Forty-One

Forty-one looks like

Autumn flames consuming the maples,

The predawn goodmorning 

Of a beautiful woman who loves me,

A circle of smiling friends 

Discussing sin and redemption,

A long afternoon nap,

Cuddles on the couch while the Chiefs

Fight their way to last-minute heartbreak,

Shrimp tacos and chocolate chip cookies,

Perfect gifts wrapped by a seven-year-old,

And bedtime blessings before an early night.

Faces

I cannot look away, these days,

From the face of the moon

Or the face of a newborn baby

Without gazing for a while,

Staring at fresh new glories

Barely veiling ancient ones.

The Ruin: A Fresh Translation

I've always loved "The Ruin," a damaged Anglo-Saxon poem from the Exeter Book. I had occasion to revisit it in April 2021, and I decided to translate it again, for my own pleasure and to help me think through some writing I was doing for The Lost Tales of Sir Galahad. I share it here in hopes that it may amuse and/or edify you.

You can see the original Anglo-Saxon and a different translation of it at this wikipedia page.

Jewel-like is this wallstone,    Fate-broken.
The castle burst;    its giant-work crumbles.
Roofs have fallen,    towers lie in ruin.
The frostgate is riven,     rime on lime,
The storm-refuge in shards,    shorn to disaster,
Eaten from beneath by age.    Earth’s grip holds
The castle’s mighty makers,    withered and gone.
Soil's hard grasp will hold them    until a hundred generations
Of mankind have passed.    Oft this wall endured,
Lichen-grey and red of hue,    in one kingdom after another;
It held up under storms:    Steep, lofty, lost.
It crumbles still, the ...s heaped up
Abide...
Grimly ground ...
... shone, they ...
... clever work, ancient ...
... a ring of dried mud ...
mind ... swift, crafty,
Determined in rings,    bound the high roof
A wire-helmed wall,    ingeniously joined.
Bright were the castle-halls,    many bath-houses,
High treasure-horns,    great troop-sounds,
Many meadhalls,    full of men's joy,
Until that was turned    severely by Fate.
The battle-felled ranged wide,    the pestilence-days came.
Death carried off    rough and ready swordsmen;
Their battlegrounds    became abandoned wastes.
The castle crumbled;    its repairers themselves crumpled to the ground.
Thus, these houses    have collapsed,
And the red arch    is sundered from the tiles,
The pillared-vault's roof.    It has all collapsed,
Broken to bits,    where many a warrior,
Glad-minded and gold-bright,    gleamingly adorned,
Proud and wine-brave,    shone in battle-array.
He looked at loot,    at silver, at stunning gems,
At wealth, at possessions,    at goblet-stones,
At the bright fortress    of a broad kingdom.
The stonecastle stood,    streams brought heat,
A wide spring.    A wall surrounded it all,
Its bright bosom,    where the baths were,
Hot in its heart.    That was convenient.
They let it out...
Over grey stone    the hot streams 
Un- ...
... that ring-pool    hot...
... where the baths were ...
Then is ... 
...-re;    That is a kingly thing
How the ... castle ...

Walking in Will

Deliver me, Lord Christ,

Captain of my affections and my days,

From the crushing weight of should,

The overwhelming vastness of could,

The urgent tyranny of must,

And the aimless vacillation of might.

Let me walk instead in the steadfast way of will:

My will, sweetly conformed to yours,

Seeking to fulfill the good plans

You crafted for me from eternity past,

Intending me to walk in them.

O Lord, I would walk in them.

I might, must, could, should walk in them,

And by your gracious hand

And the quickening dynamis  

Of your holy wind 

That breathes gusts of your presence 

Into my inner man,

I will walk in them.