Tag: poetry

fjorn-the-skald:

Dia duit, a cairde,

I would like to share you all a story from Ireland, passed down to us from within the Táin. It is not a story in its own right, but it is a short tale of a girl named Fedelm. I tell of her story with more attention than there was meant to be, but you will all find delight in it nonetheless. Although a minor character within the Táin, she tells of the doom that lies ahead for a great army ready to march. Here is her tale:

The charioteer turned the chariot around and made to set off. But they saw a young grown girl in front of them. She had yellow hair. She wore a speckled cloak fastened around her with a gold pin, a red-embroidered hooded tunic and sandals with gold clasps. Her brow was broad, her jaw narrow, her two eyebrows pitch black, with delicate dark lashes casting shadows half down her cheeks. You would think her lips were inset with Parthian scarlet. Her teeth were like an array of jewels between the lips. She had hair in three tresses: two wound upward on her head and the third hanging down her back, brushing her calves. She held a light gold weaving-rod in her hand, with gold inlay. Her eyes had triple irises. Two black horses drew her chariot, and she was armed.

“What is your name?” Medb said to the girl.

“I am Fedelm, and I am a woman poet of Connacht.”

“Where have you come from?” Medb said.

“From learning verse and vision in Alba (Scotland),” the girl said.

“Have you the imbas forasnai, the Light of Foresight?” Medb said.

“Yes I have,” the girl said.

“Then look for me and see what will become of my army.”

So the girl looked.

Medb said, “Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou the host?”

Fedelm said in reply:

“I see it crimson, I see it red.”

“It can’t be true,” Medb said. “Conchobor is suffering his pangs in Emain with all the rest of the Ulster warriors. My messengers have come from there and told me. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“That is false,” Medb said. “Celtchar mac Uthidir is still in Dún Lethglaise with a third of Ulster’s forces, and Fergus son of Roach mach Echdach and his troop of three thousand are here with us in exile. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?” Medb said.

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“It doesn’t matter,” Medb said. “Wrath and rage and red wounds are common the armies and large forces gather. So look once more and tell us the truth. Fedelm, prophetess; how sees thou our host?”

“I see it crimson, I see it red,” said the girl.

“I see battle: a blond man
with much blood about his belt
and a hero-halo round his head.
His brow is full of victories.

Seven hard heroic jewels
are set in the iris of his eye.
His jaws are settled in a snarl.
He wears a lopped, red tunic.

A noble countenance I see,
working effect on womenfolk;
a young man of sweet coloring;
a form dragons in the fray.

His great valor brings to mind
Cúchulainn of Murtheimne,
the hound of Culann, full of fame.
Who he is I cannot tell
but I see, now, the whole host
colored crimson by his hand.

A giant on the plain I see,
doing battle with the host,
holding in each of his two hands
four short quick swords.

I see him hurling against that host
two gae bolga and a spear
and an ivory-hilted sword,
each weapon to its separate task.

He towers on the battlefield
in breastplate and red cloak.
Across the sinister chariot-wheel
the Warped Man deals death
– that fair from I first beheld
melted to a mis-shape.

I see him moving to the fray:
take warning, watch him well,
Cúchulainn, Sualdam’s son!
Now I see him in pursuit.

Whole hosts he will destroy,
making dense massacre.
In thousands you will yield your heads.
I am Fedelm. I hide nothing.

The blood starts from warrior’s wounds
– total ruin – at his touch:
your warriors dead, the warriors
of Deda mac Sin prowling loose;
torn corpses, women wailing,
because of him – the Forge-Hound.”

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Source: Thomas Kinsella trans., The Táin – From the Irish epic Táin Bó Cuailnge. (Oxford University Press, 1969), 60-64.