Forþfæderas

I wrote this as part of our Read To Write study of Beowulf.

It's an Anglo-Saxon form but in modern English - the break in the middle
of the line is marked with the vertical line. The key elements of Anglo-Saxon poetry
are alliteration and, common in the language itself, compound words.

The Anglo-Saxon culture came from the Vikings, where bravery in battle was seen as
honourable and poetry was used to tell tales around bravery of forefathers, which is
what the title of the poem means. The þ is a "th" sound.

For comparison, here are some lines from Beowulf:

Gewát ðá néosian | syþðan niht becóm
héän húses | hú hit Hring-Dene
æfter béorþege | gebún hæfdon
fand þá ðaér inne | æþelinga gedriht
swefan æfter symble | sorge ne cúðon
wonsceaft wera | wiht unhaélo
grim ond graédig | gearo sóna wæs
réoc ond réþe | ond on ræste genam
þrítig þegna | þanon eft gewát
húðe hrémig | tó hám faran
mid þaére wælfylle | wíca néosan

I performed it at the National Coal Mining Museum in June 2019. I thought that my forefathers deserved commemorating as the Vikings would have. 

Forþfæderas

In olden days | those darkest times
Forefathers came | from many lands
wend from the West | where work was failing
breaking bridges | to bide in brick-homes
lads of land-craft | who learned the new ways
cutting coal | by candle-flicker
soon to settle | as strangers to
their northern neighbours | nights and days
of weary working | wives at home
as men are mining | their muscles pound
and sweat is sliding | sinews creaking
in the dust-dirt of | the Devil's homestead.

Where lamps are lit | and leather strapping
wraps the warriors | who wield their axes
hack and hew | and heed no fear
despite the danger | in the darkness
gas and groaning | of great wood-cages
black-rock bearing | in brutish nightmare
roof-rock falling | red blood flowing
a widow is walking | while in death-tears
black in binding | bitter her burden
comrades carry | the coffin onward
and lower her lover | his life-force rising
to heaven's heartland  | helmet shining.

Dust to dust | in Derby's county
songs of sorrow | sung in honour
of men who marched | in merciless worm-tracks
in throes of thunder | thirst and hardship
their form is fading | fast to past-times
the lives they led | in legendary yore-days
recalled in reverence | rightly cherished
our kith and kin | our kings and queens
blood that binds us | bound forever.

Tim Fellows 2019


Image by Arthur_ASCII from Pixabay