The Wanderer's Havamal

by Jackson Crawford

I know an eleventh spell; if I lead old friends into a battle, I enchant their shields so that they will have the victory; they will go to battle unharmed, and return from battle unharmed. They will come home without harm.

I know a twelfth spell; if I see, hanging from a tree, a dead man’s corpse, I carve some runes and paint them, and then that corpse will walk and speak with me.

I know a thirteenth spell; if I throw water upon a young man, he will never be killed even if he goes into battle; that man will not die from violence.

I know a sixteenth spell; if I want to win over a cunning woman and have her all to myself, I can change the mind of that lovely-armed beauty and win her favor for myself.

I know an eighteenth spell which I will never teach to a girl or a woman, unless maybe to the one I embrace in sleep, or my sister. It is much better that one alone should know this, which is the last of the spells.

Now the words of the One-Eyed are heard in Óđin’s hall, for the benefit of humans, for the harm of giants; health to you who speak them, health to you who know them, profit to you who learn them, health to you who hear them.

he doesn’t want gifts because they mean he will have to give something back.

The Old Norse word gjalt is borrowed from Old Irish geilt. William Sayers has described the curse of the Old Irish geilt as that of an inexperienced warrior, struck mad by terror when he hears war cries, who then flees his first battle and thereafter lives for years in the woods like a wild bird, frightened of humans, hunting with nails grown to claws, and sometimes growing feathers. The Old Norse use of the motif of the geilt/gjalt (and this borrowed word) is not so intricate in the Icelandic sagas, where the man who becomes a gjalt is often simply paralyzed by fear temporarily (hence my earlier translation of this stanza in The Poetic Edda: Stories of the Norse Gods and Heroes, where I rendered “may get turned to stone” in line 8).

Óđin hangs for nine nights, and nine recurs again and again as the most significant number in Norse mythology: Heimdall has nine mothers, there are nine “worlds” or realms, Óđin does the work of nine slaves in Snorri’s version of the Óđrerir story, etc.

Among Óđin’s many names in pre-Christian Norse poetry, he is called gálga valdr “lord of the noose,”

Snorri Sturluson adds hangaguð “god of the hanged man,” and the name Þundr may be an allusion to his association with hanging as well

On Friday morning it so happened on Caithness that a man named Dorruđ walked outside. He saw twelve people riding together to a wealthy woman’s quarters, and then they all disappeared. He looked through a window that was there, and he saw that there were women inside and they had set up a loom. They were using men’s heads for the weights, men’s guts for the weft and yarn, and swords and arrows for the rods.

Then Thór spoke up and said, “Álfhild, Starkađ’s mother, chose a crafty giant to be the father of her child instead of Thór of the Æsir, and so I decree that Starkađ will have neither a son nor a daughter, and thus will be the last of his family line.” Óđin said, “I decree that he will live three lifetimes.” Thór said, “I decree that he will commit a shameful crime in each one.” Óđin replied, “I decree that he will have the best weapons and clothes.” Thór said, “I decree that he will never own land.” Óđin said, “I decree that he will have plenty of money.” Thór said, “I decree that he will never think it’s enough.” Óđin said, “I give him victory and outstanding skill in every battle.” Thór said, “I decree that he will receive a horrible injury in each one.” Óđin said, “I give him the art of poetry, so that he will compose poems as effortlessly as he speaks.” Thór said, “He will not remember what he composes.” Óđin said, “I decree that he will be the favorite of all the noblest of men and the best.” Thór said, “He will be hated by the middle class.”

You should lie down to sleep and not think about tomorrow; you’ll take care of it then. If you worry at night, you get nothing done, and you’re in worse shape for the day.

Keep yer guns close. I don’t care what they say, there ain’t no tellin’ when there’ll be call for ’em. An armed man has a shot.

You may not have much, so don’t give much. But I’ve won friends with just a bowl o’ soup and half a loaf o’ bread.

Don’t git too goddamned smart, now, there’s a measure for ever’thing. You’ll know you’re gone too far when you can’t find a thing to smile about: That’s what wisdom’s like.

Break yer leg? You can ride a horse still. Lost a hand? Not yer voice, too, I reckon. Cain’t hear? Bet you can still fight. There ain’t a damn way any shot at life is worse than empty death.