,

The treasure of earls.

Indeed,

Good men got it from you in the first place.

But now death in battle has carried them off,

Deadly harm,

Terrible injury.

Each one of my people has now left this life,

Those who formerly knew the joys of the whole.

Na huasweorwea othe forthbearer fahe dewea trinchfa teore tuguth eroseo.

Now I have no one to bear the sword with,

Nor to polish the plated goblet,

The precious drinking vessel,

Trusty warriors have gone elsewhere.

Sze aal seher da helm hirst ek gold,

Fahtem befeaalen,

Feor mian sveavas,

Saas de baeado gringman bewain sheolden,

Jeswilche seo here baath,

Seo a hilde jebaath,

Ove borda jebraath bete eerana,

Brasnath afta beorme,

Le ma biernan hring afta weer freu man,

Weer fearen,

Feir man behaalwe.

The hardy helmet adorned with gold will lose its metal plates,

The armourer's sleep,

Those who should burnish the battle-mask,

And the coat of mail that endured the clash of shields,

The cut of iron swords,

Now rots away,

As does the warrior.

That mail-coat no longer travels with the war-leader amongst the heroes.

Naas herpen wen goomen glaeobaeamaz,

Ne goad haavach jeyon saas wingeth,

Nisi swifte mear bursteere beyatith,

Beyalu kweyam havas,

Feila feokkina,

Forr van sende.

The joy of the harp is no more the delightful sound of musical instruments,

Nor does the noble hawk sweep through the hall,

Or the swift horse gallop through the courtyard.

Death's destruction has sent forth many a living thing.

Swa yomorromor yodomande,

An aftart ealam,

Nblidekhwear,

Jayaz an nihtaz.

So sad at heart,

The one left behind gave voice to his pain,

And unhappily wept by day and by night.

It is of course a tragic tale,

But there is both power and humility in the speaker's words.

He does not push grief away,

But invites it in.

He seeks to understand the experience of loss,

And to remember in complex and beautiful verse those who are no more.

The power of poetry to help us understand the difficult experience is also seen in the medieval Icelandic tale known as Eil saga.

The protagonist,

Eyjeth,

Is the quintessential Viking poet.

He is rude,

Violent,

And ugly.

And yet he is able to compose the most beautiful and memorable verse.

He has many adventures over the course of the saga,

But in his old age he retires to a farmstead in Iceland,

Where he lives with his daughter Thorgeðr and her family.

One day he learns that his beloved son Böðvar has died,

Drowned at sea in a violent storm.

Eyjeth takes to his bed,

Grief-stricken,

Refusing to eat or drink.

Finally though,

His daughter Thorgeðr convinces him to compose a poem about the lost son.

Although it is difficult at first,

Eyjeth does so.

And the poem becomes a meditation not only on his son's death,

But on the many losses he has experienced over the course of his long life.

Eyjeth gains comfort and strength from remembering his loved ones,

And from creating a poem to honour their lives.

It is called Sonnadórik,

The loss of sons.

Nír arntríg chinggú arraíra,

Ír a lóptáin ríós púndará,

Ír a nír váin ím vídós tírfí,

Né hódraíg or ígar fílsní.

It is difficult for me to move my tongue,

The weight of the song is too heavy to raise.

The gods' prize,

Poetry,

Is beyond my grasp.

It is not easy to drag out from the hiding place of the mime.

Era ís ís tír,

Dví a ígí válde háve ríor,

Or hígí stáf fígna finníor,

Frík jard nír ár bórren,

Or rír ném.

To pour forth poetry from the place of the mime.

That joyful prize found by Frigg's family,

The gods,

Carried in ancient times from the world of the giants.

Þvi an íit min,

Á án da sténder,

Ár í bár smír,

Án flína rámárka.

Era karskár málur,

Ár ígígíl,

Pír sláin da,

Frírs,

A fletchím níður.

My family stands on the brink,

Pounded like plain trees,

Weathered at the end of the woods.

No man is glad when he carries the body of a kinsman from his house.

Só mún ích mí,

Á mód ár frór,

Fíðefar fírst ál tellja.

Þad bér ík ít o ár hálvi marr ír tínber máli áfjat.

I will speak first of the death of my mother,

The fall of my father.

I build for them a temple of words,

Timbered with praise,

Leaf with verse.

Grínd varn flídh at ír trín ím breiðh,

Fórðr míns a fraind gárðe,

Rídhec álvírd och ápíd standa,

Só ná skár ír mír sjár ím fám.

The waves broke through the wall of my family cruelly.

I see the empty open gap left by my son,

Caused by the sea.

Ník hever mar ník lúraíntan,

Grínd ír fár trín da at tellja,

Sídann ír min aunlinvea,

Áit as kjódur ál ír líví kvar.

The waves have robbed me of much.

It is grim to tell of the deaths of kinsmen.

My family's defender,

Bóðvar,

Has died.

He left for the afterlife,

For the world of joy.

Níg ech gí íg asóttil sák kar aat líd son ar banná,

Síd aal díol fírd íg ín berdar,

Gám on spáns gengi léisi.

But I do not think I have the strength to fight my son's killer.

An old man's weakness is clear to all.

Gáb ídrot ís of bági,

Ví vánar,

Váni fírda,

Aksvát eð er jeg gurðaner,

Físsa fjándr a fjællindn.

But Odin,

The god of war,

The god of words,

Gave me a gift that is beyond reproach,

A poetic art and a penetrating mind.

Ní ím jær stórda fíd,

Tvea bágá níor rváni,

A néis i sténdr,

Ska jeg so gládar með góð an vídja,

Ag ár ígir héir jeg bíða.

Life is hard for me now.

The figure of death stands on the headland.

But now I wait cheerfully.

I am resolute and without remorse.

History cannot prevent grief.

It cannot make up for the loss of loved ones or shield us from the sorrows that life brings.

It can,

However,

Help us make space for such experiences,

To accept them,

Perhaps even to understand them more fully.

It can be a companion in dark times and an expression of hope for those to come.

Take a deep breath in and a deep breath out.

Begin to notice the sounds around you.

Notice the feeling of your legs on the chair or the cushion.

Notice the light coming in through your eyelids.

Bring some movement into your body.

Wiggle your toes and fingers.

Roll your shoulders.

Stretch up your arms.

And when you're ready,

Open your eyes.

Thank you for meditating with me today.