Aside: Quick Localisations of Four Rune Poems

Read as: Ej likes playing with metaphors and wanted to make sense of some funky translations. This may or may not have been my life for the past few days.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional linguist. I just play with words.

Fehu

“Fé vældr frænda róge;
føðesk ulfr í skóge.”

Translation:
“Wealth is a source of discord among kin;
the wolf grows up in the forest.”

My understanding:
Knowing your own worth can be controversial;
Those who don’t lose themselves in others.

Uruz

“Úr er af illu jarne;
opt løypr ræinn á hjarne.”

Translation:
“Slag comes from bad iron;
The Reindeer races over frozen snow.”

My understanding:
Burning yourself out accomplishes nothing good;
Go steady and you will not fall.

Thurisaz

“Þurs vældr kvinna kvillu,
kátr værðr fár af illu.”

Translation:
“Giant causes anguish to women;
misfortune makes few men cheerful.”

My understanding:
Don’t belittle what others go through;
Nobody enjoys being in pain.

Ansuz

“Óss er flæstra færða
for; en skalpr er sværða.”

Translation:
“Estuary is the way of most journeys;
but a scabbard is of swords.”

My understanding:
A meandering tale will get you far;
Sharp words stay in you.


All poems and translations were referenced from ragwedforge.com

Also this experiment was inspired by the work of Jackson Crawford, in particular the “Cowboy Hávamál.” Someday I will do the whole Elder Futhark. Probably.

Thurisaz

A glass to take the edge off,
The spear at your throat,
The fangs of a wolf, his claws.

A sharp focus, time is still,
Claws on your spine,
Giants bellow in your blood.

A strike of lightning,
Hammer crashes down,
The barberry pierces red.

A wolf bites, the edge consumes,
Pain focuses the mind,
The wounds will heal.

Thurisaz

A rough and ragged rune poem by me.

I’ll have to analyze this later. It just wanted to get out of my head as soon as possible.

φ

A Little Poem

Magic is a word I know intimately.
It resounds and dances off canyon walls
and whispers in trees and over fields
and sighs on your lips and fills your throat.

You, my dear, are made of magic,
and magic is a thing I know in my soul.
It fills my words to the aching brim,
till I can speak and write no more.

A little poem for Someone.
~ Erik Stormgaldr, 2016