The title ‘I am called Mask’ has been borrowed from Old Icelandic ‘Heto mek Grímr’ (Grímnismál when Odin introduces himself in strophe 46)
I am called Mask
Warriors retainers, fill the mead hall,
Glittering Lord on, carved seat set so tall.
On warrior’s sword, at height of full moon,
The gleaming eyed one, consecrates the rune.
The shifting flames light, the glimmering mask,
Mead cup bearing boys, break open the cask.
Horn of mead passes, from bench to bench,
Boasting of valor, and longing to quench.
The right eye garnets, glitter and glimmer,
Stiff bronze dragon shank, sparkle and shimmer.
Dark hollow eyeholes, in soft shadows deep,
Warriors move round, flames flicker and leap.
The bird soars skyward, and dragon descends,
Bronze boar heads to wings, strong shielding defends.
Figurers of silver, on mask of giver,
Forming in firelight, they shudder and shiver.
Thick billowing smoke, upwards ever drift,
Flickering fire light, faint images shift.
Torn long tunic bard, he weaves riddle craft,
While on the spear side, they down the best draught.
Amid the chatter, and immodest song,
Wæs hæil loudly called, amongst heathen throng.
While slacking the thirst, with ample mead strong,
Much wassailing in, the small hours long.
Copyright Andrew Rea July 2015