Threefold Sorrow
by Anonymous, 13th century
translated from Middle English by Martin Briggs
Among my thoughts are always three
That steal my happiness from me.
One is that I must away;
One, I do not know the day;
The third One is my greatest woe:
I know not whither I must go.
Middle English Original
Wanne ich þenche þinges þre
ne mai neure bliþe be:
þat on is ich sal awe,
þat oþer is ich ne wot wilk day.
þat þridde is mi moste kare,
i ne woth nevre wuder i sal fare.
The Genius of the Inverted Torch
Suggested by an aphorism of Schiller:
Lieblich sieht er zwar aus mit seinen erloschenen Fackel;
Aber, ihr Herren, der Tod ist so ästhetisch doch nicht.
He may look lovely with his extinguished torch;
But, gentlemen, death is not so aesthetically pleasing after all.
Winsome death displays exquisite taste,
so that you almost wish he’d catch your eye;
extinguishes a life with such good grace,
as if it were a privilege to die.
Don’t be deceived by iconography
of grief, the Classic pose, the grand lament:
mourning is a mask, cast off when he
snuffs out your flame, revokes all sentiment.
You won’t appreciate his elegance
when he seals up your cold unconscious head;
he can’t appeal to the aesthetic sense
of a corpse upon its final bed.
For that dandy of the rococo
in vulgar truth will thieve your warmth and light,
and gloat with baleful malice as you go,
betrayed, into a cold and lonely night.
Ill Winds
—after Paul Verlaine
Clouds descend.
Branches bend,
Ill winds blow.
A tree unweaves;
Cast-off leaves
Decay below.
There and here
A ring, a year,
Slowly grow;
Trees survive,
Leaves revive,
They come, they go.
Summer rain
Will fall again.
But ill winds blow
And frosts portend.
For in the end
Must come snow.
Martin Briggs lives in Suffolk, England. He only began writing in earnest after retiring from a career in public administration, since when he has been published in various publications on both sides of the Atlantic.
Diverse perspectives from different centuries and cultures, Martin, well gathered by you as others might not think to do. Your expansion of the Schiller aphorism is marvelous. Thinking of the many artistic images for death, and showing how they fail to correspond to the reality for the individual, digs underneath culture. Even primitive mounds or tombs make a point of hiding the horrid reason for human grief–while you imagine it not from the mourner’s point of view, but the corpse’s. Helps to value life in the sickroom, or wherever one may be tempted to exalt death. Your translation of the Middle English verses points elsewhere. For that author, the worst thing was uncertainty about where he would go after death. We are often certain it will be heaven or nowhere beyond the grave!
Thank you, Margaret, for reading and commenting. I rather regret the merry little subtitle (“Three Poems on Death”), which somehow became appended after I submitted these pieces. They are less about death than about how humanity fears or confronts death: a hair-splitting distinction perhaps, but my intention (which you have grasped) was to look at the issue through the lenses of different periods and contrasting social attitudes or literary fashions.
Nice trio, good job! I like how these three poems circle around the condition of mortals in a fallen world, with each poem describing a different perspective from a different time and view angle.
Thank you Yael. You have understood my purpose completely.
Martin, these three poems seemingly from different ages contemplating the end of our mortal lives are compelling and gracefully written causing us to pause in contemplation.
Thanks Roy. Yes – three different ways of saying the same thing.
Very nice, Martin. So interesting to picture an individual from a millennium ago with the exact sentiments we feel today.
Thanks for commenting, Paul. I wonder what Anon what think if he knew his thoughts are still reverberating so many centuries later.
All three were ass-kicking good, in my opinion. Unsubtlety is sometimes the highest form of subtlety. Memento mori.
Thank you, CB. Glad you approve.
Very nice rhythm to your dimeter in “Winds”.
Thanks Cheryl.
I appreciate every one of these eye-opening poetic confections – thank you for the wise, witty, and heart-touching translation. I love the brevity and the beauty of “Ill Winds”. But it is “The Genius of the Inverted Torch” that has captured my imagination. It speaks the stark truth with beauty – not an easy thing to do. Having worked in a funeral home for the last ten years, I know your words to be true on a literal level. Your words also speak to the soul of the harshness of death in an age of euthanasia, where a kind and soothing visit from the Grim Reaper is sold as the answer to life’s trials and torments. Great stuff! Thank you, Martin!
Thank you for this appreciation, Susan. It never occurred to me that I might be read by a professional (so to speak). The Schiller piece is certainly more than mere morbidity: it has, as you say, topical and chilling resonance today.
I enjoyed all three, Martin. And all so different in total length, line length and rhyme and meter.
My favourite line in ‘The Genius of the Inverted Torch’ is, “You won’t appreciate his elegance
when he seals up your cold unconscious head…” You really wrote a strong defence for Grimmy. He’d get acquitted every time.
Thanks for the reads.
Thanks Paul. Here’s to health and happiness….
I am really impressed by one who can translate from Middle English! These are quite thoughtful meditations on death, displayed in lovely form. I especially favor “Winds”, with its lyric-feeling three- and four-syllable lines in lilting rhythm, and its poignant imagery that paints a picture of nature’s cycles, always ending in the sadness represented by frost and snow.
Thank you Cynthia. I’m pleased if these pieces struck a chord.