I was asked to boast Brenden into the hall for his elevation to Pelican January 2024 at Birka. I created a boast to read during the whole of the procession, which began at the back of the Birka hall and ended (fortunately!) just as the Crane family approached the thrones.
O crowded hall, come and greet this noble thane Who captures images and hearts, Brenden Crane. I’d boast of a man of great humility Simple, for his virtues are easy to see So much for his fellows our fine friend doth care the honors he loves are the honors we share So much that on paper this man did implore His boast be an homage to those here before To people he never knew but in name Their mark upon friends in his heart lit a flame That heart, so open, that he wears on his sleeve While its steady beat inspires us to believe. Yes, name them he bid me, so name them I will For while scattered to realms they are with us still. Our Dear Caroline and beloved Julien, St Liam and ernst, who serve now much as then, Don Jehan, Aimee, and of course, Gregory… Their stories are guides, like the stars ore the sea Shine bright on the whale road Brenden rows upon While observing the sky – in night, day, or dawn. His generous spirit and kindness to all Have touched many gathered as one in this Hall He would never suspect when we look at him, We feel those constellations burning within. That light he reflects on both pauper and queen, And casts out the shadows so we can be seen. This boast with no boasting, I fear is in vain So proudly I boast SEE OUR FRIEND Brenden Crane.
This performance was recorded at the East Kingdom Bardic Championship in February 2023 as my final round offering, as His Majesty had requested that I include an instrument in my performance, and that maybe a love song would be good if I had one.
The story our poet tells is one of great and enduring love. He speaks of faithfulness, loyalty, and perseverance–among the best of the chivalric virtues.
I’d long wanted to perform this piece, which I translated to Middle English many years ago. It was only very recently, however, that I discovered how I would finally set it to harp. This recording is its debut performance. Probably it’s worth mentioning that I realized the setting roughly 36 hours prior to the performance and didn’t plan on performing it it, really, but the request from His Majesty made it clear that this piece was the only possible choice.
I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face. There were only a couple of people who knew of this song’s existence, and when I started the introduction, my boon companion, who was standing in the back of the hall, suddenly made an elated football touchdown motion that threatened to undo my composure. (My expression at 00:22 is when I made eye contact with said companion for the first and only time during the performance, for self-preservation.)
Those who were in the know started quietly snickering early at the first chorus. Those who understood Middle English started to get it as it went along. That began the giggling and a little whispering. When the ever-composed Mistress Ana deGuzman, a poetess and performer who I greatly admire, suddenly put her head down on the table and transformed to a pile of shaking veil, it was all I could do to not leap up and make a touchdown gesture in delight. That alone was worth the whole adventure.
Ultimately, this closed out a great day. I dusted off my prowess, had well-received performances, and Rickrolled the East Kingdom during the finals.
The Lay of Richard Rollings of Astley
(as told in Middle English by Aneleda Falconbridge)
Forswear thy pledge, myn weneth nat everich oon yeven thilke I but mine thoughts unbinden ant thou understandan mak.
Neuer ic the ne yeve away Neuer ic the nolde na doun Neuer ic sette forth and forsake thee Neuer ic yelde wepen mak Neuer ic farewell spake Neuer ic thee disceyve and peyne
We ken our leman mony a day achen thou hart, thou fain would ne hit spake we ken wot is now befalle we wyste the sport and we wolde it play Ant shoud thou ask mine heart, are thee ne blind to ken?
Neuer ic the ne yeve away Neuer ic the nolde na doun Neuer ic sette forth and forsake thee Neuer ic yelde wepen mak Neuer ic farewell spake Neuer ic thee disceyve and peyne
This post was called “A work in progress” back in Sept. 2013, when I first thought it would be funny to do. I was trying to set it to a number of historic works, none of which were a good fit. This is the first draft.
Forswear thy pledge, myn weneth nat everich oon yeven thilke I but mine thoughts unbinden ant thou understandan mak.
Neuer ne thou yeveth forth Neuer thou nolde na doun drede Neuer ne sette forth awa y thou forsake Neuer ne thou yeven soregh mak Neuer ne spake adeiu Neuer ne thou disceyve y pyne thee
We ken our leman mony a day achen thou hart, thou fain would ne hit spake we ken wot is now befalle we wyste the sport and we wolde it play Ant shoud thou ask mine heart, are thee ne blind to ken?
Neuer ne thou yeveth forth Neuer thou nolde na doun drede Neuer ne sette forth awa y thou forsake Neuer ne thou yeven soregh mak Neuer ne spake adeiu Neuer ne thou disceyve y pyne thee
Neuer ne yeveth forth Ne yeveth forth.
Extra bonus points from Aneleda if you can figure out the inspiration for this piece. 😉
The blood-rain / may pour on me
Fear no fight / going forward
I have seen / blade on life-thread
Norns know well / no beauty there
As a ship / on stormy swan-road.
Tie in tightly / wait for wave-lash
Lead-lid eye / you may carry
Bearing brow-waves / brow-waves bearing
Both born by / before break-light
Water-walls / moon-pulls worsen
Tie in tightly
(Inspired by Tom Cochrane’s verse)
“Let the blood you might see rain down on me
You don’t have to fight no more”
I have seen my death and it ain’t pretty
but it be a wild ride
Buckle in
“You might be tired and troubled and troubled but not today”
Now until dawn is the bumpiest road
Buckle in.
Kings-night comes / to the MidRealm
Dragon Warder / works the words
Bears the brunt / of Braggi’s boasting –
a praise-poem / put to paper.
By his feet / word-dirt gathers,
gall globs grow / from his feathers
phrases fade / under fingers
into song-fog.
Falcons carried / crackling carcass
to a waiting / Eastern window.
Linden skald / opened eye-sill,
Awed she was / at her ally!
Hweat! began / lengthy love song
heart-inked verse / to the Midream
praising kings / in war and peace
people-song / for the Dragon.
Raven quick / chorus-culler,
called to Valhalla / knightly kennings
On this parchment / pushed her lean-pen.
From prose-horse / picked through war-field.
Midrealm warrior / watched the cutting,
scythe-strong he / threshed the word-wheat,
boldly broke / through strong thought-bales.
Stub-flame stands / as a timepeace
lights the loom / of ink and pulp
where word-wove / tale wefts and warps.
Sleepy skalds / night-drunk writers
bear to Braggi / poet-present
flown to Asgard / on ink-feathers
lip-bitten / boast-swords blessed it.
Note and heed / Gold-ring givers,
Ancient foes / entwined this night
Single voiced / were the war bards
that the King’s day / sun-song stand.
thus is prove’d / the Best war-bird
field-picks with / her feathers cut,
wordfame wends / many places,
Valkyries / codex-killers
lay waste to work.
Sings East-bard / to Mid Warder
our allies / to hour-allies
singly sleep / ere sky-gold rises.
***********************
And so it came to pass that Eastern bard Aneleda helped a MidRealm Warder, Andrew Blackwood (Drew Nicholson) write Norse-styled praise poetry in honor of the lineage of his kings for the approaching MidRealm Coronation. (Thank you Master Toki Redbeard and Mistress Wyndrith.) It seemed that she did not catch on fire while doing so. And they both got to sleep before dawn.
She was so happy about that, that she wrote another poem all herself about the work they did.
In the morning, I woke to read this from the beloved and renowned Brendan O’ Corraidhe (Corrie Bergeron). Appended was this note: “Seriously – I don’t think I’v ever seen a piece in praise of collaboration!”
Sleepless greybeard / sees and startles. Oft has he / with others written Ideas shared / and shorn, and scutch’ed Winnowed wheat / left chaff to char.
Wordsmiths / wielding wisdom, know That eyes a’plenty / find all flaws. (No slight spat / at One-Eyed Woden; From we who lack / Yggdrisail’s Gift.)
Yet in all / my years of yowling, Versing, faring, / story-telling, Seeking counsel / from like-minded Never have I / seen an ode
Like this. Praise of poet’s process: Advice from well-wrought wisdom Seek gold ‘among the mosses: A legacy for children.
The word gift from Brendan was worth all the lost sleep alone.
Philosophers may lounge in smokey dens
Imbibing wisdom ‘neath a flowing cask
While by the wordy fires at length hey bask.
O they could speak ‘till God made dry the fens
whilst multiplying arguments by tens
disguising fears. The words serve as a mask
o’er questions Art herself might take to task
could she but see those blots from inky pens.
Yet of their many words none do describe
the spirt nor the method of my art –
how once in sylvan glen the warriors wept,
why bitter, broken love sent forth the gibe,
when music did make whole the wounded heart,
or other moments that my song hath kept.
Petrarchan sonnet (a b b a a b b a c d e c d e) written 9-9-13
I stumbled once upon a garden large.
Twas bordered by a gate of iron wrought
Well-craft about with many creatures charge’d
For rampant, sleeping, dancing were they caught.
’Twas quick apparent its creator thought
His garden more enriched by many flowers
Some bloom’ed wild but others had been taught
to grow and flourish on the ancient bowers.
Bold blossoms brought the eye to note the towers
Untam’ed ones cavorted at their base
To note them all one need wander for hours
Each stem did have its own distinctive grace.
A garden perfect requires many parts.
How so akin to flowers are the arts!
The Spenserian Sonnet (a b a b b cb c c d c d e e) written 9-9-13
A challenge had been posted that any of us currently “in discussion” about what it meant to be a “bard” or what “bardic arts” included or did not include, was to write a sonnet on the matter as a means of, I suppose, putting our money where our mouths are. These were my offerings.
