“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.
Share this post