Penny Wagers
Penny Wagers
To Deor
0:00
Current time: 0:00 / Total time: -3:46
-3:46

To Deor

We've a lot to catch you up on since you shared your poem. I'll do my best.
Photograph © James Hart

“Deor” the poem is a little mysterious. Written around the 9th century, it could have been an Anglo-Saxon incantation, an elegy, a consolation, a beggar-poem or some mix of all of these. Most strangely, it’s one of the few Anglo-Saxon poems to feature a refrain. Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg. It’s such a compelling line that it’s survived over a thousand years. You yourself have likely heard the modern English version many times over: “this too shall pass.”

“Deor” the poet is even more mysterious. Definitely educated, his writing suggests that he’s not exactly Christian, but not exactly Pagan. “Deor” could have been his name, or, loosely interpreted as “beast,” it could have been a nickname, referring to his status as an exile. Before lamenting his own fate, he reveals a closeness with the stories that influenced his culture. In fact he’s so familiar with these myths that some scholars dissuade anyone from trying to understand his message outside of its historical context. "Cut off from its traditional background,” scholar John Foley warns, “‘Deor’ makes little sense.”

I’ll leave that debate to the philologists. Not being one myself, I’ve given myself permission to take the poet at his word, his meaning at face value and to respond in kind.

You can find a modern English version of “Deor” here.


To Deor

Hail, honored harper       of heroes and sagas!
Once-singer and shaper       for storied Heodenings,
Called on by kings       to cast their legends,
My kindred crafter       once called Deor!
Your words haven’t withered;      your “Wyrd” has kept them!
So much has happened.       Hear of the first:

Lords have left       this land of ours.
Currency-kings       have coffers innumerable,
They turn all tides      and tilt our lives.
Coin now crafts countries      and kills lineages.
Man’s will is commanded       by minted masters.
So much has happened.       Hear of some more:

In the minds of men,       machines make fate.
The gods you gave to       lie forgotten to most.
None feel need       to nurture their souls.
Empirical piety:       the people’s new faith—
Doomed their doctrine       with doubt their altar.
The senses have slain       the spirit, they say.
So much has happened.       Hear of some more:

Bright new baubles       are breaking our minds;
Lost in their light,       we live not.
The sacred now stands       for screen-fodder.
Stories, once scripture,       serve as amusements.
We word-wrestle strangers       for sport and pleasure,
Wasting our lives       with want in our souls,
Trading attention       on touchglass trinkets.
So much has happened.       Hear of some more:

I’ll share a sketch       of myself for you:
I’m a coin-catcher,       a common worker.
Free in the faintest       most feeble sense.
No escape from the screens,       I scramble to write,
But still I seek       and serve with words.
I read and remember       what you’ve wrought so well.
I tend the tale       you entrusted to us,
And think of it often       as others have done.
May our stories not stall       on the steps of hereafter.
You’ve heard what happened.       May hope be our hymn.

Discussion about this podcast

Penny Wagers
Penny Wagers
Poetry that's actually fun to read. Ambitious essays with audience participation. Where ancient magic meets jokes about Flannery O'Connor's mayonnaise addiction.
Listen on
Substack App
Apple Podcasts
RSS Feed
Appears in episode
James Hart