Singer

While my body grumblingly deals with the aftereffects of my overestimation of my yogic skillz yesterday, one of my favorite Old English-inspired poems has come to mind. Robert Pinsky, writing for the Post's Poet's Choice a few years ago, introduced me to Steven Cramer's excellent "Singer," a modern interpretation of the Anglo-Saxon "Deor." The poet's resignation and freedom from bitterness are striking. Aches and pains from too much exercise are a flimsy but sufficient excuse for posting it.

Singer

I knew trouble and endured it,
grief and desire my companions.
In winter my enemy attacked.
The better of the two, I was bound
in rope made from my own sinew.
All that has passed, and so may this.

There was a man condemned to live
outside the city he loved—even death
meant less in exile—and a woman
who dreaded the child inside her.
Her dreams were dreams of drowning.
All that has passed, and so may this.

If the mind becomes a wolf’s mind,
it will force misery on misery,
make cowards heroes. If courtiers
want the kingdom overthrown, yet fail
to speak, they will remain courtiers.
All that has passed, and so may this.

At first doom sees, wherever it turns,
more doom. Then, in time: joy.
I’ll say this about myself: my name
was a name you knew, and I sang
until another singer took my place.
All that has passed, and so will this.