~ By Courtesy of Others ~
Grithspell
In eldest days, when Ymir's blood
Was steaming still and stars unsure
Rehearsed their roads, then rode to Thing
The tired gods. Tyr and Odhin,
Moody Ęsir, met the Vanir
Under shade of shattered fences -
Etin's eye lash, iron-timbered -
Root up-ripped, rubble now.
Spoke the Thing-God, "Think on this:
Tried we have in trading blows
To quell the other - but quickness leaps
In both our bloods and brooks no victor."
Njord gave answer: "Never would
We see an end to sorry strife,
But that Baleworker take back his spear,
Forego his prize and fight no more."
"You spit, Spear-God, spurn our truce?
Fetch me then my father's cup
To catch that spittle - spare it not!
But drain the dregs of dragons' spite."
Odhin spoke a spell of rage,
In fury forged, flung it over
The gathered hosts, gave them answer:
"Sore it is to fight a war and not to win
And so I spit!
Sore it is to see friends harmed and not avenged.
Sore it is to see a foe do hurt to mine,
To do me wrong,
And not be made to pay and pay
And so I spit! I spit!
"Sore it is to find my blade unsharp and cutting not my foe.
Sore it is to see my foe and spare his life!
Sore it is that so much blood of friends is cast about
And too little,
Far too little,
Of mine enemies let.
"Sore it is that all the worlds and all of Wyrd
Moved not my way, nor to my will,
But let me hang - einherjar -
One, at war, alone and with myself.
"To rid the taste of bile and spew, of spear-iron, I spit
Of defeat, distrust and shame, I spit
Of scorn and mockery, I spit
Fury, sweat and fear, I spit
Fire, I spit
Blood, I spit
And reckless, heedless haste.
I spit derision and indecision,
Grief and hurt, unlooked for malice
Ire and bitter betrayal...
Loss, I spit!
And loss again, of love and all is well
And all wise, all seeing, always right... so too I spit!
"I spit for witnesses to my wrong-doing, left living to speak
against me.
I spit for children's tales and nurses' rhymes which speak of my
defeat.
I spit that no god steered my hand, but mine own.
I spit that Ymir's flesh, though dead, still pulls me down!
"I spit for arms and head
And shoulders, legs and gut aching
from the end of strain.
I spit for the scorn in my freya's face.
I spit for the skill I gain in parry and strike.
I spit for the hidden mock my foeman has
Within his hall of me and mine.
"For safe return of my sons, I spit.
For home and hall standing,
For harvest and cattle safe,
For hall unburnt,
For the praise of my fathers.
"For I see a doughty warrior, I spit.
For I see my foeman's worth, I spit.
For I could not defeat him,
Nor he, I.
That our efforts were matched
Blade for blade,
Blow for blow,
Blood for blood
And head for head,
Heart for heart,
Mood for mood,
For that I spit
And faith and frith
And for the weary weakness of my arm
And aching lung
And sorrow to my very soul,
My ferth."
So spoke each, so spat each,
With mither and malice. More than another
Could no wight gather.
More than another could no wight carry:
Bale from the battle,
Bile from the belly.
So spoke each, so spat each,
Till gall was gone and guts were dry.
Ale was brought, brewed by the Vanadis,
Holy in horn - and hostages named.
`Neath the world-tree, the Nornir worked;
Hung their loom with lines of drool
And spittle-threads. The spinsters turned
The glistening gob to golden blood,
To knotted sinew, knitted bone,
Brought from out the brimming cup
A bright-faced man, broad in wisdom:
A canny man, Kvasir hight.
© 2004 Math Jones, Arnstede Hearth