poem setting, Old English Bill Boethius
The Earth Stepper

The Earth Stepper

Old English poetry is important to me, as it links us to the Dark Ages in a very real way.
Despite being written down in the early Christian era, the poetry betrays much of its pagan roots.

Here I have taken some lines from ‘The Wanderer’, which title I have transliterated as the ‘earth-stepper’.
The poem ponders the theme of alienation, and shows that there are many kinds of doom.
And yet, in the deepest moments of abjection appear sudden reveries and insights – peaks of a higher perception.

I began by freely accompanying the poem on the lute, an instrument which gets us closer to the Dark Ages.
I then added electric guitar and bass etc., for extra colour.
Lorenzo Quant had sent me a Midi track for a possible collaboration. Here I have used part of it for some subtle background colour in certain places.

Most of all, there is the reading of the poem by the poet Charles Bryant. I like the way he really owns the poem, sounding like the aged and broken writer of the original.

Bill Boethius; lute, electric guitar, electric bass, drum machine, sound fx.
Charles Bryant; reading
youtu.be/pqzC4GCaWds

Some background midi keys from Lorenzo Quant:
soundcloud.com/orenzouant

from The Wanderer

OFT-TIMES the Wanderer waiteth God’s mercy,
... Long must he row o’er the rime-crusted sea—

—Fate is severe.

Of hardships, the wanderer saith:—
Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear,
Wail o’er my sorrow—since living is none
Whom I may whisper my heart’s undertone.

Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding—
Help cometh not to his suffering mind.

Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen,
Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart.

I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter
Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave,
Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure,
Someone to cherish me friendless—some Chief
Able to guide me with the wisdom of counsel,
Willing to greet me and comfort my grief.

Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile—

Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless
Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;—
Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber
Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile,
Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit,
Meeteth and greeteth his master once more,
Layeth his head on his lord’s loving bosom,
Just as he did in the dear days of yore.

But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless,
Seeth before him the black billows rise,
Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers,
Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies.

Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen,
Greeting with gladness the days that are gone.

When the sad exile so often must send
Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander
Wide o’er the waves where the rough billows blend.

Thus is the earth with its splendor departing—
Day after day it is passing away,
Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom
Till his world-life numbers many a day.
He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient—

Surely the wise man may see like the desert
How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced.
Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
Crumbled the wine-halls—the king lieth low,
Robbed of his pride—and his troop have all fallen
Proud by the wall—some, the spoil of the foe,
War took away—and some the fierce sea-fowl
Over the ocean—and some the wolf gray
Tore after death—and yet others the hero
Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away.

Void stood the work of the giants of old!

From ‘The Wanderer’
Anglo-Saxon Literature
Translation of William Rice Sims

bartleby.com/library/poem/262.html