Transience In Early Medieval English

This guided meditation invites you to contemplate two poems from early medieval England. Read in the original Old English and in modern English translations, the poems invite us to reflect on the transience of each passing moment.

Transcript

Hello friend,

Welcome to this guided meditation and poetry reading.

Today we meditate with two poems from early medieval England.

They are composed in Old English,

That form of the language that was spoken around a thousand years ago.

Both consider the transience of life on earth and they invite us to do likewise.

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 once more,

Breathing in and out.

Let your breath return to its natural rhythm.

I will read the poems first in Old English and then in Modern English.

It doesn't matter if you don't understand them at first.

Let the sounds flow around you.

Let the words come and go.

Notice any thoughts or feelings that arise,

But hold them lightly.

Let them go when you can and return to the sound of my voice.

Our first poem is called Déor.

It is spoken by a poet reflecting on some of the most well-known stories of his people.

He thinks of Wayland,

The legendary smith captured by a king and made to craft beautiful objects in captivity.

He thinks of Beorúhild,

The daughter of that king,

Attacked by Wayland in revenge and left by him destitute and pregnant.

He thinks of Théodric,

A king who ruled for 30 years and then lost his kingdom.

Finally,

The poet tells his own story,

How he served a king for many years but was then replaced by another.

After each story,

The poet repeats the central message of the poem.

Thas ova rheóde thiis suámál Thát passed away,

So may this.

Déor Wayland hym bewormann ráchas konáde anhí di éor,

Éor vazhaadreá áf thé hym tó jeseaðe sórge an lóngaaf.

Winter chéalté ráché Wayan áft ánfond sídán híne níðháld an nédíléchte swóngre séanabénte an sílanmón.

Thas ova rheóde thiis suámál Wayland,

Among the weremas,

Suffered woe.

High-minded lord,

He went through torments long.

Sorrow and longing were his company,

Winter-cold exile.

Hardship was his lot after níðháad with supple sinew bonds,

Condemned the better man to live in bondage.

That passed away.

So níðes.

Théadó hilde níwaz her bróðr a deáth on seven swasár,

Swáhir a silvra thing.

Thaat héo járólice,

On jett en haavte,

But héo eichen was.

Ávrí jemíchte,

Thris de jethankan,

Goem daat séáde.

Thas ova rheóde,

Thiis suámál.

Beharadó hild grieved less for her brother's death than for her own distress when she perceived that she was pregnant.

She could not foresee how that mishap could ever turn out well.

That passed away.

So made this.

Théodríg a detríg de windra marringaberg,

Thaat was mónigam kús.

Thas ova rheóde,

Thiis suámál.

Théodríg ruled the city of the Marings for thirty years,

That was well known to many.

That passed away.

So made this.

Sítith sochéri,

Salem bídálí,

On sevins wércheth silvan thinketh,

Fá síen de léas írvídá dál.

Mí thóne jethinken,

Fát je onsas wárd,

Wíchte tríchten wende thíneírí,

Ír mónigam ár víseajwáth,

Wílích níblárd sumam wéaná dál.

The anxious,

Grieving man,

Deprived of joy,

Lives with a darkened mind.

It seems to him his share of sorrows will be everlasting.

But he can think that in this world wise God brings change continually.

To many a man he offers grace,

Assured prosperity,

But others he assigns a share of woe.

Þot ích bímí silvan sei jan wílle,

Þot ích hwíle wáz heaðinníngeshok,

Tríchne dirr,

Mé wóz deo nóma,

Ácht ích féra wintra fólgáthtína hóldních lávórd,

Óat íorénda nú,

Leod gráftimán,

Nóndre hí tha,

Ðat mé íorle hléo ar hicerde.

Thus óver rheode,

This is why mine.

About my own plight,

Now I wish to speak.

Once I was minstrel of the herdonings.

Dear to my patron,

And my name was Deo.

I held for many years a fine position and a loyal lord,

Until íorénda now,

That skilful poet,

Has received my lands,

Which once my lord and master gave to me.

That passed away,

So may this.

Our second poem is known as The Ruin.

Here the poet wanders through the ruins of an ancient city.

It is perhaps the remains of the Roman settlement at Bath in England.

Centuries have passed since the city was built.

Now the poet sees only fallen towers,

Broken roofs,

Moss-covered walls.

The city has been struck by war,

Famine,

Disease.

Its inhabitants have left,

Or they have been driven away.

And yet,

In the poet's imagination,

We see the luxury and the beauty of that former bathhouse.

The city comes to life again,

If only for the briefest of moments.

The Ruin Ratlich ist es welstan,

Wyrr je bracken,

Borgsted bursden,

Brösnath ente je werk.

Frouwast sin gi hreorne,

Freogaturas,

Brunga ad verovn,

Primon liem,

Sheard shorweorg,

Shornae,

Idrornae,

Aldo undaritone.

Splendid this rampart is,

Though fate destroyed it.

The city buildings fell apart,

The works of giants crumble.

Tumbled are the towers,

Ruined the roofs,

And broken the barred gate,

Frost in the plaster,

All the ceilings gape,

Torn and collapsed and eaten up by age.

Eaodgrab haveth walden dwyrstan,

Forwyrne,

Ilaorne,

Heald gripe rusan,

On hund knaea,

Wyrrtheoda jwijden.

Óf vas wagge bald,

Raghar und reofar,

Riche aftarodron,

Óf stonden ðnder stormem,

Steyab gieab iitreas.

Grit holds in its grip the hard embrace of earth,

The dead departed master builders,

Until a hundred generations now of people have passed by.

Often this war,

Stained red and grey with lichen,

Has stood by,

Surviving storms while kingdoms rose and fell,

And now the high,

Curved war itself has fallen.

Mód mónede,

Minne swídne jebraag,

Hwatra din gringas,

Eorof jebond,

Wéawel an wírrem,

Wúnrem to gádre.

Béoch,

Warren bödyr achtend,

Börden sere mónye,

Héa,

Hórnye estreon,

Hérswe míchel,

Mea lu héal,

Móny,

Móndre amafu.

Ó that,

Thát on wénde,

Wéard seo swíde.

The heart inspired,

Incited to swift action,

Resolute masons,

Skilled in rounded building,

Wondrously linked the framework with iron bonds.

The public halls were bright,

With lofty gables,

Bathhouses many,

Great the cheerful noise,

And many mead halls filled with human pleasures,

Till mighty fate brought change upon it all.

Grungen,

Wálowide,

Kwóman woldagas,

Swíd eá fórnán,

Sej gróra wéra,

Wórden héra wíxteal,

Wésten státholas,

Brósnade,

Bòrxteal.

Vítend grungen,

Hérgas,

Tú hruasan.

Slaughter was widespread,

Pestilence was rife,

And death took all those valiant men away.

The martial halls became deserted places,

The city crumbled,

Its repairers fell,

Its armies to the earth.

Vórglan,

Fas hóvudreagas,

An fas teafagairpa,

Tígallan,

Shéadas,

Gróstbegeas,

Gróf.

Frere wógnjekron,

Jebraochn te bergam,

Thar jó béormánig,

Cládmál an gód béocht,

Glaama jefrahtwel,

Róngk on winggal,

Wé hírstem shán,

Seo an síg,

An sylvar,

An seo agrimas,

An ír,

An ach,

An ír kannstan,

An fas berten berg,

Braden rícheas.

And so these halls are empty,

And this red curved roof now sheds its tiles.

Decay has brought it to the ground,

Smashed it to piles of rubble,

Where long since a host of heroes,

Glorious,

Gold adorned,

Gleaming in splendor,

Proud and flushed with wine,

Shone in their armour,

Gazed on gems and treasure,

On silver,

Riches,

Wealth and jewellery,

On this bright city with its wide domains.

Stáinhovstóren stream ha't wéir bwínan wírne,

Wéal éal befang,

Béocht an bósmá,

Fathabáthuarne,

Ha't an hrethrae,

Thought was Itharíc.

Leht an thóna ihátán,

Ová harná stóne hát streamás,

Odát prígneir,

Fárthabáthuarne.

Stone building stood,

And the hot stream cast forth wide sprays of water,

Which a wall enclosed in its bright compass,

Where convenient stood hot baths ready for them at the centre.

Hot streams poured forth over the clear grey stone to the round pool and down into the baths.

The poem ends there.

It is itself a ruin,

For the medieval manuscript in which it was written down has been damaged over time.

The rest of the poem is now lost.

As Dayar might say,

That passed away,

So may this.

Every moment passes away,

And so will this.

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 dancing on your eyelids.

When you're ready,

Bring some movement into your body.

Wiggle your toes,

Wiggle your fingers,

Roll your shoulders,

Stretch up your arms,

And open your eyes.

Thank you for meditating with me today.

Reviews

That was a very different meditation experience for me. It’s fascinating how different the old English is from its modern counterpart. Almost sounds like Klingon!

Wow! This was nothing short of amazing. I listened while walking in the gentle dark of early evening. It was a perfect meditation. Thank you for this and I hope you continue creating these wonderful meditations 🙏