Beowulf prepares for battle

Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios.

I'm Sean Johnson and today is Monday, March 9, 2026.

Today's poem is a selection from the great Anglo-Saxon or Old English poem, Baile Wolf,

specifically Roy M. Leeuze's translation.

Abe reading blinds 1442 to 1472, which puts this section right about in the middle of the poem,

both spatially and thematically.

Baile Wolf, if you are unfamiliar or need a refresher, is loosely structured around three monster fights.

Baile Wolf fights and defeats Grendel, this horrible, ogresh giant from the Moors.

Then he must defeat Grendel's mother, who lives at the bottom of a bog and is more like a siren,

and then finally a dragon, which Baile Wolf does defeat, though he is morally wounded in the process.

So here Baile Wolf is gearing up for the second of those fights, the battle against Grendel's mother.

She has come up to land. She has broken into the great Golden Mead Hall,

Hailerot, in the middle of the night, and stolen away one of the noble retainers who dwelt there.

So Baile Wolf is preparing to pursue her back to her home, her hiding place, and do battle with her.

There are a number of elements in the poem that I cannot go into right now for time's sake,

about the signal and illusionary, ALL, illusionary, elusive parallel or connection between this episode

and the Christian account of the harrowing of hell, the descent of Jesus Christ into the realm of death

itself to destroy the power of death and release the souls who are imprisoned there.

And though Baile Wolf does not have quite the same level of confidence that he will succeed in this

mission. There is a high nobility in the language and in the way that not only the poet presents

the scene, but the way that Baile Wolf himself conceives of this task and this challenge ahead of him.

And as with all great Anglo-Saxon poetry, you have these alliterations and compound words or

Kennings that bring with them this great crisp feel of northerness, that kind of Viking

otherness that gives you chills but also stirs up the blood. It's hard not to love a good

passage from Baile Wolf. So here it is. Baile Wolf geared up in his warriors clothing,

cared not for his life. The broad, wore shirt woven by hand, cunningly made, had to test to the

mirror. It knew well how to protect his bone house so that a battle grip might not hurt his

breast nor any angry malicious clutch touched his life. The shining helmet protected his head,

set to stir up the sea's depths, seek that troubled water decorated with treasure, encircled with

a splendid band as a weaponsmith in days of old had crafted it with wonders, set bore images

so that afterwards no blade or battle sword might ever bite it. Not the smallest of powerful

supports was that which Rothgar's spokesman lent him at need. That hilted sword was named

hunting, unique among ancient treasures. Its edge was iron etched with poison stripes hardened

with the blood of war. It had never failed any man who grasped it in his hands and battle,

who dared to undertake a dreadful journey into the very home of the foe. It was not the first time

that it had to perform a work of high courage. Truly the son of Edschlaf,

crafty and strength did not remember what he had said before, drunk with wine when he lent that

weapon to a better swordsman. He himself did not dare to risk his life under the rushing waves,

perform a lordly act. For that he lost honor, his fame for courage, not so with the other when he

had geared himself up for battle. This has been the Daily Poem. Thanks for listening. We'll be

back tomorrow with more poetry for you. In the meantime, find us at dailypoempod.substac.com

to listen to past episodes of the show or subscribe and become a supporter. For all of us at Goldberry

Studios, I'm Sean Johnson wishing you happy...