Poetry :  Traditions as old as the sheep themselves!

Traditional Old Norse Poetry is a passion of ours.  There are many differing forms of verse in Norse literature.  The structure is too complex a topic for a brief explaination...   In short, the lines are tied together with alliterating stressed syllables.  Some types contain partial rhyming within the words while end-of-word rhymes only appear later in the viking age.

Woolens: in ljodhattr My lovely wife, Labors away, Making the woolens for me. By the window, Or by the hearth, Gracefully gathering yarn. She seldom stops, The spinning whorl, Or rests the knitting needles. All I could want, For winter wear, She forms from the gift of our flock. If happy she feels, Well fitting and fine, Her mood I see in the strands. She winds it tightly, When she's mad, Her thoughts I see in the threads. Late one night, I lagged at the pub, With a pint or two too many. When I got home, A hand-spun hat, Lay on the empty table. It's made too small, She must be mad. My ears stuck out from under. It rubs and chafes, And chokes the blood, But I do not dare to leave it. I'll wish it fit, When winter winds, Are howling 'round my head. My lovey can get, The last word in, Without saying a single word.

Separating Hviti from the Ewes: in fornyrdislag  Hviti the ram, The regal one, Taken away, The white-king was. I tricked him with grain, The gate then barred. Left now alone, With Annar the small. His harem now cloistered, And kept from his touch, He used to keep, The company of queens. Through the twisted wire, Watching his ewes, And at his back, The biting wind blows. Lost and lovelorn, Alone he stands. Yearning to feel, The flocks embrace. Lips tightly curled, The king shows his anger, And deeply bellows, From barreled chest. He calls to them, But they do not answer. His rule means little, The lord is dethroned.

Fall Shearing: in ljodhattr The weather cooling, Now comes the time, To shear the sheep in field. Together we're working, My wife and I, To gather the glorious yield. So soft and full, Supple and rich, Counting the colors and tones. Coats of aburn, Copper and charcoal, Wool from whites and roans. The rams were held, Behind the iron, Each then onward brought. The shearer's blades, Shorn them clean, Their mighty muscles taught. Cyrus wondrous, Away he slipped, From hand his horns were freed. A firm hard eye, This farmer kept, His wrath I rightly heed.

Half an apple, Hrut then tasted, For more he wished and wanted. I guided him then, To gate nearby, Behind me he undaunted. One long second, Away I looked, Then upwards from Earth I rose. A bolt of power, Barreling from white, Pummeled by thrusts and throws. I scrambled to feet, My skull to protect, The hapless will test that head! Reaching I caught, His curled thick horns, Then on through opening led. It didn't take long, For lingering pain, To burn from thigh to hip. How easy it is, At end of day, Into the sleep-time slip.