I am called Mask

Introduction

The title ‘I am called Mask’ has been borrowed from Old Icelandic ‘Heto mek Grímr’  (Grímnismál when Odin introduces himself in strophe 46)

In this poem we set the mood of a runic consecration by the masked lord based on the Sutton Hoo Helmet (An Eye for Odin? Divine Role-Playing in

the Age of Sutton Hoo - European Journal of Archaeology 17 (3) 2014, 517–538) and also from an idea expanded from a contemporary inscription: ‘One with a gleaming eye consecrates the runes’ (Looijenga, 2003: 211–12; McKinnell et al., 2004).

It has been argued that in certain circumstances and locations, such as the firelit interior of the mead hall that the wearer of the Sutton Hoo Helmet was seen as both war leader and war god, a literal personification of Odin.

This was reinforced by the addition of wafer-thin foils of gold behind the garnets, which were stamped with a cross-hatched pattern, over the right eye causing this eyebrow to sparkle, thus placing emphasis on one eye.

The heavily patterned plates of tinned bronze would also have caught the flickering flames of the fire and appeared to sparkle and move.

‘On the spear side’ means within the realm of men, compare ‘on the spindle side’ within  the realm of women.

I am called Mask

Warriors retainers, fill the mead hall,

Glittering Lord on, carved seat set so tall.

On warrior’s sword, at height of full moon,

The gleaming eyed one, consecrates the rune.

The shifting flames light, the glimmering mask,

Mead cup bearing boys, break open the cask.

Horn of mead passes, from bench to bench,

Boasting of valor, and longing to quench.

The right eye garnets, glitter and glimmer,

Stiff bronze dragon shank, sparkle and shimmer.

Dark hollow eyeholes, in soft shadows deep,

Warriors move round, flames flicker and leap.

The bird soars skyward, and dragon descends,

Bronze boar heads to wings, strong shielding defends.

Figurers of silver, on mask of giver,

Forming in firelight, they shudder and shiver.

Thick billowing smoke, upwards ever drift,

Flickering fire light, faint images shift.

Torn long tunic bard, he weaves riddle craft,

While on the spear side, they down the best draught.

Amid the chatter, and immodest song,

Wæs hæil loudly called, amongst heathen throng.

While slacking the thirst, with ample mead strong,

Much wassailing in, the small hours long.

Copyright Andrew Rea July 2015