Can You Solve These Medieval Riddles?
Can You Solve These Medieval Riddles?
Ten riddles from the seventh-century, part of Saint Aldhelm's Riddles, translated by A.M. Juster and published by the University of Toronto Press.
Ten riddles from the seventh-century, part of Saint Aldhelm's Riddles, translated by A.M. Juster and published by the University of Toronto Press.
Where ocean pounds the craggy cliffs in the sky and surging surf is rising with the tide, A scaffold built my mighty structure high So I could point out sea-routes like a guide. I do not roam calm oceans with an oar nor plow the deep with rowers as they lurch,
yet lead lost boats, pushed by huge waves, to shore
while signalling from my exalted perch in lofty towers, setting inflagrations, as clouds of winter shroud bright constellations.
Spawned without seed, produced in ways of wonder, I load my sweetened breast with floral plunder; kings’ honeyed fare grows gilded through my flair. Sharp spears of fearsome war are what I bear, and I beat - handless! - the craftsmen’s metalware.
I’m born from dripping drops in soggy sky and grow in swelling froth where rivers flow, but no hand sways me while I’m swimming by or else my guts are spilled out everywhere and fragile breath disperses in thin air. I lead my team downstream with throngs in tow, since many friends have birthdates that we share.
From the frozen bowels of dewy earth I’m bred; from woolen fleece with bristles I’m not made. They pull no yarn, no humming threads cascade, no Chinese silkworms weave their yellow thread, I am not plucked from wheel, no stiff combs beat, and yet I’m labelled “clothing” on the street. Long quivers’ arrows do not stir my dread.
First I was finely crafted from Earth’s breast; from brutal bulls he made up all the rest - or, rather, made from goats with their foul smell! For many of the dead, I close their eyes as he who guards my lord (though I’m undressed). Yes, home is made of leather to cut to size and shaved-down wood from lumber that they fell.
I share now with the surf one destiny in rolling cycles when each month repeats. As beauty in my brilliant form retreats, so too the surges fade in the cresting sea.
Who is not stunned by my amazing fate when with great strength I prop up countless trees? Soon, though, a slender spike relieves great weight. Birds in the sky and fish that swim in seas began their life from me in yesteryear; my hold on one third of the world is clear.
No one can hold me in his palms or sight: I scatter sudden clatter far and wide. I want to hammer oaks with mournful might; yes, I strike sky and scour countryside.
From two materials, palms molded me. My insides glow; these guts - for sure a looting of flax or some thin reed - shine brilliantly, though flesh produced from flowers yellow now. They’re belching fire as flames and sparks are shooting, and maudlin tears keep dripping down my brow, so I still clear night’s shadows that I feared; they leave ash smudges where my guts were seared.
Im made, a willow-wood shaved-leather blend, for taking battles to the bitter end. A body’s safety is my body’s job so Orcus will not have a life to rob. What other soldier bears such a hardship or so many fatal injuries in war?