A contemporary interpretation

       Prologue

Poetry means story--if it is a rite. But no one

Holds onto stories of the everyday

Forgotten like paper cups after the coffee break

The story preambles to a door and hides

Beneath the bus carrying other stories

To defrocked clerics. How

Do the stories of the outside, which are inside, his-

Stories bring in their ends for the service?

Here we have--no less than in mirror-tales

The inside scoops of our penitential

Diesel shovels. Riding the edge of ridges

Shades march for their tales to be held

Final liturgy must be sung for them. How would they

Sing with their lips filled, eyes penny-weighted?

Watch or you will march--leave the

Lyrics somewhere and drill the

Tune in some friend's vocal box.

       Look at yourself in your mirror-tale, sure

There was a lot there, but that was before you died. What?

You say you're not dead yet? And you call yourself

An existentialist. You're all immortal too

And you tell each other so, every day. Your parents were

Necessary and nothing, more or less,

Than you told them they were. Life conforming

To artifice. Why then, are you talking about them

Unless you think: Oh, it's necessary

Telling about myself, only by myself it

Might get boring. No, I won't tell you

All about yourself here. You'll get a new mirror

And I can leave to some new transient plague your

Black soul and this white and red tale.

       You'll be looking anyway, won't you? There's got

To be a moral for me somewhere. If you find it

It won't be there when you come back.

Unless you thought people acting could do

Something in your soul. It's not likely,

Tales like this could be labeled

Decadent. Literature and all that singing

For freedom, the only freedom is marriage.

Nothing can stay aloof that long.

Gudrún knew it and she killed four

Husbands. These aren't people you know

And you'd never act this way. Remember

It's only a story and the fact

That it's in lines and the dark

Men singing on the periphery

Shouldn't bother you too much.

       FIRST BOOK — GUDRÚN'S WINTER DREAMING

Gudrún knew the weakness was coming to its end.

In her dreams the winter had sung itself alive

To her wish for long days in the Laxa

River, suns had loaned their happy sly smiles.

She sang for her soothsayer great-uncle Gest

The dreams by suns given that had her in full guessing

And hoping. For husbands there on the Laxa-side

Were rarer than hearty marching mounts. Horses

Given, in later family givings were often fond

Parting emblems as finer husbands could impart a

Fondness as good as warm rivers and salmon whelps

Running upstream and brushing against Icelander

Feet, or legs. So, she       was singing four dreamthings

In her great-uncle's divining       ear and began with denial

That any girl-trick was        hidden and, minding her goodness,

And breaking a galling battle       among men who might gride

Themselves in pieces       to enter the past realms

Of hunters, or kings       who had hidden and reached

for this girl of dreams.       S o she uttered as Gest

Step-father, surrogate as        he gainsaid of her:

Gudrún you promise       no lying to me of your dreams?

Gudrún promised as she       always would and now out she lays

The dreams all spouses fated       were, never spared by

And bye or on their own       they bided time and stood

Accusing in headdresses,       in rings and portents bring

To Gudrún as brang       other goods, sons, fathers

Without more preambling       Gudrún began her saying:

G est, my uncle and       wise as much as any other

Man and, I would cry       more than any here on Ice

Land and the shores       of the river Laxa, father's

Uncle, almost my favorite       love of my dreams but for

Winter, uncle, winter dreamt       an awful song, four horrid

Dreams I had, no more       remembering whirring windstorms

Less than these, dreams       they were called but wilder

I knew, they were, I'll tell       they were only dreams, nothing

More. To sooth them out       were much like walking

The forest at midnight at       pain of cold, pain of thinking

I hope no need and you       will laugh after I spin you my delusion:

My first dreamed foolishness,        of a brook, and of a headdress,

I stood. The water fell       and on my head ill-fit

The headdress first.       So I wished, a whim from pain

The dress to put else       off someplace. But over banks,

Not where I was, but        over the brook stood others

Crying I should not toss       the dress away. To them

I closed my eyes and told       my ears to ignore. I jerked

From my head, my hair       and all its curling, came

The ill-fit dress and fell       to rock and rush, the crown

Sunk like leaves petrified       and glistened through blue and sun

Final resting among the worn       pebbles of stream and so the dream too

Finalized, the song of night       ended. Not again was this dreamt

But always remembered.

        Second of these nightish, marelike songs

A lake on its marge I stood       and on my arm, somehow

A Silver Bracelet entrapped        enraptured me. It seemed my own and fit

Me well as any I could        wish. It suited me and precious

Hung to me and to my arm       this bracelet I intended

To keep a very long very       hopeful time; and then as serpents

Slip on trees of birch       and strive to hold but have

No claws, the bracelet       slipped. Fell as before, to water

The lake-maw swallowed       the silver coil--I never saw

Again. The loss so much       greater, more than ever I could

Think losing could be, the       thing was so expensive. Woke

I did, then the night       was gone, the bracelet even more.

Later then a third       winter trouble came. A gold

Entwined me then no less       a gold ring I could take joy in

Much longer than mutable silver, though       what costs not always fits

As well, the cheaper bracelet       entwined me so, as good, if not

Better than the rich. Confused by cost,       by surprising ground and rings

Of different temper, I       wandered; I stumbled wanting

To capture myself by hand       I swung for safety, the bracelet

Struck some stone and       on that stone she oozed and bled. Some

Tears they said could       mend the ring, and saying so, they wronged

Me. Grief grasped my life       loss that offered nothing in bargain

Lots. Remembering the        ring, it had cracks before

The pieces, so broken       had bled, and nearly blame

Was crouching on my love       my remembered ring might

Have stayed as one       if I had guarded it without

Ruth, had regarded it       with constancy, had help in

Times of danger like       rocks and other kins-

Men of even temper. Hoping,       I came to morning.

W ith soothsaying words       Gest called out

Saying: "Your dreams       are not on," short of air,

He sucked the sky        and breathed, "The wane."

G udrún returned:       My fourth, you may call

Fantasy: a headdress,        in truth, a helmet,

Wrought in gold and set       with earth-stars, once

Buried treasures muddied       in icebound crag-streams.

Helmet that was mine       or so it was I had

It on or in my head. Weighing       greatly on my neck, it bent,

Twisting my head; though it       was mine, to the side

Still it pushed, the helmet        was fine as I could wish

Fine as bearded        smiths wring up

From smoky mounds of ash,       wring up their shiny children,

Or from that golden soil       that kills men by themselves

Men, once known to        other men as friends, as true

But once gazing the sky        with all their eyes, lost. No blame

Could fall on mine,        the helmet was nothing less

Mine and waste       would not be well for

My own sane-making, yet       top-heavy toppled from

My head as might       I have thrown it out before;

The helm, flower-toppled,        Hvammsfjord-way. Woke

From fancy and waiting       I had no more to tell

Me of these four       and no one told me

Any more than cleared        the mystic plates from

My confusing nights.        These are all,

The dreams we are       minded by your sooth.

I t's plain, without       preamble Gest began:

It's plain what       these dreams do. One

Part and whole bind       they together. And I

Will tell, for only        one way can I, for in

One stream they        lead. Four dreams and

Just as ephemeral, four        husbands will grace

Your closets and here       I'll say, no more will they

Mean to you than       dreams. They flee all

Of them from your       coils, mortal, to eventual

Love in the gods'       traditions and gods' brave halls.

Four men then will        disturb you and enjoy you

Both. You, as much       as they, will enjoy, though you,

Not admitting. The first:       no cold-warm deep

Love like a fjord       after you've shivered past

Limits of freezing. Ice       will never break from

You for this ill-fit man       no, boy; yet young

As you will be no        price have set that you

Forget the value. the        sailing worth of him and

Forget in the bargain,        leave no man behind

As people say, "Cast       in to the sea."

You'll have thrown what       you'll later own to have

Been good or better       than the nothing you get

In the drawing back.        as though a net, to your

Prow. And this is youth       as old age gives no seconds.

But young still: the

        Second, the silver

Bracelet is your second       man, of fine quality

and born in nobility.       And quality, not got

By birth. Enjoy and       you will before the wave

I sooth will sweep       to ocean's floor this

Coil of yours, drown'd       in grip of black sea

Waters. And your tears       will hold him high for

Longer times to come.       Then a third phantasm

Crossed your head the       sea of revenge in you

Adorned with golden       ring around the arm

And though this coil       should find common feeling

In your arms it not       so great a value holds

Though he, Ring, will       covet and be coveted by

Many. Though rarer,        dearer, he blaspheming

The Old Gods will watch       and wind his life up

Like the Snake       God, he forsakes the souls

Of all our Deities for one,       if not more pious then

A god in power       invested with proud

Pronouncement and with       money, swords and wis-

Dom to destroy our       enemies (If we are on

His side) and otherwise       killing friends from childhood.

And where the break       in twain of bracelets

So will he be broke        in twain and you will guilt

Yourself in shame       at his demise and sorrow, though

More a revenge and       payment than a remorse at the

Lost of some great       captain of your heart.

Your prow will furrow        the waves of killers. He

Will make a horn        for battle with his bone

A flute of morbid note       as vengeance rifts the scape-

Goat of the mountain       and his sky. In venging

You will see and due       ignore the faults of him

You may have killed       without your caring.

The flaws of your       coiling will be nothing;

You will march and        slash the bond and coiling

Breakers, who though you       fell, were rocks to crush

The gold and ring       of your disturbed cold dreaming.

The helmet dream       and last of winter's wakings

Came last you say       and so the man who like

Helmet metal will       shutter your vision and blind

Your place of guilting;       a man too heavy

For bearing, on your head       or elsewhere. But

A man and last to       love and he like you.

But bearing as a king       on monarchy and throne

Will he lord your head;       A literal chieftain

This husband will be       and bear like tons his bore

Upon your neck so       slender and nothing will

You do as might if       youth had thrown a most

Appropriate love       into a sea, this one to keep

You full intend. Even        as a terrored helmet he

Would be in your dream       world and in your life.

As to other men, you       As killer of many may

Feel his horror and        helmet of terror that blinds

You in his fearsome       might you be happy

Feeling love from a fear       of his wrath most famous?

He will fall though, too       when meeting a fjord--

The one called Hvamms-       fjord on Fate's day at last

In his string of hor-       rific action. Before

His terror by night       consumes you, terror,

His mind and might       will sink. destroy'd as right

To fall to Gods of        old and terror of his.

Before the one God        has given away our fear

Or dulled his sword       the terrific helmet will swim

Like what he is:       The mountain steel and stone

Well-tempered and       impermeable to water or

Gods of new-fanged       contriving. Nothing more soothed.

These dreams mean       nothing more than all the

Little I have said.       

        Scarlet were the cheeks

Of Gudrún when       the uncle Gest had soothed

her fancies. Gudrún       held her breath and breath'd

No complaint of unfairness        in her uncle's horror tales

Would she gasp or        bewail these evil comings but in

Stead she stayed and        said: Foreseeing you might have

Pleasantness at least       if what I dreamt had warranted

A joyful sooth, I thank       as only from these signs

Could you have read       a glowing sun of future

Loves and men who        might have yet falsely enhappied me

And happened in my       now to live yet life. Well

A lot can I look        forward to, if all this to a pass

Will come. Gudrún       with grace, then Gest

Requested staying and with       kiss of father love the daughter

Hoped and begged her great-       uncle an evening's stay and meal.

       END, THE FIRST CANTO

Copyright © 1978, 1999 Bret Underberg-Davis