fandomhigh | English Poetry, Thursday period 1

"Well!" Bob beamed. "It really is lovely to see you all. And to be back face to face." And not to have Fosse running everything. Class was meeting in the Danger Shop today, and it looked a bit like a laboratory, but in wood and stone instead of plastic and metal, and there were bundles of plants all around.

"So, today we're going to start with something simple that I remember from when I was a boy," Bob continued. "It's a charm, instructions for a potion, and a poem!" So totally on topic!

He waved his hand at the room, which he'd finally got to listen to him again, and the poem appeared on a blank wall at the end:

Gemyne ðu, mucgwyrt, hwæt þu ameldodest,
hwæt þu renadest æt Regenmelde.
Una þu hattest, yldost wyrta.
Ðu miht wið III and wið XXX,
þu miht wiþ attre and wið onflyge,
þu miht wiþ þa laþan ðe geond lond færð.
Ond þu, wegbrade, wyrta modor,
eastan opene, innan mihtigu;
ofer ðe cræte curran, ofer ðe cwene reodan,
ofer ðe bryde bryodedon, ofer þe fearras fnærdon.
Eallum þu þon wiðstode and wiðstunedest;
swa ðu wiðstonde attre and onflyge
and þæm laðan þe geond lond fereð.
Stune hætte þeos wyrt, heo on stane geweox;
stond heo wið attre, stunað heo wærce.
Stiðe heo hatte, wiðstunað heo attre,
wreceð heo wraðan, weorpeð ut attor.
Þis is seo wyrt seo wiþ wyrm gefeaht,
þeos mæg wið attre, heo mæg wið onflyge,
heo mæg wið ða laþan ðe geond [f. 161r] lond fereþ.
Fleoh þu nu, attorlaðe, seo læsse ða maran,
seo mare þa læssan, oððæt him beigra bot sy.
Gemyne þu, mægðe, hwæt þu ameldodest,
hwæt ðu geændadest æt Alorforda;
þæt næfre for gefloge feorh ne gesealde
syþðan him mon mægðan to mete gegyrede.
Þis is seo wyrt ðe wergulu hatte;
ðas onsænde seolh ofer sæs hrygc
ondan attres oþres to bote.
Ðas VIIII ongan wið nygon attrum.
Wyrm com snican, toslat he nan;
ða genam Woden VIIII wuldortanas,
sloh ða þa næddran, þæt heo on VIIII tofleah.
Þær geændade æppel and attor,
þæt heo næfre ne wolde on hus bugan.
Fille and finule, felamihtigu twa,
þa wyrte gesceop witig drihten,
halig on heofonum, þa he hongode;
sette and sænde on VII worulde
earmum and eadigum eallum to bote.
Stond heo wið wærce, stunað heo wið attre,
seo mæg wið III and wið XXX,
wið feondes hond and wið þæs hond and wið frea-begde,
wið malscrunge minra wihta.
Nu magon þas VIIII wyrta wið nygon wuldor-geflogenum,
wið VIIII attrum and wið nygon onflyg(e)num,
wið ðy readan attre, wið ðy runlan attre,
wið ðy hwitan attre, wið ðy wedenan attre,
wið ðy geolwan attre, wið ðy grenan [f. 162v] attre,
wið ðy wonnan attre, wið ðy wedenan attre,
wið ðy brunan attre, wið ðy basewan attre,
wið wyrm-geblæd, wið wæter-geblæd,
wið þorn-geblæd, wið þystel-geblæd,
wið ys-geblæd, wið attor-geblæd,
gif ænig attor cume eastan fleogan
oððe ænig norðan cume ***
oððe ænig westan ofer werðeode.
Crist stod ofer adle ængan cundes.
Ic ana wat ea rinnende
and þa nygon nædran (nean) behealdað;
motan ealle weoda nu wyrtum aspringan,
sæs toslupan, eal sealt wæter,
ðonne ic þis attor of ðe geblawe.

Mugcwyrt, wegbrade þe eastan open sy, lombescyrse, attorlaðan, mageðan, netelan, wudusuræppel, fille and finul, ealde sapan. Gewyrc ða wyrta to duste, mængc wiþ þa sapan and wiþ þæs æpples gor. Wyrc slypan of wætere and of axsan, genim finol, wyl on þære slyppan and beþe mid æg-gemogc, þonne he þa sealfe on de, ge ær ge æfter. Sing þæt galdor on ælcre þara wyrta, III ær he hy wyrce and on þone æppel ealswa; ond singe þon men in þone muð and in þa earan buta and on ða wunde þæt ilce gealdor, ær he þa sealfe on de.

Bob read it properly and beamed. He looked hopefully at the students.

He sighed. "Oh, very well."

He waved his hand at the wall of poetry. "In translation, if you must."

Remember, mugwort—what you reveal
what you set to order in solemn pronouncement.
Singular you are called, oldest of the herbs.
You could avail against three and against thirty,
you could avail against poison and against contagion,
you could avail against the hated things that fare throughout the land.
And you, waybread, mother of herbs,
open to the east, mighty within—
over the carter’s creaking, over the woman’s reddening,
over the bride marrying, over the bulls’ snorting.
You stood against all things and you dashed against them—
as you withstood poison and contagion
and those hateful things that flew throughout the country.

The herb is called nettle, it grows upon the stone—
standing against poison, crashing against pain.
It is called stiff, dashing against poison,
avenging cruelty, casting out venom.
This is the herb that fought against the worm—
this can avail against poison, this can avail against contagion,
this can avail against hated things that fare throughout the land.

Now fly, cock’s-spur, the less is more,
the more is less, until they both be cures.
Remember, kindred—what you reveal,
what you finish off at Alorford—
so that it never gave up the spirit to disease
after one prepared one of this tribe for his food.

This is the herb that is called the crab apple—
which sends the seal across the spine of the sea,
an enemy of another poison, its remedy.
These nine herbs can avail against nine poisons.
The worm comes creeping, tearing into the man—
then Woden took up nine glorious boughs,
striking then the serpent—it flew into nine pieces.
There the apple and the venom were destroyed,
so that it never wished to bring down your house.

Thyme and fennel, a mighty powerful pair,
the wise Lord shaped these herbs,
holy in heaven, those he hung up—
set up and sent down into the seven worlds
for the wretched and the blessed, as cure for all.

It stands against pain, dashing against poison,
it can avail against three and against thirty,
against the fiend’s hand and against destruction,
against the bewitchment of wicked creatures.

Now can these nine herbs avail against evil spirits,
against nine poisons and against nine diseases,
against the scarlet poison, against the stinking poison,
against the white poison, against the purple poison,
against the yellow poison, against the green poison,
against the black poison, against the blue poison,
against the brown poison, against the crimson poison,
against the snake-blister, against the water-blister,
against the thorn-blister, against the thistle-blister,
against ice-blister, against poison-blister—

if any poison come flying from the east
or any should come from the north,
or any from the west over the nations of men.
Christ stood over the plague of any kind.

I alone know the running water
where the nine serpents occupy nearby—
they might spring forth now in all forests with herbs,
slipping away to the sea, all the salt water,
when I blow this poison away from you.

Mugwort, way-bread, nettle, crab-apple, thyme and fennel, the elder soap-plant. Pound these herbs into dust, mix with soap and with apple-dirt. Make into a paste with water and ashes, take fennel and wool into the paste and bathe it with beaten eggs, then make it into a salve, either before or after. Sing this spell upon all of the herbs—three times before one makes it and also upon the apples—and sing for the men by mouth and into their ear both and into the wound that same spell, before one applies that salve.

"Now," Bob continued, "as you can see, this is partly a recipe and partly a spell - you follow the directions at the end, including chanting this poem over the ingredients, and you're left with a potion good against any variety of poisons and minor diseases. And supposedly evil spirits, although," he confided, "you'd have to have an awful lot of it to make any real difference. It is good for adding a bit of extra 'oomph' to other wards, though."

He gestured at the plants. "So! Follow the instructions and make your potion. It's probably best if you chant the poem in the original English, but translation should work, too - it's the intent that's most important."

He remembered belatedly, "Oh! And if you wrote a poem last week, you can turn those in now." He might actually read them, even.

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Bob sighed. "Right. Well, you start with the ingredients. Mugwort, way-bread, nettle...they're listed right there, and I've labeled the herbs around you appropriately. So, find some of each and bring them back to your table. Start there."

Dwight did as Bob instructed and stood looking at the pile of ingredients. "I don't think I have ever made anything in my life with this many ingredients" he muttered, half to himself and half out loud.

"Well, no time like the present to learn," Bob said. "So, we start with mugwort. A singular plant, as it says - one flower. And three and thirty - thirty-three leaves."

"Right. Then waybread and nettle..." Dwight said holding up two of the containers. "Not sure how much of each though...." he muttered trying to decipher the poem.

"That part they assume you know," Bob said. "Or will learn by experiment. Try about this much." He gestured to draw a golden line down each bunch where he meant.

Riiiiight experiment with a potion that could end up killing people...

Dwight was once again glad they were in the Danger Shop for this class. He separated out the amount Bob showed him.

"About the same for the crab-apple, thyme, and fennel? the fennel smells a bit strong, so less? Or maybe more?"

He really was just shooting in the dark with this whole thing. But at least he was trying and he hoped Bob appreciated the effort.

English Poetry, Thursday period 1

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