One in Beowulf’s voice, one in Grendel’s. Both by me, Bryn Hammond.

‘A Monster to Fight Monsters’: I had this up at Green Splotches journal for speculative poetry, but they shortly went down.

 

A Monster to Fight Monsters

 

The dragon lies quenched in the sea, I lie in state on my pyre
and the people sing.

Of the world’s kings, Beowulf had been
The tenderest-hearted, the gentlest in spirit,
Truest of loyalty, thirstiest for glory.

A funny thing to say about a king
in elegy, but that’s my story:
Lof-geornost was I, yearningest for love,
most eager to earn it – gentle monster.
I was a monster on the humans’ side.

They say he has the strength of thirty in his fist’s grip.

The words they used for monsters fit me too:
giant, freak, and wonder.
Yet the tale is of our two-way love affair.

Nor only at home. When I went to the Spear Danes
I spoke my beot before Hrothgar
in Heorot hall, where humans sat to feast by day,
an ogre in the night.

The chief of Scyld’s children sat downcast
As his strong heart strove under his heavy grief.

– Not after me.
I presented my boast, as requisite:
how I had swum with water-snakes and harpy fishes,
dragged to where they banquet at the bottom of the sea;
I throttled them and threw them on the shore.
(I am an innocent monster, on your side. I can help.)
Happy were the stranger Danes to believe in me,
in my advent against Grendel’s visitation.
All celebrated me,
his goblin arm nailed to the gables, torn by mine.

Heorot rose up, arched gables
Like a hart’s gilt horns – not yet, not for years, but to be
Burnt in the blaze ignited from the ashes
Of old hate, old shames among the oath-sworn.

Heorot since has blazed away, and by no dragon’s fire.
I have slain you, dragon, and you me,
because that is what we monsters can.
Then there is what we can’t.
Grendel’s terror campaign was simple, though atrocious;
the unfightable isn’t from the outside but within.
I watched them try to peace-weave, spider’s webbing on a wound;
plug grievances the way they stanched a beer keg,
but the harp has a line about feud:

Chests lost grip on the uproar of hearts.

Give me ogres, give me dragons,
let me not participate in human argument.
One time I performed a stunt in battle –
staved in Dayraven with my naked embrace
(as if I were wrestling monsters)
but my fame wasn’t won in ranks of war.

In spite of that, my people thrust me on the Geatish throne
for faithful service to the royal family, self-wiped-out;
and because I had no human strings to snarl the knot of feud.
Never a wife, nor children, and no knowledge.

Not even a fine king saved his house.
I drove ogres from Heorot and left it to its own.
Now feuds wind home to the Geats.
Mismanaged foreign marriages, cut reconciliations.

So the societies of humans
make themselves extinct through their self-contradictions,
as they have before. We, too, walked in ruins
of an architecture we ascribed to giants.

I did what I am expert in.
The Weather Geats only had Beowulf to send,
old to the bone, against the ancient drake.
For firefighters such as Beowulf and Siegfried
arrive, rare birds, out of nowhere, nobody knows why.
A few of us go wild.
But I remained tame until my end:
ogre-big, obediently sitting at the feast;
as if they strapped a dragon to make a flying milk-cart;
and they idolised me in proportion to my size
because I might have been a Grendel, and was not.
You were outraged, dragon – you and the others I killed
felt cheated, when you felt me: this isn’t a man!

You and Grendel both, of course,
infatuated with their things, as much as I with them:
you on your hoard of wrought utensils,
he fascinated by the music.

As the War Swedes sweep over the Weather Geats
bury my bones not far from human voices,
even if unknown. Like Grendel once,
I want to hear them sing.

Down from the Spear-Danes’ early days,
That grandest age under the clans’ kings,
We hear of heroes, the tales of how they triumphed.
In his heyday Scyld Scefing sailed
To seize fortresses and free the sea.
The panic of war bands he became, who had been
Once a baby abandoned to the weather.
He found ease from those times, his fortunes rose,
His honour climbed up under the clouds of the sky
Until throughout the whales’ streets, in a wheel about him,
Cities submitted and sent him tribute. He was a true king.

‘Scapegoat’ was first published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly #63, where you can still find it online. I itched to get the formatting under my control, so I post again here.

Scapegoat 

I stuck a finger in his eye,
The human I first took to eat.
I hummed to him a lullaby
And nibbled on his hands and feet.

They live by music, in the hall.
Glad hymns celebratory
Of every creature, great and small,
But they have forgotten me.

My mother said we are outcast,
Ghouls, goblins, ogres, elves, Cain’s kin –
The first to murder, and the last,
Our instinct his original sin.

They sing sad songs of exiles, men –
But exiles never have our face.
Laments and sentiment for them –
Not us, disfigured from God’s grace.

They sing of family and feud,
Of torn and tangled loyalty,
Emotion like a falcon mewed,
Violence let fly in tragedy.
They think love and hate are human food.

I have my cause, I have my wrong,
I have the monster folk, my own.
I’ll make them sing a Grendel song
Of blood and viscera and bone.

My schedule is to eat a Dane
At one a night on my campaign.

They believe us stupid brutes
With none of their high functions, no –
No comradeship, no kindness, fruits
Of God and light and blessing, so
I tell them blow by blow.

Hatred sends me to the fight,
Also pity of things that crawl
And mewl and gibber in the night
Where is no love at all.

Against my solitude I’ve got
Their natty hands and crunchy feet
And glaucous eyes like water shot
With the sunlight’s heat.

The scapegoat is a precious beast.
Your sins are heaped upon his head
And he is driven from the feast
To wander deserts of the dead.

If he were not, you’d have to see
Those moors and marshes that you fence,
Your own monstrosity.
He lets you keep your innocence.

I introduced ‘Scapegoat’ in this post.