Old English Poetry: A Modest Bibliography

For those who would love to explore Old English poetry beyond Beowulf but don't know where to look, here are some suggestions:

Physical Books:

• The Complete Old English Poems, by Craig Williamson, March 3, 2017 - If you've just GOT to catch 'em all!
• Old English Poetry: An Anthology, by R. M. Liuzza, March 26, 2014 - A good, poetic translation of the most important Old English texts.
• Anglo-Saxon Poetry, by S. A. J. Bradley, February 15, 1995 - A well-regarded prose translation of the major Old English texts, by codex.
• The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation, by Greg Delanty (Editor), Michael Matto (Editor), Seamus Heaney (Foreword), April 9, 2012 - Modern poets take on ancient poems
• An Anthology of Old English Poetry, by Charles William Kennedy, Dec 31, 1960 - much beloved by the previous generation of English students; out of print, but available used

Online Sources:

• The entire corpus of Anglo-Saxon poetry is online in the original language at https://sacred-texts.com/neu/ascp/index.htm.
• Translations of nearly 80% of the corpus can be found at https://oldenglishpoetry.camden.rutgers.edu/.
• The Exeter Book Anthology, Israel Gollancz, (Poems 1-8, parallel Anglo-Saxon / Modern English): https://archive.org/details/publicationsorig104earluoft/page/n5/mode/2up
• The Old English Reader is online in the original with side-by-side textual notes and glossary at www.oereader.ca

Nearly There

I know your breathing,

The sweep of your back,

The proper way to tuck you in,

So why do the six inches

Of bed between us

Feel like six thousand miles?

You’ve embraced my body and tasted my tears

In the holy darkness;

You’ve seen my deep places,

So why do I feel unseen tonight,

Alone right next to

My closest companion?

Tomorrow there will be

Strong coffee and gentle kisses,

Sunrise together on the porch,

But for tonight 

We’re just two ships

Trying not to wreck in the fog.

After Dover Beach

After Dover Beach

Here’s the truth:

The sea of faith was never full.

Human hearts always wander,

Always grieve, 

Always fear.

That’s what Sophocles heard in the Aegean

And Arnold heard in the Atlantic,

And I hear tonight

In these Kansas River-ripples.

But down by the riverside,

Under the watchful witness

Of old Menninger’s clocktower,

All my senses testify of grace

Poured forth in ways

As familiar as they are new:

Jumping fish,

Waxing moon,

Frog-and-cicada chorus,

Fireflies dancing through the dark.

This is what Arnold missed:

Though faith’s sea

Be a mere mudpuddle,

Surrounded by the clashes 

Of ignorant armies,

Grace is a vast ocean, 

Abounding more each moment,

Dragging us under its riptides,

Plunging us into light so bright

It drowns the looming dark,

Fulfilling promises too good

To be untrue.

Gleanings From Computer Power and Human Reason

 I'm working through Joseph Weizenbaum's classic work, Computer Power and Human Reason. Some parts of it are a bit dry, but others are quite interesting and relevant to computer science today. 

I enjoyed how clearly Weizenbaum explains the universal Turing machine, as well as his low-level account of how computers store and process data. These are essential building blocks in understanding how computers work and why they are so powerful, and Weizenbaum handles them well.

One of the most surprising elements of the book is how relevant Weizenbaum's concerns about artificial intelligence remain today. He is skeptical of the notion that humans are mere input/output devices, and that sufficiently advanced machine intelligence could therefore become equivalent to humans. As he observes, we may be universal Turing machines, but we are also much more than that. 

Here are some quotes that stood out to me.

On programs as expressions of problem-solving: 

A computer is a merciless critic. Therefore the assertion that one understands a thing sufficiently well to be able to program it is, first of all, an assertion that one understands it in very particular terms. In any case, it can be no more than a boast that may well be falsified by experience.

The other side of the coin is the belief that one cannot program anything unless one thoroughly understands it. This misses the truth that programming is, again like any form of writing, more often than not experimental. One programs, just as one writes, not because one understands, but in order to come to understand. Programming is an act of design. To write a program is to legislate the laws for a world one first has to create in imagination. 

Only very rarely does any designer, be he a an architect, a novelist, or whatever, have so coherent a picture of the world emergent in his imagination that he can compose its laws without criticism from that world itself. That is precisely what the computer may provide (108-109).

Computers are maddeningly efficient at stumbling over purely technical, i.e., linguistic, programming errors, but stumbling in a way that disguises the real locus of the trouble, e.g., just which parenthesis was misplaced...

... There is therefore a persistent cry for natural-language, e.g., English, programming systems. Programmers who hold to this belief have probably never tackled a truly difficult problem, and have therefore never felt the need for really deep criticism from the computer (109).

On computer programs as abstract games:

The computer is, of course, a physically embodied machine and, as such, cannot violate natural law. But it is not completely characterized by only its manifest interaction with the real world.

Electrons flow through it, its tapes move, and its lights blink, all in strict obedience to physical law, to be sure and the courses of its internal rivers of electrons are determined by openings and closings of gates, that is, by physical events. But the game the computer plays out is regulated by systems of ideas whose range is bounded only by the limitations of the human imagination. The physically determined bounds on the electronic and mechanical events internal to the computer do not matter for that game--any more than it matters how tightly a chess player grips his bishop or how rapidly he moves it over the board.

A computer running under control of a stored program is thus detached from the real world in the same way that every abstract game is. (112)

The computer programmer, however, is a creator of universes for which he alone is the lawgiver. So, of course, is the designer of any game. But universes of virtually unlimited complexity can be created in the form of computer programs. Moreover, and this is a crucial point, systems so formulated and elaborated act out their programmed scripts. They compliantly obey their laws and vividly exhibit their obedient behavior. No playwright, no stage director, no emperor, however powerful, has ever exercised such absolute authority to arrange a stage or a field of battle and to command such unswervingly dutiful actors or troops.

One would have to be astonished if Lord Acton's observation that power corrupts were not to apply in an environment in which omnipotence is so easily achievable. It does apply. And the corruption evoked by the computer programmer's omnipotence manifests itself in a form that is instructive in a domain far larger that the immediate environment of the computer (115).

 On the Compulsive Programmer vs. the Professional Programmer:

The compulsive programmer is convinced that life is nothing but a program running on an enormous computer, and that therefore every aspect of life can ultimately be explained in programming terms. Many scientists (again there are notable exceptions) also believe that every aspect of life and nature can finally be explained in exclusively scientific terms. Indeed, as Polany correctly points out, the stability of scientific beliefs is defended by the same devices that protect magical belief systems: 

Any contradiction between a particular scientific notion and the facts of experience will be explained by other scientific notions; there is a ready reserve of possible scientific hypotheses available to explain any conceivable event. . .. within science itself, the stability of theories against experience is maintained by epicyclical reserves which suppress alternative conceptions in the germ.

The professional regards programming as a means toward an end, not as an end in itself. His satisfaction comes from having solved a substantive problem, not from having bent a computer to his will.

[The compulsive programmer's] main interest is, in any case, not in small programs, but in very large, very ambitious systems of programs. Usually the systems he undertakes to build, and on which he works feverishly for perhaps a month or two or three, have very grandiose but extremely imprecisely stated goals. Some examples of these ambitions are: new computer languages to facilitate man-machine communication; a general system that can be taught to play any board game; a system to make it easier for computer experts to write super-systems (this last is a favorite). It is characteristic of many such projects that the programmer can long continue in the conviction that they demand knowledge about nothing but computers, programming, etc. And that knowledge he, of course, commands in abundance (117).

Programming systems can, of course, be built without plan and without knowledge, let alone understanding, of the deep structural issues involved, just as houses, cities, systems of dams, and national economic policies can be similarly hacked together. As a System so constructed begins to get large, however, it also becomes increasingly unstable. When one of its subfunctions fails in an unanticipated way, it may be patched until the manifest trouble disappears. But since there is no general theory of the whole system, the system itself can be only a more or less chaotic aggregate of subsystems whose influence on one another's behavior is discoverable only piecemeal and by experiment. The hacker spends part of his time at the console piling new subsystems onto the structure he has already built -- he calls them "new features" -- and the rest of his time in attempts to account for the way in which substructures already in place misbehave. That is what he and the computer converse about.

The psychological situation the compulsive programmer finds himself in while so engaged is strongly determined by two apparently opposing facts: first, he knows that he can make the computer do anything he wants it to do; and second, the computer constantly displays undeniable evidence of his failures to him. It reproaches him. There is no escaping this bind. The engineer can resign himself to the truth that there are some things he doesn't know. But the programmer moves in a world entirely of his own making. The computer challenges his power, not his knowledge.

Indeed, the compulsive programmer's excitement rises to its highest, most feverish pitch when he is on the trail of a most recalcitrant error, when everything ought to work but the computer nevertheless reproaches him by misbehaving in a number of mysterious, apparently unrelated ways. It is then that the system the programmer has himself created gives every evidence of having taken on a life of its own and, certainly, of having slipped from his control. This too is the point at which the idea that the computer can be "made to do anything" becomes most relevant and most soundly based in reality (119).

But the compulsive programmer's pride and elation are very brief. His success consists of his having shown the computer who its master is. And having demonstrated that he can make it do this much, he immediately sets out to make it do even more. Thus the entire cycle begins again. He begins to "improve" his system, say, by making it run faster, or by adding "new features" to it, or by improving the ease with which data can be entered into it and gotten out of it. The act of modifying the then-existing program invariably causes some of its substructures to collapse; they constitute, after all, an amorphous collection of processes whose interactions with one another are virtually fortuitous. His apparently devoted efforts to improve and promote his own creation are really an assault on it, an assault whose only consequence can be to renew his struggle with the computer (120). 

Salvage

 After the shatter,
Shards scattered
In chaos across the floor,
Lodging in cracks,
Sliding under furniture,
Generally making recovery
Unthinkable.

I'd just sweep up,
Start over,
Make it less fragile
Next time around.

But he did not.

He still saw beauty
In each crash-blown sliver
And wanted them back,
No matter the cost.

So he stooped down,
Lower than low,
Reached for each one,
Braved cuts and scrapes,
Bruises and baffling rejection,
To somehow recover
His broken treasure.

Skysong

 Skysong

28 February 2023

He awakens me, for the trillionth time, 

With a lingering kiss,

And, for the trillionth time, I blush, 

Warmth starting in the utter east,

Then radiating up and out.

When he kisses me goodnight,

With one last blush-inducing caress,

I grow cold and lonesome,

Especially in winter

When sharp stars prick the night,

Shrill reminders of what I no longer have.

Summers are better:

He's not gone so long,

And I stow some of his warmth away

Packed in the humidity of the night,

And even the stars get soft around the edges,

Their voices deep and mellow

Under layers of cricket-and-frog-song.

But every single morning, oh! 

His lips are hungry, and so am I,

And he flames up and fills me, 

Warming me from east to west,

Certain as the dawn, of course.

And the wonder is not

That this is the trillionth time

Or even that he's never missed a day,

But that he is 

right here,

right now,

with me.

A Trip to the Cape

 A Trip to the Cape

For Magen, on the occasion of our 19th Valentine’s Day together, in memory of our June 2018 trip to Massachusetts.

Do you remember that day on the Cape, Our children entrusted to young Springers Hiking up a mountain somewhere in Colorado? We drove up the Atlantic coast, Past endless beaches and lovely old lighthouses, Not alone, as I had promised,  But at the tender traveling mercies  Of our friend Chuck, jokester and retired undertaker,

And his remarkably patient wife, Phyllis.

We loved them, of course,

And were grateful for their generous hospitality.

But you had envisioned a New England tour,

Romantic, lovely, free of stresses,

At a leisurely pace through the northeast

In fall when the foliage flamed,

Retiring together to a B&B bed piled with quilts

At the end of the day, hearts and eyes

Sated with goodness, beauty, and sweet company.

I had envisioned the same sort of thing,

But on a budget.

So I allowed my cheapness to defeat

Your best ideas, your earnest desires,

And that is why we were staying on twin beds

In Chuck and Phyllis’s stifling attic guestroom

And riding in the back of their Camry

Along every blessed inch of Cape Cod.

(To say nothing of my storm-dissolved plan

For a romantic Rhode Island getaway

That became a night of pure discomfort,

Trying to sleep on an airport bench in Baltimore.)

It is true that we ate at that cute farm-to table place,

And learned many edifying facts about The Pilgrims,

And some fascinating ones about the undertaking business,

And got out at probably every lighthouse there is on Cape Cod,

And shared the exciting horror of Chuck’s accident in P-Town,

His slow, baffled descent from the tipping restaurant bench,

His head hitting the ground with a sick thud,

And the way the queer servers attended to him so kindly

That he was forced to reassess his opinions of them.

But none of that was very romantic,

And I would have been sorry I ever dragged you along

On this ludicrous, tantalizing mockery of your dream vacation

If it hadn’t been for the reassuring warmth of your hand in mine

And your heartmelting smile in the June sunshine

And the way those American flag earrings brought out the blue in your eyes

And how you fit just right in the crook of my arm

Even at 2 am on a metal bench in the Baltimore airport

When there was no hope of sleep anytime soon.

Worth

I find that I flee

From silence 

And solitude

And even sleep,

Filling their sacred void

With sound and fury,

Talking heads and tiktokers,

Resonant, relentless voices 

Selling wares 

Without worth.

I flee because 

I feel a flame

Flickering in the deep dark,

And I fear it will find me,

Pass over me,

Utterly consume me,

Leaving behind only hints

Of the self I thought I was:

Ashes and dust, 

Without worth.

I flee because

I don’t yet believe

The truth I profess:

A flame is there, yes,

And it consumes, yes,

But it’s there to unbury 

A hidden treasure,

To burn away my dross,

And finally reveal 

All of my worth.