Yareah Magazine

Michaela Macha

THREE WAYS

"Your hair is grey," a youngster bold told one unmet before,
"The harp betrays you as a Skald; but though you're versed in lore:
What gain is yours beside the hearth? No land you hold; your bread
is earned each day, as witty words win rings - or cost your head."
"Odin touched me, God of Poets, that verse should be my life,
more dear to me than riches' loads, as I for beauty strive.

My lips flow with Odhroerir's flood, for war-time and for Thing;
to fight I need not spill my blood, to serve my folk I sing."
"And you, fair Seeress", spoke again the young man, "What of you?
Such strange-garbed woman will not fain a husband ever woo.
When you in swooning madness reel and talk to shades from Hel,
distrust is always at your heel, though you help those who ail."
"Odin touched me, God of Sight, that I should walk alone.
I wander hidden ways at night and talk to tree and stone.
Seeking wisdom is more meet than foolish people's mirth
and Hroptr's ecstasy more sweet than man´s in Middle-Earth."
"You Warrior, why you rage and roam I'll never understand.
While others seek a peaceful home, you fight in foreign lands.
What drives you to the dance of spears until you die or win?
Both friends and foes will shun and fear one who wears Berserk skin."
"Odin touched me, God of War, that I may never rest.
His battle-rapture makes me roar, his fury fills my breast.
Into the fray I lead my men and leave a bloody wake,
and when the frenzy takes me, then I fight for fighting's sake."
Then all went on their different way; the young man stood in thought.
Years later heard he, in a lay, what fate to them had brought:
The Warrior was remembered by all, he died at the height of his fame.
The Seeress saw him on his way to Valhall, and the Skald made immortal
his name.

MASKS

A wind-blown cloak with hat drawn deep
nears gauntly, passes, and is gone;
a restless wanderer to whom
the road and wilderness are one.
A merging shade among the trees,
the one-eyed master of thin air
wears many masks and changing names,
and when you turn, he isn´t there.
He is the breath of galdr-song,
the whispered magic of the night
when lowly murmurs at the mound
conjure the dead and wake the wight.
He is the air, the empty space
between the gallows and the ground,
the shout of ecstasy and pain
when life meets death and wisdom´s found.
He´s in the battle cries, the yell
of frenzied fighting; then the breeze
that cools the corpses where they fell
to which the Ravens swoop to feed.
He is the ravage of the storm,
he is a blast of bitter wind,
the icy gusts of winter gales
that tear apart and scour the skin,
The leader of the ghastly host -
grim riders racing through the sky,
grey horses gallop in the frost
and chill the heart as they pass by.
A scream of triumph, mad and wild,
a raving ecstasy of mind,
a fetter-breaking fury as
the Lord of Rapture seeks his kind.