Nada - a translation into Norwegian of a poem by Raquel Lanseros

This is another attempt at improving my Spanish by translating short, yet complex, poems into my mother tongue. As these are exercises in language proficiency rather than the result of a fluent speaker, they are of course rough and unfinished, yet they provide me with three things. First of all, the sense of accomplishment and progress. Secondly, the opportunity to share some of my favourite poetry with others, and perhaps alert some readers to a poet they might not have heard of. Thirdly, these translations provide me with an opportunity to give a public sign of gratitude and affection to the poet whose verses have come to mean very much to me, and which have served as a great relief throughout this strange millennium we call 2020. 

This time around, I present you with a translation of the poem Nada by Raquel Lanseros, printed in her latest collection, Matria, from 2018. A reading by the poet herself can be found here. A rendition into English of my Norwegian translation will follow at the end. 



Ingenting


Lat deg ikkje lure
av den påtekne audmjukskapen. 
Bak den harmlause framtoninga 
finn vi ein blodtyrstig dommar. 
Ein sofistikert liturgi av mangel. 
Ein bør akte seg for å misbruke namnet hans. 
Der finnast ikkje eit meir hemngjerrig uttrykk. 
Han tek til seg rommet. 
For han er det lettare å drepe enn å dele. 
Ved hans side er det ikkje plass til anna enn tomrommet. 

Det nyttar ikkje å appellere til hans miskunn. 
Hans einaste kjende lidenskapar 
er ordet "ingen" 
og ordet "aldri". 



Nothing

Do not be deceived 
my the feigned humility. 
Behind the harmless appearance
we find a bloodthirsty judge.
A sophisticated liturgy of lacking. 
One should be careful not to take his name in vain. 
There does not exist a more vindictive expression. 
He appropriates space. 
To him, it is more easy to kill than to share. 
By his side there is room for nothing more than emptiness. 

It is no use appealing to his clemency. 
His only known passions 
are the word "nobody" 
and the word "never". 












 

The order surrounding the chaos - an interpretation of figures in stone from Sotosalbos, Spain

While I am not an art historian - and while I live and work in perpetual awe of my friends and colleagues who are - I always try to broaden my understanding of medieval art, and I love using medieval art in my teaching. When it comes to the art found in an ecclesiastical context - be it the wall-paintings of the interior church space, the illuminations of manuscripts produced for an ecclesiastical institution (a category of manuscripts that can include books not aimed predominantly for liturgical use), or the stone figures populating the church exterior - one of my favourite aspects is that this art served as a mute, often wordless, language that communicated a message to a broad audience. Moreover, this language was a lingua franca of the churches across Latin Christendom, and as the various church organisations were part of the same transregional network of tastes and impulses, we find this language in stone and vellum to be used in the same way from Spain to Scandinavia, from Ireland to Illyria and beyond, and in this way it becomes possible to note patterns and and coherences that might seem absent at first glance to the modern eye, unaccustomed as it is to the logic behind this largely-lost language. 


While I am not an art historian, I do not avoid the temptation of interpreting this language whenever I come across it, although I am always careful to defer to my colleagues who are experts in this field. Before getting to the grain of this blogpost, therefore, I will emphasise that the following is speculation from a non-expert, so do consult your go-to historian of medieval art - and if you don't have one, get one - before accepting my interpretation. 

The subject of my interpretation is a section from the exterior programme of carvings of the Church of Saint Michael in Sotosalbos, a village near Segovia in Spain. The church is a splendid romanesque structure, and was built around 1200. The gateway and its arcade - which can be glimpsed on the left-hand side of the second photograph of this blogpost - are decorated with a sequence of carvings featuring persons, representations of the labours of the months, battle scenes, animals and geometric patterns. As was pointed out by Professor Miguel Larrañaga, who was the guide for the excursion that brought me to Sotosalbos last year, the individual carvings united in a communicative totality, one that conveyed the order and structure of the Christian cosmos, and that communicated the stratification of power in ways that would have been recognisable even to a non-ecclesiastical audience. This is the general purpose of the programme of carvings, and we find this throughout Latin Christendom. However, while we know this to be the purpose of the programme, it can often be difficult to read some of its individual component, and - at least for a non-expert such as myself - it can be a challenge to understand how one particular set of images contributes to the totality. 

The other day I was talking about medieval art with a friend who is not himself academic, and I suspect this fact allowed me to speculate a bit more than I might have done if talking with one of my friends who are historians of art. One of the examples of medieval art that I presented to him was this photograph which shows a small portion of the programme at Sotosalbos. In the top row of niches, we see - from right to left - 1) a praying individual who might be an ecclesiastic, 2) a figure pruning the vines who thus represents the labour of the month for February, and 3) a figure, possibly another ecclesiastic, displaying an open scroll that might at some point have contained a short prayer that the rain has chiselled away through the centuries. 

In the row below these niches, we find corbels interspersed with stones covered in geometric patterns. While the rightmost of the corbels in the photograph is effaced by time and weather, it is possible to interpret that as some sort of fighting scene when compared with the other two, one showing a man spearing a dragon and the other showing to figures in each other's choke-hold. While the individual figures are easy enough to interpret, at least with a basic knowledge of the motifs of medieval Christian art, the geometric patterns provide more of a challenge. The purpose of each individual figure seems clear enough, but what about the geometric patterns? Is there some message in these as well? Or are they just decorative, pleasing to the eye, fulfilling that dictum that nature abhors a vacuum and every void should be filled by something?

After a while, it struck me that these patterns might serve a purpose beyond mere decoration. If we consider their placings, we see that they punctuate what would otherwise be a series of violence, and this might be the clue to their collective purpose. The individual acts of violence represented by the corbels - fighting against one's fellow humans, fighting against beasts - might perhaps be understood as the chaos embedded in the world inhabited by humankind. In medieval thought there was a clear division between the order of society and the chaos of the untamed, uncivilised, lawless world of the beasts and of devils. It was this lawless world, the postlapsarian world of sin, that showed itself in acts of violence and breaches against the social order. Against this chaos, precipitated by the devil's deceit in the garden, stands the social order and the harmonious symmetry of God. The social order is here represented by the clerks whose prayers connect Heaven and earth, as well as the farmer pruning the vines, a representative of the unbroken annual cycle of labours that presides over the social life of humankind. 

Then there are the patterns. If we consider this contrast between violent chaos and social order, the interpretation of these geometrical symmetries appear more accessible. The symmetry of these patterns might be understood as that divine harmony by which the entire universe is fashioned, and they might thus serve as a counterpoint to the aberrant, destructive violence of the corbels. If we understand the patterns in this way, they are not just beautiful symmetrical carvings, they are communicative statements that insist on the resilience of order, and which serve as a contrast against the chaos that exists in the world. In this way, we might understand these carvings as communicating to the onlooker that the church and the society - represented in these particular carvings by clerks and workers - provide a bulwark against the violent chaos of the world outside society. This might serve on the one hand as a message of comfort, as well as an implicit threat that if one does not conform to the law of the church and society, one is cast out in that outer darkness mentioned by Christ in the Gospel of Matthew. This is at least my interpretation. 

I should emphasise, however, that this interpretation is of only one section of the pictorial programme of the porch of the church, and in order to verify or falsify the validity of my interpretation, it would be necessary to see the programme as a whole. This has perhaps been done by scholars already, and if not I hope some expert will do so. Until then, I am tempted to suggest that this interpretation might at least provide some answers, and perhaps even the correct ones. 

Nørre Nærå Church in Denmark

In the spring of 2019, I had my last months in Denmark at the end of a five-year stay, and in that time I managed to do a bit of churchcrawling, something I had long wanted to do. One of the wonderful things about Denmark, especially for a medievalist, is that there are numerous churches from the Middle Ages that have survived with their medieval elements intact, at least to various degrees, and they can be found all over the country. The sheer plethora of these churches means that it is also possible to encounter them by chance when driving along, and this gives plenty of opportunity for unexpected treasures to materialise into view. 

During my last months in Denmark, my parents came to visit and I had planned an itinerary that would bring us some places we had not visited before, focussing - of course - mainly on medieval churches. However, knowing full well from previous trips how rewarding it can be to also keep an eye out for lesser-known churches, we were always prepared to take an unscheduled stop along the way. One such stop was the church of Nørre Nærå on Fyn. 

The name Nørre Nærå is a confusing name in several respects. First of all, it is one of two locations with "Nærå" in the name, this being the northernmost of the two, whereas the other location, also the site of a medieval church, is called Sønder Nærå, i.e. the southernmost of the two. Furthermore, the name "Nærå" initially seems to suggest a river, since the word "å" is a Norse word for river, which can be found in both modern Danish and modern Norwegian. However, according to specialist Lisbeth Eilersgaard Christensen, in a study available from the website of Odense Museum, here, the name is a muddling of the word "høj", pointing to a hill or a mound, as seen in Norwegian "haug" or English dialect "how". Finally, the element "Nær", which in modern Danish would be "near" is interpreted as a muddling of the name Njord, one of the Norse gods. So the name essentially means "The Northernmost Hill of Njord", thus possibly pointing to an old site for rituals or other religious gatherings. This is one of many names in Fyn that point to a pre-Christian religious practices, most famous of which is the main city, and episcopal centre, Odense, which is interpreted as Odin's vi, or the sacred place of Odin. 

The bishopric of Odense, which covers all of Fyn, was established at the end of the tenth century, the earliest reference to which is a letter of privilege sent on behalf of the boy-king Otto III, later emperor, to the Danish bishops. At this point, the Danish church organisation was not extensive, and it is questionable whether there actually was a resident bishop in Odense at that time. In the course of the eleventh century, however, this changed, and by the end of the twelfth century the bishop of Odense was the head of a large number of churches, many of which were erected in the second half of the 1100s. It is likely that one of these churches was that of Nørre Nærå, since there are several Romanesque elements surviving, one of which is a baptismal font (imperfectly photographed by me, see below). 

In written sources, the village of Nørre Nærå appears for the first time in 1282, while the church appears in 1304 - that it, if the Nærå church mentioned is the northernmost and not the southernmost of the possible candidates. Irregardless, the Romanesque elements indicate a point of origin of the church that is at least a century older than its first possible appearance in textual documents. 

The church building as it stands today is mostly the result of an expansion of the original church space towards the end of the fifteenth century, and at times heavy restoration work in mid- to late 1800s. Several of the features of the church space are modern, such as the pulpit from 1848 and the altarpiece from 1937. These are both beautiful pieces, and although not medieval they are nonetheless part of that rich melange of remnants from various points in time that is is common in the Danish churchscapes.

The foot of the Romanesque font which at the time drew my attention more strongly than the font itself

For a glimpse of the dimensions of the font, see the blogpost's first picture of the church interior.

Danish churches are historical treasure houses, and they can contain surprising gems, even in the smallest and most remote cases. The truth of this became evident when entering Nørre Nærå Church, because in the left-hand corner of the aisle just before entering the choir, there is a stone with a runic inscription unostentatiously placed on its own below a candelabra from 1934. The stone has been moved into the church during renovation work, and in earlier records it was mentioned as placed in the cemetery. This is a wonderful survival from medieval Denmark, and the most fantastic part of this artefact is not so much that it is found in a church of such chiefly local significance, but that it is dated to the ninth century, possibly close to as much as three centuries older than the oldest surviving part of the church itself.  

The text itself has stumped runologists, as the inscription - which seems to be partly lost - is difficult to interpret. It reads "Thormundr Niut kumbls", which has been interpreted by Erik Moltke as being a kind of burial formula, but I for my part dare not say more on the subject here. However we understand the text, its very presence is a wonderful reminder of the wealth of the Danish medieval material, and how much of it can be encountered even in the most remote, humble places. And this is the reason why it's always a good idea to stop when a church appears in view.

The information about the various details of the church can be found in the chapter on Nørre Nærå in the monumental encyclopedia Danmarks Kirker (Churches of Denmark), available online here.

Songs for Saint Edmund - liturgy and identity at Bury St Edmunds

 


Today is the feast of Saint Edmund Martyr, the king of East Anglia who was killed by Danish Vikings in 869, and who became one of the most important native saints of medieval England. This year's feast is, moreover, a special occasion, as it is the millennial anniversary of the founding of the monastic community at Edmund's shrine in the town that came to be Bury St Edmunds, and which is referred to in Edmund's saint-biography by Abbo of Fleury from c.987 as Bedricurtis, or Bedricsworth. The shrine of Edmund had been established shortly after his death, although the actual historical circumstances were in all likelihood very different from how they are depicted in Abbo's Passio Eadmundi. What we do know, however, is that Edmund's shrine was the centre of a local cult for most of the tenth century, but one that attracted the veneration of several magnates and bishops and was a significant feature in the religious life of East Anglia. Based on the miracle stories included in Passio Eadmundi, this shrine was maintained by priests and recluse women, and it had amassed a trove of wealth that was sufficiently large to attract the attention of a group of thieves. So while it was not a monastic community, it certainly had both monastic elements and a great status - which is probably why the shrine was selected to be reformed as a Benedictine abbey. 

The reformation of the community took place under the auspices of King Knud I of England, Denmark and Norway. Knud was an active patron of religious houses in England, and Bury St Edmunds was one of several to which he turned his attention. However, the Danish background of the king must have been particularly poignant aspect of Knud's patronage of Bury, as his father, Svend Forkbeard, had died only six years prior during his invasion of Denmark, and according to the local legends it was Saint Edmund himself who had killed the Danish king for having exacted a heavy tribute from Edmund's shrine. This episode became one of the most iconic scenes to be depicted in pictorial renditions of Edmund's legend. 

In its first few decades, the change to a monastic community at Bury is likely to have been important, but not necessarily dramatic beyond the introduction of a monastic liturgical use, which was more elaborate than the one that was performed previously - although we do not know anything about the details of that liturgy. In the second half of the eleventh century, however, Bury became a major cult centre that established connections with other religious houses on the continent, and that actively promoted and disseminated Edmund's cult beyond its own territory. The man in charge of this dissemination programme was Abbot Baldwin, a former monk at Saint-Denis who had been the physician of Edward the Confessor, and who was appointed by the king to the abbacy. During Baldwin's reign, Bury was the location of a significant textual production, which included the copying of books as well as the composition of new material. Arguably, the most important of the new productions was the liturgical office, because it was through this medium that the abbey formulated its own relationship to its patron saints, and formulated its own identity through its presentation of the life and history of that patron. This identity - this blend of history and iconography - was taught to the monks of Bury through the annual celebrations of Edmund's feast day, November 20, and through this communal, immersive performance the community reminded itself of its role in the holy scheme of God, of the merits of its patron, and of the place of Bury St Edmunds in the fabric of Creation. This kind of identity-construction and identity-perpetuation was a key element of liturgy, and one of the reasons why a new monastic office was composed under the auspices of Abbot Baldwin. It is perfectly possible that another monastic office existed prior to Baldwin's abbacy, but I for my part find it unlikely. 

The office for Saint Edmund is of great interest to us, not only because of its key position in the cult of Edmund and the life and identity of the abbey, but because it has come down to us in one of the oldest surviving sources from Bury: A manuscript dated to around 1070, København Kongelige Bibliotek GKS 1588, in which an almost-complete version of the office can be found, along with the earliest known copy of Passio Eadmundi. For the millenary of the abbey of Bury St Edmunds, I here present a little selection of the content of this office. The translations are based transcriptions and translations from my PhD thesis. A modern arrangement of the office of Saint Edmund can be found here.  

København Kongelige Bibliotek GKS 1588, f.28r

The first song of the office as it has come down to us from MS GKS 1588 is the Magnificat antiphon, performed in conjunction with a psalm during the hour of Vesper. In this chant, Bury's identity vis-à-vis its wider geography, as the chant asks the church of the entire English people - i.e. not only the local branch of East Anglia - to celebrate Saint Edmund. This imparts the idea that Edmund is of so great a standing in the senate of God - a typical metaphor for Heaven - that he can intercede for all the English people, not just those of his own community at Bury. 


Exulta sancta ecclesia totias gentis anglice ecce in manibus est laudatio eadmundi regis inclyti et martyris inuictissimi qui triumphato mundi principe celos ascendit uictoriosissime sancta pater eadmundo tuis supplicibus intende

Rejoice, holy church of the entire English people, behold in [whose] hands is Edmund praised, the illustrious king and invincible martyr, who triumphing over the prince of the world ascended victoriously in heaven. Holy father Edmund, hold out your prayers

København Kongelige Bibliotek GKS 1588, f.28v

The next chant I want to emphasise is third antiphon of Matins. The hour of Matins was the climax of the liturgical celebration of the feast day. This was the longest of the eight services of the daily round, and it was here that the community shared in the story of their patron to chants and readings. The chants of the office were chanted by all the monks, and chants are thus an immensely powerful vehicle of identity construction since the singing makes each individual monk of the community take part in the perpetuation of the institution's collective memory.

This antiphon, Legem dedit, is of particular interest because it adds a new element to the iconography of Saint Edmund. It introduces the idea that the Danish chieftain, Hingwar, threatened Edmund with exile lest he submit to him. The invocation of exile is not mentioned in Passio Eadmundi, but it is a signficant addition in the liturgy, because even though the legend does include an exile for Edmund, the mere threat invokes the image of the exile, and the archetype of exiles for all saints was Christ, who had gone into exile as a child to escape the slaughter by Herod. Since the efficaciousness of saints was often measured in the extent to which they imitated Christ, an added element of this imitation, the threat of exile, served to impress upon the community at Bury how Christlike was their patron.  

Legem dedit rex crudelis hinguuar / ut eadmundus exilio relegarent / aut capite potius detruncarent / si eum suis legibus inclinare aut subdere non possent

The cruel king Hingwar gave the condition / so that Edmund would be banished into exile / or else decapitated, if he could not / bend to his laws and place himself under them

København Kongelige Bibliotek GKS 1588, f.29r

The final example for this millenary blogpost is the first responsory of the office, also performed during Matins. A responsory is a chant sung after a lesson, and it is comprised of three parts: The main part which is the responsum (literally, the response, as it responds to the lesson), then comes the verse, v, and then finally the repetenda, r, which repeats the last line of the responsum for emphasis.

The first responsory comes after the first lesson, in which we learn about Edmund's characteristics and his merits as a king and saint. The responsory emphasises that Edmund was pre-destined to become a saint, and that his entire life was planned by God so that Edmund would join him in Heaven as one of his soldiers in the fight against the devil. This pre-ordained destiny was typical of all saints and not unique to Edmund, but it was nonetheless an important trait, and by repeating this aspect of Edmund twice in the same chant, the community at Bury were reminded, and reminded themselves, that their patron was one of the elect of God, and could therefore aid them in their needs. Such a comfort, the idea of a patron who was especially beloved by God, should be understood as a crucial aspect of a cult centre's identity construction.

Sancte indolis puer eadmundus ex antiquorum personis regum natiuitatis sumpsit exordium quem sue milicie informauit rex celestis ut sibi coheredem transferet in celis.
[v] Cuius infantium illustrauit spiritus sancti gratia quoniam complacuit sibi in illo anima domini iesu

[r] ut sibi

With inborn holiness, the boy Edmund, born from old royal lineage, was taken from the beginning, whom the heavenly king shaped [into] his soldier so that as His coinheritor He could transfer him to heaven.
[v] Whose childhood shone with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, since it was acceptable to him in this soul
[r] so that

The examples I have pointed to here are only three of many. The office is of course a unit in the sense that it conveys a unified legend in a short space of time, but it is also comprised of episodes in which particular aspects of the saint, the saint's qualities and the institution's identity are given particular attention. The full scope of the programme of identity construction begun under Abbot Baldwin requires an immersion in the entire office, not just its texts but its texts performed with music, but even by these few examples we manage to see some of the key aspects of this identity-construction.