Beowulf: A New Translation

by Beowulf Poet

In it, multiple old men try to plot out how to retire in a world that offers no retirement.

The phrase “That was a good king” recurs throughout the poem, because the poem is fundamentally concerned with how to get and keep the title “Good.”

Hence, we’ve got some wonderful and distinctive things: “whale-road” for sea; “battle-sweat” for blood; “sky-candle” for sun.

There are noble characters in Beowulf, but the poem itself is not noble. There is elevated language in Beowulf, but the poem feels populist.

There’s a geomythological theory that the larger-than-life men in this poem—Hygelac, mentioned in other texts as a giant; Beowulf; Grendel—came into the poetic imagination due to medieval discoveries of fossilized mammoth bones, which, when incorrectly reassembled, look like nothing so much as tremendous human skeletons.9 The theory is tempting in a variety of ways, among them the notion that these giant men were literally made of monsters.

Never mind that aglaec-wif is merely the feminine form of aglaeca, which Klaeber defines as “hero” when applied to Beowulf, and “monster, demon, fiend” when referencing Grendel, his mother, and the dragon. Aglaeca is used elsewhere in early English to refer both to Sigemund and to the Venerable Bede, and in those contexts, it’s likelier to mean something akin to “formidable.”

Whether one’s solitary status is a result of abandonment by a man or because of a choice, the reams of lore about single, self-sustaining women, and particularly about solitary elderly women, suggest that many human women have been, over the centuries, mistaken for supernatural creatures simply because they were alone and capable. For all these reasons, I’ve translated Grendel’s mother here as “warrior-woman,” “outlaw,” and “reclusive night-queen.”

“How dare you come to Denmark costumed for war? Chain mail and swords?! There’s a dress code! You’re denied. I’m the Danes’ doorman; this is my lord’s door.

Did you send word? No! Were you invited? No! You’re not on the guest list. And, also, who’s the giant? What weapons does he hold? Oh, hell no. He’s no small-time hall-soldier, but noble! Look at his armor! I’m done here! 250 Spies, state your secrets, or be denounced. Who are you, what’s your business, where’d you come from? I’ll ask one more time. You’re not coming past this cliff. Answer now, or bounce. You, men: Who? Where? Why?”

You’ve too much style to be exiles, so I expect you must be heroes, sent to Hrothgar?”

Hrothgar, most generous, don’t deny them. They’re well-dressed, thus well-born, and thus worthy. And the man who led them here— he looks so right! His chest, broad in girth, his armor blazing, bright! Blatantly of noble birth.”

Every elder knew I was the man for you, and blessed my quest, King Hrothgar, because where I’m from? I’m the strongest and the boldest, and the bravest and the best. Yes: I mean—I may have bathed in the blood of beasts, netted five foul ogres at once, smashed my way into a troll den and come out swinging, gone skinny-dipping in a sleeping sea 420 and made sashimi of some sea monsters. Anyone who fucks with the Geats? Bro, they have to fuck with me. They’re asking for it, and I deal them death.

Just us two, hand to hand. Sweet.

When we see who wins, we’ll know who’s got God’s favor. 440 If it’s Grendel—I’ll be a mere chapter in his gory story. He’ll feast on Geats, ripping my men limb from limb, and I won’t be there to protect them. I’ll be dead, too, cheekbones chewed and face forgotten, my body dragged to his lair, where he’ll fare alone on my severed head, make a banquet of my flesh, he and I, alone again, naturally. Don’t cry for this broken boy, don’t lay out what’s left of me.

If warfare revokes my pass to Earth’s kingdom, just send this mail-shirt made by Weland— willed to me by my grandfather Hrethel—to Hygelac. Horrors happen, I’m grown, I know it. Bro, Fate can fuck you up.”

Off they went, the elderly officers, and the young men behind them, all mounted, white men on white horses, praising their Heaven-sent hero, Beowulf, with every word they spoke. Not north, nor south, nor anywhere, they said, was there a man more qualified to be king. There was a lot of country 860 between the coasts, a lot of open air beneath the sky, and even there, nope, no one better to rule. Of course, this unfettered praise wasn’t meant to blame Hrothgar for anything—no, no, that was a good king.

The beasts dove, furious and frightened at the noise, 1430 the bugle and battlers’ shouts, the shrillness of seekers in their secret space.

This monster they could control. They cornered it, clubbed it, tugged it onto the rocks, stillbirthed it from its mere-mother, deemed it damned, and made of it a miscarriage. They examined its entrails, 1440 awed and aggrieved.

No battle-teeth could test it, no sword slice that shine. Gold is good.

I did the deed you deemed necessary, but I’d be bluffing if I didn’t say I would’ve died had God not kept me close. Though my sword seemed severe, I’d have been helpless, 1660 had I had only Hrunting. Hard-core as it is, it failed when I brought it to battle. God gave me grace—He sometimes saves the solitary—on a ledge glowed another blade, marvelous enough to mend the mistake I’d made trying to take on Grendel’s mother in her own lair-lake.