Beowulf: A New Translation

by Beowulf Poet

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.” The suspicion that at any moment a person might shift from hero into howling wretch, teeth bared, causes characters ranging from scops to ring-lords to drop cautionary anecdotes. Does fame keep you good? No. Does gold keep you good? No. Does your good wife keep you good? No. What keeps you good? Vigilance. That’s it. And even with vigilance, even with courage, you still might go forth to slay a dragon (or, if you’re Grendel, slay a Dane), die in the slaying, and leave everyone and everything you love vulnerable.

Beowulf is a living text in a dead language, the kind of thing meant to be shouted over a crowd of drunk celebrants.

War was the wife Hrothgar wed first.

They’re well-dressed, thus well-born, and thus worthy.

He’s got no fear 600 of beer-hall brothers, but, this you can quote—he’ll fear me.

This is what real men must do, come on, we all know the truth: if you want to win, you have to forget you’re afraid to die.

Don’t let avarice override intelligence. It’s only a season that a young soldier’s strength stays stalwart— before plague or blade bring obsolescence. A crackling blaze, a rush of waves, a slippery sword-grip, a spear soaring silently through the air, or even the ague of age. Your gaze will darken, too, boy. Your world will dim. Death will kneel over you eventually, and solicit your surrender.

Our king had no cause to boast of his fight-family— he never saw them fight.

That was a good king. None could critique his open hands.

Beowulf never imagined gold could bring grief. He forgot: not all gifts are for getting.