Traci Brimhall | Poetry
translated from the Old English by Ophelia Eryn Hostetter
This jawn’s in majesty—
didn’t you know?
My tongue trips its tricks,
modulates in remix.
Wanna see me bark like a dog?
Or bleat like an old nanny-goat?
Or maybe honk goose-like?
Or keen like the hawk?
Sometimes even I play
at the hoary eagle,
thundering the threatening
laugh of warlike fowl,
and sometimes the kite’s voice,
mouth sharing the comforting commons
and sometimes the sad
and lonely song of gulls,
while I sit here smiling at you.
Gifts call me here—
sometimes what’s Oaken
or even what goes Riding,
make living by Mouth,
and the Hail and Ice.
My name’s all you need
to know, just six scratches,
secrets you so clearly show.
(ca. 950–1000 CE)
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