My Poem of the Week: 'Riddle 57', taken from the Exeter Book, trans. John Porter

[narya_flame]

The autumn nights are drawing in, and this little riddle feels appropriately spooky and mysterious.  No solution is given in the original manuscript, so suggestions welcome in the comments, as well as other translations from any Old English scholars in the house!


Anglo-Saxon

Ðeos lyft byreð      lytle wihte

ofer beorghleoþa.      Þa sind blace swiþe,

swearte salopade.      Sanges rope

heapum ferað,      hlude cirmað,

tredað bearonæssas,      hwilum burgsalo

niþþa bearna.      Nemnað hy sylfe.

Translation


This air carries little creatures
over hillsides.  They are very bright, 
black, dark-coated.  Rich with song, 
they roam in flocks, cry loudly,
tread woody headlands, even the halls
of men.  They name themselves.



(Some possible solutions here; more about the Exeter Book here.)

Comments

[hhimring]

It strikes me how the list of possible solutions is itself quite a nice "found poem".

[narya_flame]

Ooh! So it is. I hadn't even considered that :D

[ex_flameandsong751]

Of course I'm going to guess some kind of corvid.

[narya_flame]

I'm in favour of crow, but some of the other solutions are intriguing.

[grundyscribbling]

Interesting! I feel like you have to Anglo-Saxon to solve the riddle - "they name themselves" sounds like it's something (probably a bird) whose name is an onomatopoeia.

[narya_flame]

The words for raven and crow are both nicely onomatopoeiaic, so that checks out!