Poor Modern Skald

Listen, I implore you, to Me
Tell my tale of grim giants great,
Falcons that fly and wings aflame
But first, Bragi I beg to give
Me the strength to stand and to speak
to Perform before you people.

But foolishly I forget that
You may not be too Familiar with
Bragi. Best among skalds he’s said
To be, poets and scops both pray
to be given the gift, receive
Righteous thoughts, to put them in verse,
Lacking the literary mead.

And so we come to my tale
At last, legend retold, becomes
New from old. Begins with some spit,
Uncouth you might say, but comes from
the Gods, ᴁsir sometimes called, spat
And made man, Kvasir’s how he’s known.
Wisest of men from wisest
Of spit. Murder he suffered, blood
Drained and drank, Dwarfs did the deed, there’s
A moral, take heed; from blood they
made mead, a powerful brew, brought
Knowledge fresh, new insight to those
That drank deep. But thirst was not quenched,
their minds grew bold, brothers Galar
And Fialar, selfish kept all for
themselves. More murder they sought, death
In the night. Why? I know not. But
Two giants they slew, Gilling went
First, his wife was the next, her name
Is not known. Black hearted brothers
Took Gilling to sea, but swim could
not he, so he swallowed and choked,
Dead. Down to the dark went. Widow,
She wept, true tears of sorrow, and
Fialar could not stand, the salt tears
And howls, had her go outside, where
Galar was waiting with heavy
Millstone. Misery consumed her,
She did not see, until too late.

  

Suttung her son heard of this wrong,
Threatened the two, cowards were cowed,
Kvasir’s mead, payment for parents,
Taken to Hnitbiorg, home of sad
Suttung. Stored in three jars, precious
Recompense. A worthy prize for
The wandering God, one eye he’s
Called, Father of all. From Vallhόll
He goes, lord of the slain, you should
Know his name: Oðinn of course! To
Hnitbiorg he went, with a clever
Disguise, dressed as a slave: Bolverk.
Boldly approached Suttung’s slaves nine,
Said, ‘Who wants this whetstone?’ All nine
Raised their hand. ‘Catch.’ Said the cunning.
In their greed grew pale, throats they had
Slit, sickles in hand. All nine dead.
Brave Bolverk replaced them, for pay
wanted mead, knew of its worth. But
Bolverk was tricked, so bored through the
Rock, transformed to a snake and slid
through the mountain. Treasure chamber
He found, full with three jars. A guard
Also, daughter of Suttung, she
Was charged with command of the mead.

Gunnlod was the girl, one eye was
Her love, wooed, lonely she was, he
Gave her good nights, warm in her sheath,
She granted him sips of the sweet
Tasting blood. Three jars and three sips,
Each ewer was emptied, then giant
Suttung saw what had happened, the
Hanged one transformed, truly, his shape,
Into an eagle, eyes keen with
Sharp beak, wings opened wide, and made
His escape. Suttung followed suit,
An eagle as well, Oðinn was
Weighed down, had not swallowed the drink.
Suttung was fast, moved like fire’s friend,
Wind is that kenning commonly known,
Was catching Oðinn, nearly home
At Asgard, he glanced behind him,
Saw Suttung so close, and spat out
Some backwards, barely made it back,
But had lightened the load, Suttung
Was robbed. The Raven Lord’s spit sank
Down to Midgard, mighty rhymester’s
Share. The rest it was saved, the drink
Of ᴁsir, they give it as gift
To skalds whom they pick, scops worthy
of some sips. And there you have it,
My tale is told, new come from
Old. For your time I thank you, and
Patience also. I ask one more
Thing; humble request; remember
my poem, and what it is called,
Poet as well, Poor Modern Skald.