Weekly Contest
Classic poem of the day
He 's gone to school, wee Hughie,
An' him not four,
Sure I saw the fright was in him
When he left the door.
But he took a hand o' Denny,
An' a hand o' Dan,
Wi' Joe's owld coat upon him—
Och, the poor wee man!
He cut the quarest figure,
More stout nor thin;
An' trottin' right an' steady
Wi' his toes turned in.
I watched him to the corner
O' the big turf stack,
An' the more his feet went forrit,
Still his head turned back.
He was lookin', would I call him—
Och, my heart was woe—
Sure it's lost I am without him,
But he be to go.
I followed to the turnin'
When they passed it by,
God help him, he was cryin',
An', maybe, so was I.
member poem of the day
This is my modern English translation of one of the oldest English poems and perhaps the first one written by a woman.
Wulf and Eadwacer
anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan’s curs pursue him like crippled game.
They’ll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.
Wulf’s on one island; we’re on another.
His island’s a fortress fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They’ll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in his paws.
Good feelings for him, but for me, loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
