Beowulf: A New Translation

by Beowulf Poet

The humans in Beowulf are communal, battling together, leaders alongside lesser-ranked warriors. Those who are superhuman (or supernatural)—Grendel, his mother, the dragon, and Beowulf—battle solo and are ultimately weakened by their wild solitude.

Grendel was the name of this woe-walker, Unlucky, fucked by Fate. He’d been living rough for years, ruling the wild: the mere, the fen, and the fastness,

The Lord, long ago, had taken Abel’s side. Though none of that was Grendel’s doing, he’d descended from bloodstains.

A hellion’s home is anywhere good men fear to tread; who knows the dread this marauder mapped?

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.”

He’d historically been glorious, and the notion that another, more notorious under Heaven, might enjoy greater greatness, made him gnash.

Then Beowulf dropped his head to pillow, and beside him rested his command of brave men, 690 warriors of sea and sleep. They were ready to see life’s end, and didn’t expect to lay eyes on their heartland again, not familiar soil, not their parents, not their wives. They knew the story of the slaughterer, the dozen years Danes had been driven from their home-hall. The Almighty, though, had other plans, a tapestry of terror threaded with triumph, the Weather-Geats the victors. They’d rise with their leader, crush the challenger, and cruise through creation kinsmen to a king. You know how it goes: 700 God’s the final decider, and men only the question-askers, students seeking solace.

Death, no matter our desires, can’t be distracted. We know this much is true, and it’s true for all souls: each of us will one day find the feast finished and, fattened or famished, step slowly backward into their own dark hall for that final night of sleep.

You have to look at it this way, and reconcile yourself: 1060 God’s in charge, always has been, always will be, and anyone who lives long will endure both ecstasy and ugliness.

“Here’s one of the world’s wonders: God is good. He’s given us gifts—the capacity for clarity granted our kind. He runs the show, though, manages every aspect of existence. Sometimes He gives a man from a good clan room to roam wherever he desires, every instant filled with joy, lets him run his own kingdom and rule over boys 1730 who guard his borders, stand-up guys who’d die for him. God does this for so many decades that the man himself, because men in the end are fools, forgets how things work. He shirks his soul-keeping. There’ll be no changes for him, he thinks, no end in sight, no loss of love or life. He wallows like a bear in honey, unstung, and nothing scathes him, not sickness nor sorrow, nor does his mood darken, nor do his enemies find him, their blades sharp and stealthy, no—instead the world wends to his will. He notices nothing nasty in himself, 1740 until one day everything changes. Every guard goes down eventually, sagging on the stone wall surrounding the soul. Here, while the sentry’s sleeping, a sniper strikes, sending a spike into the man’s heart. Now he’s poisoned, selfishness searing his certainty—he’s never needed to defend himself against internal threats, but the greedy orders of this beastly boss make him think the halls he’s guarded, the treasures he’s watched over for decades, are nothing compared to what he deserves. He hoards, hisses, 1750 hides his gold, refuses support to those who’ve served...