Troubles in SF Poetry—Part II

[Last week in Part I of “Troubles in SF Poetry,” I discussed a poem by Poul Anderson and how he resolved the issue of creating a science-fictional context for a poem in an alliterative meter. Here in Part II, we now discuss Marcie Lynn Tentchoff’s “The Song of the Dragon-Prowed Ships,” with a brief excursion into a few lines from Math Jones’s “Lenctenlong.”]

While researching Speculative Poetry and the Modern Alliterative Revival, when I first encountered “The Song of the Dragon-Prowed Ships,” I instantly knew that here was one of the most throat-catchingly good SF poems yet to appear in an alliterative meter.

Tentchoff herself is hardly new to verse-craft. Back in 2000, her long Arthurian poem, Surrendering the Blade, won Canada’s prestigious Aurora Award, but her love for all things Norse goes back even further. She’d grown up reading Poul Anderson, for instance, but at Simon Fraser University she also took classes in Middle English, Old English, and Old Norse literature … and there she learned the deft intricacies of skaldic meter, which she puts on virtuosic display in “The Song of the Dragon-Prowed Ships.”

From that title, you can probably guess our main protagonists will be Vikings, those notorious seafarers famed for their longships with dragon-headed prows, but these particular Vikings face a problem. Much like Alexander who wept because he had no more worlds to conquer, Tentchoff’s “red-grimed / reavers of doom’s grieving” have conquered nearly all the lands their terrifying longships can reach.

Yet here we encounter no half-hearted skaldic metrics such as those found in “The Scothan Queen” by Anderson. Here, Tentchoff is dróttkvætt meter’s master, and she marshals all the considerable power of that form to articulate the existential despair of her Vikings, their frustrated lust for great and dangerous deeds of glory.

As she says:

Dark-eyed, we sat drinking,

daunted by scalds’ taunting,

songs not worth the singing,

sighing for dreams dying ….

More than anything else, the dróttkvætt form is best designed for praise. It excels when flattering kings, but aggressive marauding pirates need their own encomiums, too. Yet in a world where opportunities for such marauding have declined, we can readily imagine how Tentchoff’s poor, mocked Vikings are feeling quite sorry for themselves.

Luckily, that’s when the aliens arrive.

Now, for anyone not previously aware that this is a SF poem, the sudden appearance of alien star-farers can seem as genre-jarring as From Dawn to Dusk (1996), the film that starts off as an excellent prison-break movie before inexplicably – and hilariously – turning into a gore-ridden vampire flick. Despite her suddenly materialized aliens, though, Tentchoff employs a more believable premise than Poul Anderson. For example, in “Tiger by the Tail,” I can’t for the life of me figure out how any “barbarian” people can successfully steal interstellar technology. Simply using it would require vast educational and social resources the Scothani simply don’t have.

Anderson mostly punts on that problem, but Tentchoff finds something a little more workable even while borrowing his “steal alien technology” idea. As her Vikings sit at home, crying into their mead, an alien starship crash-lands into port. Other than “strange-made,” we’re offered no description of these aliens. Apparently, though, advanced technology hasn’t translated into robust physical fitness, so once Tentchoff’s bored Vikings get over their initial shock, they make quick violent work of the survivors.

A few aliens show some backbone during the fight, however, and, as a reward, instead of killing them, Tentchoff’s Vikings turn them into thralls … a perfectly normal Viking thing to do. But it’s these alien thralls who then build and staff a new starship capable of transporting the Viking victors to the stars. Thus Tentchoff ends her poem on a surprisingly upbeat note—at least if you’re a blood-thirsty reaver:

Seek we now the skypaths,

sailing till blades fail us,

raiders, star-ship riders,

red-drenched moonbeam treaders.

So if your friendly neighborhood skalds are making fun of you, the solution’s simple – capture a couple alien thralls capable of building you a few dragon-prowed ships of the interstellar variety. You’ll never need to weep for lack of worlds to conquer. The galaxy is a big place.

This little seven-stanza dróttkvætt poem is thus remarkable not only for Tentchoff’s dazzling use of skaldic meter, but also for how she combines our medieval past (Vikings) with a technological future (aliens) in a way both reasonable and that aligns thematically with her chosen form. “The Song of the Dragon-Prowed Ships” is a smart SF poem smartly handled.

At this point, I can’t resist mentioning one more excellent poem that, although not technically SF, still combines an ancient Norse past with folks leaving the cozy confines of our native planet. Although I’ll later dedicate an entire entry to Math Jones, whose “Mother’s Song” is one of the finest texts in the Modern Alliterative, his skaldic poem “Lenctenlong” deserves special praise in its own right.

Like Tentchoff, he’s writing in the dróttkvætt meter, and “Lenctenlong” praises a Yuletide present – a shield – given to him by Thorskegga Thorn, a friend. On this shield, Thorskegga has painted four scenes from Norse mythology, and the third depicts the comic tale of when Thor accidentally hooks the Midgard Serpent, Jörmungand, on a fishing trip gone awry.

The incident goes down like this. Thor and the jötun Hymir go out fishing, but Thor, not always the best of listeners (and holding a grudge again Hymir), disregards his companion’s advice by going farther and farther out to sea … where, conveniently, there are no witnesses. At any rate, Thor has baited his fishing hook with a bull’s head, and the Midgard Serpent decides to take a nibble. Determined to catch the monster at all costs, Thor then sets his feet on the ocean floor. This starts to split their boat asunder, which so terrifies poor Hymir that the jötun cuts Thor’s fishing line. According to Thorskegga’s image, Thor still manages to kill Jörmungand by splitting its head in half with Mjöllnir. Unfortunately, Thor is then so irritated by Hymir’s punk line-cutting move that he – incurable scamp that he is – pushes Hymir overboard. To his death. Ha ha. See, Norse mythology is hilarious.

What’s important about this tale for our purposes, however, is how this section of “Lenctenlong” ends. Jones writes,

… Now,

the heirs of Heimdall fare
o’er leagues with lifting steeds

to lands beyond Jörmungandr,
have e’en moored in the meres

of Mundilfari’s son.

Unless you know Norse mythology well, this passage might seem puzzling, but the three big references are that “heirs of Heimdall” is a kenning for mankind, “Mundilafari’s son” is a kenning for moon, and that Jörmungand – the world-encircling serpent – can also mean Earth. So just as Thor during his fishing trip has fared boldly along the world’s welkin, so someday, Math Jones hints, humanity will fare even more boldly into the lands beyond Earth, sailing on space-faring vessels to the seas of the moon – the Mare Humorum, the Mare Imbrium, and so on.

In other words, spaceflight.

Between Jones and Tentchoff, SF poetry therefore finds powerful expression through skaldic meter. Yet for a slightly different spin on how SF can meet the Modern Alliterative Revival, we must next turn to the incomparable Rosemary Kirstein.

[Here ends Part II of “Troubles in SF Poetry.” For my discussion of Kirstein in Part III, tune in next week.]