the havamal

fuTarkgwhnIjIpzstbemlNod

RUNE MAGICK & THE HAVAMAL

The entire runic alphabet or ‘futhark’ (a word taken from the first 6 letters) appears above. It is an ancient magickal alphabet used for magick, spells, divination and healing as well as for writing. Each rune stave is made up of only straight lines as they were most often carved in ancient times.

The following text is called The Havamal. It is a collection of short poems (stanzas) from The Poetic Edda. Havamal means ‘words of the high one’, referring to Odin, the All-Father. The stanzas give wisdom and advice and some history of Odin including his quest for the runes (rune means secret or mystery). They also give details of magickal applications for some of the runes – lore that is still very much heeded today.

The poems are over a thousand years old and there have been many translations. The following is from Norse Poems, translated by W. H. Auden and P. B. Taylor.

THE HAVAMAL

The man who stands at a strange threshold,

Should be cautious before he cross it,

Glance this way and that:

Who knows beforehand what foes may sit

Awaiting him in the hall?

Greetings to the host, the guest has arrived,

In which seat shall he sit?

Rash is he who at unknown doors

Relies on his good luck.

Fire is needed by the newcomer

Whose knees are frozen numb;

Meat and clean linen a man needs

Who has fared across the fells,

Water, too, that he may wash before eating,

Handcloths and a hearty welcome,

Courteous words, then courteous silence

That he may tell his tale.

Who travels widely needs his wits about him,

The stupid should stay at home:

The ignorant man is often laughed at

When he sits at meat with the sage.

Of his knowledge a man should never boast,

Rather be sparing of speech

When to his house a wiser comes:

Seldom do those who are silent

Make mistakes; mother wit

Is ever a faithful friend.

A guest should be courteous

When he comes to the table

And sit in wary silence,

His ears attentive, his eyes alert:

So he protects himself.

Fortunate is he who is favored in his lifetime

With praise and words of wisdom:

Evil counsel is often given

By those of evil heart.

Blessed is he who in his own lifetime

Is awarded praise and wit,

For ill counsel is often given

By mortal men to each other.

Better gear than good sense

A traveler cannot carry,

Better than riches for a wretched man,

Far from his own home.

Better gear than good sense

A traveler cannot carry,

A more tedious burden than too much drink

A traveler cannot carry.

Less good than belief would have it

Is mead for the sons of men:

A man knows less the more he drinks,

Becomes a befuddled fool.

"I forget" is the name men give the heron

Who hovers over the feast:

Fettered I was in his feathers that night,

When a guest in Gunnlod's court.

Drunk I got, dead drunk,

When Fjalar the wise was with me:

Best is the banquet one looks back on after,

And remembers all that happened.

Silence becomes the son of a prince,

To be silent but brave in battle:

It befits a man to be merry and glad

Until the day of his death.

The coward believes he will live forever

If he holds back in the battle,

But in old age he shall have no peace

Though spears have spared his limbs.

When he meets friends, the fool gapes,

Is shy and sheepish at first,

Then he sips his mead and immediately

All know what an oaf he is.

He who has seen and suffered much,

And knows the ways of the world,

Who has traveled, can tell what spirit

Governs the men he meets.

Drink your mead, but in moderation,

Talk sense or be silent:

No man is called discourteous who goes

To bed at an early hour.

A gluttonous man who guzzles away

Brings sorrow on himself:

At the table of the wise he is taunted often,

Mocked for his bloated belly,

The herd knows its homing time,

And leaves the grazing ground:

But the glutton never knows how much

His belly is able to hold.

An ill tempered, unhappy man

Ridicules all he hears,

Makes fun of others, refusing always

To see the faults in himself.

Foolish is he who frets at night,

And lies awake to worry

A weary man when morning comes,

He finds all as bad as before.

The fool thinks that those who laugh

At him are all his friends,

Unaware when he sits with wiser men

How ill they speak of him.

The fool thinks that those who laugh

At him are all his friends:

When he comes to the Thing and calls for support,

Few spokesmen he finds.

The fool who fancies he is full of wisdom

While he sits by his hearth at home

Quickly finds when questioned by others

That he knows nothing at all.

The ignorant booby had best be silent

When he moves among other men,

No one will know what a nit-wit he is

Until he begins to talk;

No one knows less what a nit-wit he is

Than the man who talks too much.

To ask well, to answer rightly,

Are the marks of a wise man:

Men must speak of men's deeds,

What happens may not be hidden.

Wise is he not who is never silent,

Mouthing meaningless words:

A glib tongue that goes on chattering

Sings to its own harm.

A man among friends should not mock another:

Many believe the man

Who is not questioned to know much

And so he escapes their scorn.

The wise guest has his way of dealing

With those who taunt him at table:

He smiles through the meal, not seeming to hear

The twaddle talked by his foes.

The fastest friends may fall out

When they sit at the banquet-board:

It is, and shall be, a shameful thing

When guest quarrels with guest.

An early meal a man should take

Before he visits friends,

Lest, when he gets there, he go hungry,

Afraid to ask for food.

To a false friend the footpath winds

Though his house be on the highway.

To a sure friend there is a short cut,

Though he live a long way off.

The tactful guest will take his leave

Early, not linger long:

He starts to stink who outstays his welcome

In a hall that is not his own.

A small hut of one's own is better,

A man is his master at home:

A couple of goats and a corded roof

Still are better than begging.

A small hut of one's own is better,

A man is his master at home:

His heart bleeds in the beggar who must

Ask at each meal for meat.

A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,

But have his weapons to hand:

He knows not when he may need a spear,

Or what menace meet on the road.

No man is so generous he will jib at accepting

A gift in return for a gift,

No man so rich that it really gives him

Pain to be repaid.

Once he has won wealth enough,

A man should not crave for more:

What he saves for friends, foes may take;

Hopes are often liars.

With presents friends should please each other,

With a shield or a costly coat:

Mutual giving makes for friendship

So long as life goes well,

A man should be loyal through life to friends,

And return gift for gift,

Laugh when they laugh, but with lies repay

A false foe who lies.

A man should be loyal through life to friends,

To them and to friends of theirs,

But never shall a man make offer

Of friendship to his foes.

If you find a friend you fully trust

And wish for his good-will,

Exchange thoughts, exchange gifts,

Go often to his house.

If you deal with another you don't trust

But wish for his good-will,

Be fair in speech but false in thought

And give him lie for lie.

Even with one you ill-trust

And doubt what he means to do,

False words with fair smiles

May get you the gift you desire.

Young and alone on a long road,

Once I lost my way:

Rich I felt when I found a another;

Man rejoices in man.

The generous and bold have the best lives,

Are seldom beset by cares,

But the base man sees bogies everywhere

And the miser pines for presents.

Two wooden stakes stood on the plain,

On them I hung my clothes:

Draped in linen, they looked well born,

But, naked, I was a nobody.

The young fir that falls and rots

Having neither needles nor bark,

So is the fate of the friendless man:

Why should he live long?

Hotter than fire among false hearts burns

Friendship for five days,

But suddenly slackens when the sixth dawns:

Feeble their friendship then.

A kind word need not cost much,

The price of praise can be cheap:

With half a loaf and an empty cup

I found myself a friend.

Little a sand-grain, little a dew drop,

Little the minds of men:

All men are not equal in wisdom,

The half-wise are everywhere

It is best for man to be middle-wise,

Not over cunning and clever:

The learned man whose lore is deep

Is seldom happy at heart.

It is best for man to be middle-wise,

Not over cunning and clever:

The fairest life is led by those

Who are deft at all they do.

It is best for man to be middle-wise,

Not over cunning and clever:

No man is able to know his future,

So let him sleep in peace.