Reverie Six: bloody vikings

Maybe it’s because it’s snowy out (and snow is one of the most powerful things in nature to affect my brain, in a positive way). Maybe it’s because I spent too much time this week watching Monty Python clips (from which the title of this post hails). Maybe it’s because I’ve been wrangling with Norwegian translators at work all week. Whatever the reason, last time we did a worldwide form prompt, we packed our bags for Southeast Asia. This time, we’re heading to medieval Scandinavia, so get your axes sharpened and your, er, bear-furs brushed.

This week: “bloody vikings“

Many a student has read Beowulf in their lives at one point or another; some were fortunate enough to add other Anglo-Saxon classics like The Dream of the Rood or The Seafarer to the mix. And a precious few have had to read the Norse epics like The Edda. All of these grew out of a similar North Germanic poetic tradition that has lost none of its enchanting power over the centuries (especially when read aloud), so we’re going to flex our formal skills a bit and give it a go.

Let’s start with sound and meter first, since that will be the hardest part. The common thread through all of these is that they are more alliterative than rhyming: initial consonants of the words matter more than the ends of lines. Two terms you need to know are “lift” (a stressed syllable) and “caesura” (a syllable break common in these old forms that splits a line into half-lines). So if I put this line out there:

See how the snowflakes || are scattering coyly

…”see”, “snow-”, “sca-” and “coy-” are the lifts, while that double-bar is the caesura. This is important, because the forms are distinguished in part by these qualities. I’m going to give you three, in order from easiest to hardest:

fornyrðislag: two lifts and two to three additional unstressed syllables per half-line
ljóðaháttr: stanzas have four lines, with odd-numbered lines as above; even numbered lines have no caesura, and have three lifts
dróttkvætt: stanzas have eight lines, each with no caesura, three lifts, six syllables, last foot must be a trochee (lends itself well to trochaic trimeter), odd-numbered lines have  consonance with differing vowels, even-numbered lines have internal rhyme (but do not have to have alliteration)

And you thought sonnets were hard. We’ll get to that last one in a bit.

Three important form things: first, the lifts alliterate. This is the whole point of the form, and if you do nothing else, do this. In a line with four lifts, two to three must feature the same consonant sound; you’ll see that I snuck this in, in that example above. Also, Old Norse poetry (unlike Old English poetry) does not use enjambment; each line should be a complete unit if possible. But, to make things a bit easier, Old Norse (also unlike Old English poetry) does not have long stanzas. Beowulf‘s “stanzas” can stretch for dozens of lines; we’re going to stick to a small, even number of lines, like two to eight.

So, bearing those in mind, here’s what a small fornyrðislag stanza might look like:

Crow song comes out of || blackened crops above,
moves slowly from sun || to stripped-bare horizon,
lining the birch-bones || lengthwise with soot
shaken from their notes || shivering, mis-shapen.

So you can see that the alliterative sounds are (here we go with the IPA symbols from last week!) [k], [s], [l], and [ʃ]. The third line only has two alliterative lifts, instead of three; I tossed an extra unstressed syllable in there; and the stanza doesn’t have to be a complete sentence, this one just ended up as one. I might as well mention here the variant of the fornyrðislag called the málaháttr, which allows for an additional unstressed syllable in each half-line, if you need more room. (But don’t add more lifts/stressed syllables.) I’ll also offer you this máláhattr I wrote a while back, for a more complete picture, even though I rather violated the constraints of the form.

I’ll also mention the variant of the ljóðaháttr, the galdraháttr, which adds a fifth line to the stanza in the same form as the fourth, echoing it, like so:

I carved a boat || from cracked cork;
filled the sink, and set it to sail.
If it floats four weeks || and doesn’t fail,
this trinket will have you return,
this bauble will bring you home.

Now that (I hope) you’re getting a sense of the rhythm and the form (are you practicing as you go?), let’s talk style. The most important concept to capture here is that of the kenning, the substitution of a word with a complex, metaphorical phrase. Examples include replacing “sword” with “wound-hoe” or “battle-ice” (referring to its gleam), or referring to a warrior as a “raven-feeder” (since he creates food for carrion birds). The poetry is also rich in synonyms, metonymy (using a closely related object to signify something: “the kettle is boiling”) and synecdoche (using a part to signify the whole: “I had a drop of whiskey”), but the kennings are what set it apart. I haven’t really introduced any in the examples above, but let’s go one last time with a (deep breath) dróttkvætt example, to try to showcase this as well:

The gem-garden glimmered,
lanced with dancing lightnings:
weak-willed, we were fire-full,
craved what was unsavored.
Iron-birds pecked the packed rock
and sparks lit the darkness
for blood’s sake, for seeds that
sang of wealthy wellsprings.

I’ve bolded the lifts, but not the alliterations (as I hope they’re evident); there are two kennings that I’ve underlined. (The narrative I’m going for here involves mines and pickaxes, as you can see.) Red rhymes are consonantal near-rhymes (required in the odd-numbered lines), and blue rhymes are direct internal rhymes (required in the even-numbered), while greens are just extra ones tossed in. Note that while the meter is not constant, there are always six syllables and three lifts in each line, ending with a trochee, plus two alliterations in the odd-numbered ones; also, I muddled the rhymes a bit (with that extra -d or -s in a couple cases).

Again: you thought sonnets were hard. I’ll also mention the variant on this form, the hrynhenda, which maintains the same rules, except adding two unstressed syllables per line. This might actually be easier to work with.

The last note I want to make is on theme: each of these meters had particular themes traditionally associated with it. Fornyrðislag and málaháttr are the most casual and conversational, while ljóðaháttr is the “ballad” form. Galdraháttr is the “incantation” form for spells, as I did above. The last two, being the most complex, are the “courtly” meters, best suited for magnificent epic narratives. But you can imagine the tried-and-true themes of Norse poetry: love, war, mythology, glory, etc. Think Beowulf and you’re on the right track.

So go ahead and give it a whirl, and push yourself to work up through all three styles. While nowadays we give plaudits to a poet’s wit when they contravene sonnet constraints, in Norse times, poets were well-respected, and strict adherence to the form was a sign of skill and precision, not stodginess. Think up some kennings for modern objects (“computer” as “ghost box” or something), recast present-day problems with the emotive force of a classical epic, and crank your thesaurus-brain up to 11. You should be able to read your poem aloud and feel the music of waves crashing on rocky shorelines, storms overhead and a roar building in your throat. That’s the goal, at least.

Let’s see what you can come up with!