Odin and Saga – Wisdom of the Word
The old wanderer, in his ragged great cloak, leaned on his staff. How had she bested me? How could I lose that bet? We wondered as he looked off into dark, dank fens. Knowing if he was late, she'd feel scorned and there would be hel to pay, he set off. Entering the swamp, and made his way toward the well at the center. He would meet the seeress aspect of his wife there, deep within Sökkvabekkr. Books by the Humans. She had won the bet, but now, in payment, wanted him to judge these books.
The wanderer was a storyteller and had taught humans that storytelling was a gift to lessen their suffering. The Skalds had told great sagas. Worthy stories about pain, desire, and sacrifice. But this newer lyrical form. He wasn't sure. Did this count as a story? As he continued toward the meeting place. He reflected on how the arts had changed. Sappho had started a revolution. Rumi had expanded the form into the Islamic World. Chaucer and Shakespeare, both of good Norman stock, were great skalds, but also wrote these poems.
The wanderer was close to the meeting spot where the cool waters rush. He thought about the volume to judge by the American Whitman. The writer had spent his life collecting the poems, his Leaves of Grass. When the wanderer arrived at the appointed location, he set his staff aside. He sat on a log in the clearing; the waves flowing with a bubbling babble. His wife arrived, bearing two gold chalices, a cask, and the book. Filling the cups, she handed one to him and drank deeply of hers.
She read, "Song of Myself." So full of spirit and wit, he thought, drinking. Then he read, 'O Captain! My Captain!" Authentic and beautiful, compelling enough to stand against authority. She read, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." Metamorphosis of the soul, life, and death. He toasted with his wife, and they both drained their cups.
Yes, the Leaves tell a story.Once upon a time...
