I, Arnor the red poet, made
Four voyages out of Orkney.
The first was to Ireland.
That was a viking cruise.
Thorleif came home with one leg.
We left Guthorm in Ulster,
His blood growing cold by the saint's well.
Rounding Cape Wrath, I made my first poem.
Norway hung fogs about me.
I won the girl Ragnhild
From Paul her brother, after
I beat him at draughts, three games to two.
Out of Bergen, the waves made her sick.
She was uglier than I expected, still
I made five poems about her
That men sing round the bench at Yule.
She filled my quiet house with words.
'The cousin Sweyn is howe-laid in Iceland
Afte rhis man-slaying'...
They put an axe in my hand, the edge turned north.
Women in black stood all about me.
We sailed no further than Unst in Shetland.
We bade there a month.
We drank the ale and discussed new metres.
For the women, I reddened the axe at a whale wound.
I went the blue road to Jerusalem
With fifteen ships in a brawling company
Of poets, warriors, and holy men.
A hundred swords were broken that voyage.
Prayer on a hundred white wings
Rose every morning. The Mediterranean
Was richer by a hundred love songs.
We saw the hills where God walked
And the last hill where his feet were broken.
At rome, the earl left us. His hooves beat north.
Three Fridays sick of the black cough
Tomorrow I make my last voyage.
I should have endured this thing,
A bright sword in the storm of swords,
At Dublin, Micklegarth, Narbonne.
But here, at Hamnavoe, a pillow is under my head.
May all things be done in order.
The priest has given me oil and bread, a sweet cargo.
Ragnhild my daughter will cross my hands.
The boy Ljot must ring the bell.
I have said to Erling Saltfingeres, Drop my harp
Through a green wave, off Yesnaby,
Next time you row to the lobsters.
