Brisingamen, by Ann Groa Sheffield

Time for some poetry….

Brisingamen

The first looked out – his eyes were opened
At summer´s height – his heart was softened
(Sweet murmur of sunlit water;
Swaying grace of willow´s shade.)
The forge he readied; thus he wrought:
Warmth and laughter, ease and languor
This is what he learned of love.

The next looked out – his eyes were opened
At storm and sky – his heart was seized
(Reeling currents shed the clouds;
Lightning blazes; thunder bellows.)
The forge he readied; thus he wrought:
Fire and fury, fierce delight
This is what he learned of love.

The third looked out – his eyes were opened
At gentle rain – his heart was wrung
(It drips from fir trees, iron-dark,
And stains the rock a deeper rust.)
The forge he readied; thus he wrought:
Strange contentment born of sorrow
This is what he learned of love.

The last looked up – his eyes were opened
At winter´s hoard – his heart was pierced
(Dreaming stars in darkness´ throat;
Slow kiss of windless cold.)
The forge he readied; thus he wrought:
Joy and stillness, awe and silence,
Fitting for his fairest love.

–Ann Groa Sheffiled

The Lay of Thrym (or, That One Time When Thor Was a Drag Queen)

Easily one of my favorite myths. Freya’s fury; Thor in drag; Loki as Thor’s wrangler. Hilarity ensues.

I originally tried to find an good modern retelling of this myth, but they were all “off” somehow–either Freya willing went with Thor and Loki; or Loki was portrayed as evil; or Thor whined and pouted the whole time. I went back to the source text itself (or an English translation thereof), and found that the original was so much better than these retellings, it would be a crying shame not to use it.

The Lay of Thrym

The Hurler woke, went wild with rage,
For, suddenly, he missed his sacred Hammer:
He tore his beard, tossed his red locks,
Groped about but could grasp nothing.
Thus, then did Thor speak: ‘Loki, Loki, listen well.
Unmarked by men, unmarked by gods,
Someone has stolen my sacred Hammer!’

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