I read this recently at my Granddad's Funeral. A Silversmith, he fixed and restored beautiful antiques made from precious metals and stones. I thought these extracts were best to remember him by before his cremation, as every material thing and great person must eventually deteriorate, returning to nature and being reborn in a different, yet equally beautiful way.
I've never had to actually do anything at a funeral before and have always studied funeral poetry without thinking too much about the practical side of things. Picking a poem was difficult; I thought a poem by Seamus Heaney would be good, but I soon knew that this one should be the one. Picking a specific part of it was harder still.
This is from Heaney's translation of the epic poem, originally written in Old English. I particularly love his sonorous alliteration, narrative drive and smooth metre, which flows off the tongue beautifully. I don't normally think that about poems, but this one was a pleasure to read. It is a poem which is genuinely meant to be read, as it would have been shared orally between people as an engaging and epic tale before it was ever transcribed into text. Despite my fondness for contemporary literature and media, I am still surprised by the poem's potency upon re-reading it. It ends on what is quite a contradictory final line, which adds a great 'sting' to the end of the poem when read as a whole. I considered cutting it, but couldn't bring myself to do that to the final 5 words, so left them in.
My favourite phrase from the whole poem has to be:
"When wind blows up and stormy weather
Makes clouds scud and the skies weep,
Out of its depths a dirty surge
Is pitched towards the heavens."
Anyhow, here are the extracts which I chose to read:
"Beside him stood pitchers and piled-up dishes,
Silent flagons, precious swords
Eaten through with rust, ranged as they had been
While they waited their thousand winters under ground.
The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf,
Stacked and decked it until it stood four-square,
Hung with helmets, heavy war-shields
And shining armour, just as he had ordered.
Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it,
Mourning a lord far-famed and beloved.
On a height they kindled the hugest of all
Funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke billowed darkly up, the blaze roared
And drowned out their weeping, wind died down
And flames wrought havoc in the hot bone-house,
Burning it to the core.
Then the Geat people began to construct
A mound on a headland, high and imposing,
A marker that sailors could see from far away,
And in ten days they had done the work.
It was their hero's memorial; what remained from the fire
They housed inside it, behind a wall
As worthy of him as their workmanship could make it.
And they buried torques in the barrow, and jewels
And a trove of such things as trespassing men
Had once dared to drag from the hoard.
They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure,
Gold under gravel, gone to earth,
As useless to men now as it ever was.
Then twelve warriors rode around the tomb,
Chieftain's sons, champions in battle,
All of them distraught, chanting in dirges,
Mourning his loss as a man and a king.
They extolled his heroic nature and exploits
And gave thanks for his greatness; which was the proper thing,
For a man should praise a prince whom he holds dear
And cherish his memory when that moment comes
When he has to be convoyed from his bodily home.
So the Geat people, his hearth companions,
Sorrowed for the lord who had been laid low.
They said that of all the kings upon the earth
He was the man most gracious and fair-minded,
Kindest to his people and keenest to win fame."
Comments