Angel of death

Angel of death

Introduction 

Note: this poem was inspired by separate conversations with three nurses that had worked on terminal wards. All of which could recount several cases, as witnessed first hand, of a person who was in their last hours or days apparently seeing another person standing by their bed that was not in corporeal form to be seen by the nurse. Some nurses see this as a sign that the end is near.

In this poem we imagine ourselves back in Saxon times as the healer in the village comes to her end and is greeted by the kindly angle of death (Wodan was also called Grimr) to guild her to the other world. I have made her very old for the period, about 60. A study concluded that 97.5% of people were dead by 50 during Saxon times. The description of her abode is based on archaeological evidence. The reference to aelf shot is from medical books of the time, see Lacnunga and leech books, and refers to any disease caused by an aelf firing an invisible arrow into you, e.g. any viral infection. A galdor is a charm, spell or incantation, from galan= to sing (preserved in the word nightingale). Heofon is the forerunner to heaven. The way of Wyrd was a fatalistic world view where there was an underlying connecting principle, similar to the way of Tao.

Angel of death

Small pit hut, with reeds on the floor,

No windows but, an oaken door.

Copper cauldron, over fire stone,

Warn old thatched roof, medicinal crone.

Old wise wife man, soon to be gone,

Healing people, thirty years long.

The angel of death, now close by,

Helping her to, depart and die.

The last night tide, here at last,

Toiling in meads, forty years passed.

On wooden bed, and straw there laid,

With elder daughter, there to aid.

Herbs in mead, carefully uproot,

Fifty years finding, nuts and fruit.

Survived she war, plague and child birth,

Gaest she soon, to mother earth.

Weapon man gone, many a year,

Sixty winters, soon on her bier.

In small village, eldest was she,

But aelf shot did, she not foresee.

Daughter now older, than most folk,

Waiting for Wodan, wrapped in cloak.

Mother’s galdors, not all well learnt,

Which fragrant herbs, should beest burnt.?

Runes to charm, hot cauldron to brew,

Which herbs to keep, the mixture true.

Where when how, healing herbs to find,

No one morrow, her to remind.

Oh Heofon death, where art thy sting,

Kind angel of death, other world bring.

In the morrow, another day,

The children play, this is Wyrd’s way.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2010

Here be Tiw

Here be Tiw

Introduction to 'Here be Tiw’  - god of war

Tuesley Surrey Virgins refers to the convent that now resides on the old sacred site and look after a rock garden with a statue of Mary where the temple to Tiw once stood, not far from a sacred spring.

Tysoe Warwickshire had at lease five horses cut into the land – one over the over, recorded as early as 1607. The last of these was covered over about 1910/14 and planted with trees. The manors were held by the Knights Templars and later by the Knights Hospitallers.

Tewin Hertfordshire, Lady Grimston, (Grim often means ghost in old English) had unconventional religious views and on her death bed said that when seven trees grew on her tomb she would return. A single tree grows on her tomb but has seven trunks, her ghost is often seen in the church yard.

Here be Tiw

Send us success! Help my sword cut true,

See spear stays sharp! Help us to push through.

Thee we invoke, with us in shield wall,

Brave Saxon god, cause our foes to fall.

Tuesley Surrey, Domesday Tiwesle,

Hamlet of Tiw, Old English Tīwes lēah.

Mary’s church where, thine temple once stood,

Virgins guard statue, rock garden wood.

Triple village, Tysoe Warwickshire,

Tíw's spur of land? Church of thousand year.

Horse Tui, war Tiw, what was Tysoe’s source?

Knights Templars gone, tall trees cover horse.

Tiw’s enclosure, Tewin Hertfordshire,

Seventh century church, Tiw's temple to clear.

Lady Grimston, had a ghostly name,

Tomb Tree of seven, shining spectre became.

Stand fast shield wall! Power to spear blade,

Bold daring brave! we are not afraid.

Help sword to slice! rend their blades untrue,

Send us success! to us we brave few.

Copyright Andrew Rea September 2012

October (Winterfylleth)

October (Winterfylleth)


Introduction
While many of my poems are in rather loose pentameter, this is the only one that I have attempted to scribe in pure iambic pentameter. The poem, set of course in Saxon times, is based around the Saxon idea that this month was considered to be the first month of winter.

October (Winterfylleth)

Winterfylleth, Winter-tides first full moon,

First full silver moon of month, wilt come soon.

Leaves on the ground, smell the seasons moist scent,

Summer tides full heat, has been fully spent.

Honour Thunor, for his winter potent,

Hollentide in spirit, power ascent.

Let’s celebrate, fear not winters starting,

Shalt we rejoice, at summers departing.

Lord Wodan, of magic winter tide come,

Tame and subdue, ruthless coldness succumb.

'Wild Hunt' leading, the dashing and darting,

Thine own strength and defence, art thou imparting.

Misty dimness, gloomy landscapes extent,

Descent into shadows, shalt we lament?

Shape of darkness, with the blackest torment,

Let’s not lament, into shadows descent.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2009

Sutton Hoo

Sutton Hoo

Introduction to Sutton Hoo

The poem starts by describing the best preserved Saxon barrow burial in detail. It then goes into Saxon dragon lore and beliefs, without which the mound would without doubt have been plundered in antiquity. Finally the poem ends with a cryptic reference to the timing of the modern excavation, leaving the reader free to draw their own conclusion.

Sutton Hoo (624AD)

East Angles misty mead, ship of ninety feet,

In its final dry dock, noble of fleet.

Leader of Wuffing, death thee could not cheat,

Long robed sorcerer, galdor complete.

Splendid Raedwald, interred within thy ship,

Wodan lead thy soul, on its final trip.

An epic journey to, Woden's mead hall,

With thine drinking horn, final port of call.

Thine chamber formed, from the oaken tree,

Decorated helmet, to protect thee.

Dragons on thy crest, forming a stiff shank,

Strong shining bronze boars, ever guard thy flank.

Laid out with thy finest, silver and gold,

Sword and spear, to Valhalla for the bold.

War shield of linden, placed beside thine head

Mead hall of Woden, reserved for the dead

Galdorcraeftiga, last spell for thee cast,

Blunting others swords, all now in the past.

Thine sword by thy hand, ship without a mast,

The gates of Valhalla, still to be passed.

Long chain mail tunic, folded next to thee,

Caldrons and grill, a bucket of yew tree.

Ten silver bowls, by thy head in the west,

Buckets of fine mead, for forthcoming fest.

A dragon doth come, sniffing out thy hoard,

Guarding thy wyrm bed, for this our great lord.

Taking possession, of thy treasure mound,

Do not disturb him, and he will sleep sound.

Do not disrupt him, let him stay earth bound,

You may awake him, if his hoard is found.

Guarding his treasure, through long mists of time,

Steeling his treasure, anger wilt thee prime.

If he awakes. then destruction will come,

Screaming over land, there be death to some.

Thirteen centuries later, opening mound,

Taking thy hoard, thine golden treasure found.

Thine sacred barrow, dug and ripped apart,

All hallowed items, merely works of art.

Noble earth dragon, he was long benign,

Till he was enraged, May of thirty nine.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2010

Spell of invincibility

Spell of invincibility

This one is just a bit of fun to give confidence, playing with elements and Saxon Wights (mythical beings) and needs no introduction.

Spell of invincibility

Travel like an elf, as fast as the Wind,

Be a bright shining one, with him now twinned.

Fight like a drake, as potent as Fire,

Be strong of heart, soar higher and higher.

Yield like a nymph, as flowing as Water,

A fluid solution, all may thee alter.

Arise like a dwarf, as firm as the Earth,

Be to make ready, for thine own rebirth.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2009

Here be Frig

Here be Frig

Introduction 

In this poem we look at places in England who’s name can be traced back to the Saxon goddess Frig. These can be split into three groupings: those places that are lost, those places that have no churches (perhaps just a farm or small hamlet), and those that can be found and have a church of which I have found just four. Three of these villages or hamlets have a church dating back to Saxon or at least medieval times named after Mary the only exception is ‘Saint Nicholas’s. However it seems that the Victorians were discontent with this church and built another about 300m away so now we have a hamlet with two churches, oh and the name of the new church well its Saint Mary’s of course, but if you want to displace a goddess well what better than to replace her with Mary.

The reference to “This Seven one three”, refers to a carving on the capitol of a column formed in the 13C when the North wall was taken down, the full inscription reads: “this seven one three found hear”

Here be Frig

First thy art Nerthus, Frig Goddess of love,

Queen of all Asgard, passion from above.

In all four cases, thee find when thee search,

Her place of worship, now saint Mary's church.

Old Froli now Froyle, Frig's Hill in Hampshire,

Vicar often drank, brace of port in cheer.

To let air in church, he broke window panes,

Saint Mary's church with, two hamlets remains.

Yorkshire Fridaythorpe, “village of Frig's day”,

And Saint Mary’s church, is found in Domesday.

Eight hundred years ago, ancient secret scrawl,

“This seven one three”, what was within wall?

Small Domesday village, Fretherne Gloucestershire,

Perhaps ”Frig's thorn-bush” now two houses here.

St Mary’s church known, in twelve eighty one,

Fretherne Court destroyed, but why was it done?

Freefolk, in Hampshire, with Mary's new church,

Frigefolc’s Nicholas, was left in the lurch.

As queen of Asgard, needs temple close by,

This hamlet didst build, second church on high.

All of these places, found in Domesday book,

All have church to Mary, thee just need to look.

Some scholars dispute, her name in there hides,

Some Pagans see best, since Mary resides.

Copyright Andrew Rea Aug 2012

September (Halig-monath)

September (Halig-monath)

Introduction

September was referred to as the holy month and was the ninth month of the year except in a leap year when the addition of an extra month (third Month of Litha) moved it to 10th place. Nine was a very magical number for the Saxons; eg ‘the lay of the nine herbs of Woden’. The gathering of the harvest was now in full swing with hopefully much cause for rejoicing.

In early Saxon times Nerthus as mentioned by Saint Bede in his: ‘On the computation of time’ was the Goddess of the harvest until she was eventually replaced as a fertility Goddess by Frig.

Wuldorfadur or ‘Sky Father’, again from Saint Bede, represented the solar logos and worked in conjunction with Nerthus in the fields.

September (Halig-monath)

Halig-monath, the month so holy,

The darkness now, returning slowly.

Gather the crop, for winter living.

Month of offering, of thanksgiving,

Festival to, rejoice the harvest.

Among the rigs, we do now invest.

Earth Mother Nerthus, has sent her best

Thanks be given, to her for this fest.

Blessing us with, a good gathering,

Autumn libations, to usher in.

Sky Father Wuldorfadur, shon down,

And now the meadows, are turning brown.

Offer in the meads, this harvestide,

Among the rigs, and by the wayside.

Give thanks for the corn, to make the bread,

Let us raise a toast, a whole hogshead.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2008

Evocation of John Barleycorn

Evocation of John Barleycorn

By the firm earth beneath my roots.

By the sap rising in my long shank,

By the breeze in my supple sheaves,

By the fullness of my cornels,

By the might of my burly beard,

I here stand proud before thee.

Standing tall and straight, thee do me adore,

Sudden end with sharp blade, as if to war.

My neck wilt be cut, with greatest of care,

My spirit set free, by they who doth dare.

With a flying scythe, falling to the ground,

Into a great sheaf, to be twisted and bound.

To be poured from a jug, into a long horn,

To be reborn as ale, thee shalt not mourn.

Copyright Andrew Rea July 2012

Here be Thunor (þunor)

 Here be Thunor (þunor)

Introduction

In this poem I look at places in England whose names trace back to Thunor in Anglo-Saxon times.

Thursley in Surrey made both cannon and shot, forged iron, had iron hammer ponds and has a rocky outcrop on its common named Thor's Stone, the bounds of this parish include the Devils Punch Bowl. This place had an abbot named Thor in 975 and an archdeacon Thor in 1100.

Essex has two such villages and one surviving hundred, there was a second hundred but this has now been incorporated into Hinckford hundred.

One village gave its name to an air field used during the war, another hosted a barracks. There is one village that moved about 1km to the west, the Victorians even moved the church but for some reason left the tower which is now purported to be haunted. If you look it up on the net you will find some blood curdling vidios posted, it seems to have a very unsettling effect on both young and the more mature alike!

þunor wéoh in Old English means ‘Thunor make sacred’.

Here be Thunor (þunor)

Chariot of storms, thunder ride in sky,

Oaken god of strength, on high hill close by.

With hammer and wain, in clashing clouds clad,

Hallower of fields, fertile þunnorad.

 

Domesday Thunreslea, Essex Thundersley,

Site of Saxon church, pledge oaths unto thee.

Thunor's sacred grove, on top of the hill,

Taken by Benfleet, but still has his will.

Domesday Tunreslea, with five hives of bee,

Sits sacred clearing, Essex Thunderley.

Planes thundered over, Thunor's sacred grove,

In Saffron Walden, fighting spells they wove.

Thunor made sacred, this Thurstapell land,

In Domesday Essex, his pillar did stand.

Saxon Stapoll named, after the divine,

Thurstable hundred, had villages nine.

Thunderlow Hundred, Thunor’s sacred mound,

Two small villages, were in Domesday found.

Hinckford this hundred, they came to annex,

Saxon þunor hlæw, in Domesday Essex.

Domesday Tonrinch was, Thundridge Hertfordshire,

It's church they did move, but left tower in fear?

The Victorians took, All Hallows away,

Leaving the tower, possessed by the Fey.

Thursley in Surrey, made cannon and gore,

Saxon Thunreslea's, two clerics named Thor.

To Devils Punch Bowl, and barracks beyond,

Thor's Stone on common, and iron hammer pond.

Barnhorne Sussex had, Þunorslege inside,

This place Thunor’s grove, from time it has died.

Its soldierly camp, from Gerry didst hide,

Thunor's lost barracks, on the other side.

Nine other places, named after Thunor,

Four fields and four groves, one mound perhaps more?

Though eight of those, places cannot be found,

They still ring out to, þunor wéoh Sound.

Copyright Andrew Rea Lammas 2012

August (Weod-monath)

August (Weod-monath)

Introduction

Weod-monath means month of weeds and may refer to the harvesting and blessing of herbs – a parallel to this custom survived until recent times in Germany.

Reference to Nerthus  - Goddess of fertility is based on the writings of Saint Bede. Representations of her were decorated with cloths and carried from village to village. Any fighting could be interrupted, at least, by this as no one would dare to fight in her presence.

After the first days harvest a feast was provided to be enjoyed amongst the rigs.

Reference to bare legs and feet is based on the Bayeux Tapestry, generally taken to be an accurate portrayal of the Anglo-Saxons.

Reference to thatching and clean the ox fold is taken from contemporary farming manuals (The Good Reeve).

August (Weod-monath)

August  month of weeds, and ripening grain,

Bread from wheat sievings, has long been our bane.

Bright harvest moon, reaping late into night,

Lifting our spirits, with songs we recite.

We pray thee oh Thor, take heed of our plea,

To survive winter, we depend on thee.

We implore thee oh Thor, send us no rain,

Nerthus blessed us, with much corn to sustain.

With sun moon and scythe, the power of three,

Massive rigs of fine wheat, so mote it be.

To bake the first loaf, we gather the corn,

And make the Corn Queen, for all to adorn.

After dusty toil, ale jug in the meads,

Feast and be glad, drink hail to our deeds.

Rejoicing the harvest, breaking first bread,

The gods on our side, be glad of the spread.

Bare legs and feet, in field of summer wheat,

Wearing hooded tunics, we are complete.

Among the rigs, we’ll drink and be cheery,

There’s always the new, day to be weary.

A good crop of corn, to keep us well fed,

With full load of grain, we can look ahead.

Tomorrow we thatch, and clean the ox fold,

But tonight in the rigs, we’re feeling bold.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2009

The Corn Dolly

The Corn Dolly

Historical Introduction

This poem is based on the tradition of the corn dolly and the idea that the corn has a spirit which should be preserved through the winter to be returned to the earth in the spring to ensure fertility.

The poem draws from the image contained within an Anglo-Saxon Psalter which shows a corn field being reduced to a single ‘clump’ known as ‘the neck’. In the foreground a peasant is shown holding a ‘corn dolly’ in the shape of a cross with five blades for each hand and the head.

The method of cutting the ‘neck’ is based on surviving traditions which were common until modern times.

References to Nerthus a fertility goddess replaced largely by Frigg in late Saxon times and Wuldorfador ‘glory father’ representing the Solar Logos, are taken from the writings of St Bede and are mentioned in his ‘On the computation of time’

The idea of the ‘sol cakes’ are again taken from Bede, where he refers to the second month of the year called Solmonath (February). Which is said to mean Mud Month. (compare sol with soil and think of ground conditions at this time of year). The cakes were planted into the ground as an offering to both Nerthus and Wuldorfador.

We have no surviving recipe for the sol cakes, but given that the tradition of ploughing the corn dolly into the ground at the start of ploughing and sowing season was widely observed until modern times it seems possible that the dolly would have been broken up and added to a mixture of some kind, perhaps of flour of various grains, and returned to the ground uncooked to preserve its fertility.

The harvest feast is recorded in Saxon law as a reward for the harvest work done on the lord’s field.

The drinking feast after ploughing starts in Solmonth, is again recorded in Saxon law as a reward for work.

The Corn Dolly

Goddess Nerthus, out of her womb born,

Goddess Frigg became, the Queen of the Corn.

Cared for and nurtured, by Wuldorfador,

Plentiful abundance, for winter’s store.

Standing tall and straight, we do thee adore,

Sudden end with sharp blade, as if to war.

Thine neck wilt be cut, with greatest of care,

Thine spirit set free, by he who doth dare.

With his flying scythe, falling to the ground,

Into three sheaves, to be twisted and bound.

Preserving the spirit, of summers corn,

To be reborn again, we shalt not mourn.

The Corn Queen’s spirit, now safely preserved,

First loaf of bread, in the rigs to be served.

The first day of harvest, feast and wassail,

To the Harvest Queen, let us now drink hail.

Revered through the long, winter months of gloom,

Looking and guarding, over spinning loom.

In the New Year’s soil, thee wilt be reborn,

Our offering to, a new crop of corn.

We fashion thee into, a small Sol Cake,

To keep thine life whole, we do not thee bake.

Into the mud, we return thee to Earth,

Dolly a symbol, of goddess rebirth.

The dollies power, to be now released,

After so much ploughing, the drinking feast.

Much ale to be drunk, this Sol Monath day,

Tomorrow we plough, but tonight we play.

Hail to thee Nerthus, Earth Mother of men,

Five blades for thine head, and thine fingerers ten.

Filled with ample rations, to bring us grace,

Be fruitful in, Wuldorfador’s embrace.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2009

Here be Woden

Here be Woden

Introduction
There are many places in the landscape named after Woden. My research materials here are so extensive that I could have written many more verses. As it is I decided to stop writing at 13. The final verse is borrowed from Beowulf. It was by coincidence that the poem was finished on Friday the thirteenth.

Here be Woden

Woden magic lord, leader of Wild Hunt,

Our great god of war, make other swords blunt.

Thee collected souls, and led them away,

Fallen in battle, upon their last Day.

Lead to Valhalla, our brave drychten thane,

Thine soul to collect, after thee be slain.

Thee became Devil, when they styled thee Grim,

Evil Grim Reaper, protect us from him!

The new religion, had put thee to shame,

If death came to thee, then he was to blame.

As grima was ghost, they sort to defame,

But Grimr was Woden, by another name.

Woden's Wednesbury, town in Staffordshire,

Fortification, wall of shield and spear.

Shaped battlement stones, garden site to search,

Site of his temple, now site to a church.

Doomsday Wednesfield, ‘’Woden's open land”,

In Staffordshire town, Danes made their last stand.

Falling in battle, Grimr led them away,

Alfred's son Edward, his victory day.

Derbyshire Wensley, Woden's sacred grove,

Silently guarding, a lead mining trove.

Domesday Wodnesleie, perched on top of dale,

Wensleydale cheese, to thee we drink hail.

Wansdyke Somerset, yon Saxons about,

Stretching to Wiltshire, to keep them without.

Earth work ditch and bank, did not heathens tame,

As Woden's Dic is, a West Saxon name.

Wansdyke Woddes geat, a gap in the line,

Wiltshire Woden's gate, was there by design.

As to invasion, they needed no sign,

Saxons then named it, after the Devine.

Wodnes denu lost, in West Overton,

Woden's vale Wiltshire, hast barrows long.

With six rings of wood, two circles of stone,

Wansdyke Roman road, didst king Arthur roam?

Woodnesborough Kent , Domesday Woden’s Hill,

Sacred high altar, did worship fulfil.

Houses where fir trees, didst formally stand,

Wodnes Beorg was part, of our sacred Land.

Woden's barrow saw, slaughter for riches,

Two Saxon battles, in hill fort ditches.

Caewlin of Wessex, could not kingdom save,

Wodnes Beorg Wiltshire, became Adam's Grave.

Various places, didst Woden name,

Fields hills and valleys, sacred to the Dane.

Some sites and spaces, have altered their name,

But Woden's spirit, sits in groves the same.

You have travelled here, my friend Woden,

For were fythum thu   wine min Woden.

To favour us with help, and to fight for us,

Ond for ar stafum   usic sohtest.

Copyright Andrew Rea Friday 13^th July 2012