DESCRIPTION:
Original Northern Tradition Pagan poetry, the Norse creation story retold from the perspective of Giants. Find my blog at : http://lofnbard.wordpress.com

The Eddas tell us Odin killed the evil Giant Ymir, and from his corpse created the worlds. Yet if we saw the same story from the perspective of Giants, what would it look like? How would they perceive Odin and his actions? My poem tries to answer that. I consider the Allfather holy and worthy of worship, but I am a bard and prefer Bragi's way of peace to that of the Father of Victory. A little empathy goes a long way toward avoiding conflict, and there are always at least two sides to every tale. We can keep fighting for the grudges of our ancestors, or can we finally lay them to rest. I pray for harmony, praise be to Bragi!

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Creation Take Two, A Jotun's View
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By Linda Demissy

In the beginning, there was nothing...
and boy was it, ever boring!
Nothing to do, none to do with.
Potential vast, void without myth.

Then spark, boom, blast, defining space,
Hotter than hell, ('cause) there was no hell!
And Surt, standing, smug and flaming!
How he did that? He's not telling!

With cooling came, the second world,
Rivers, ice, fog, and freezing rain,
Full foaming yeast, for life to form,
And from that mud, the first man born.

Cold Ymir called, and queer was he,
From sweaty feet, he fathered one,
With milk mothered, moist armpit pearls:
Two bonny boys, and one bright girl.

Urth the oldest, some say it was,
Thrudgelmir next, and then a third.
We don't quite know, what name he forged,
So let us now, just call him George.

It was quite cold, and so they cuddled.
By their sleeping, parent huddled,
Making more boys, girls and mothers,
Making merry, like no others.

There wasn't much, to eat back then.
That sacred cow, she suckled them.
She licked the ice, for her own food,
Found another, quite frozen dude.

Buri was he, buried in ice.
Rejoicing came, at this new life!
Marriage without, any incest,
And Thrudgelmir's, three heads were thrilled!

Marry my daughter, my good man,
And we shall all, prosper in peace.
These two they bore, a son named Borr.
He too soon wed, a Jotun maid.

This brave Jotun, Mother of Gods,
Bestla bore Vé, Vili, Odin.
Bolthorn's daughter, Blessed frith-weaver,
Her sons grew and, they did deceive her.

Hospitality, was repaid.
Cruelty, for kindness trade.
Odin murdered, Ymir who slept.
To make the worlds, his kin he swept.

Uncounted kin, did drown that day,
Save Bergelmir, who sailed away.
His household safe, rebuilt his race,
But those are foes, unto this day.

It's true great good, such deeds we call,
And marvel at, our towers tall.
As we now stand, on native soils,
But genocide, my mood it spoils.

And should you hear, of these Aesir,
And had they killed, all you held dear,
Just ask yourself, if it were you,
If you'd not hold, a grudge or two?

If wicked are, all giants made,
In virtue gods, to who you prayed,
This simple truth, do not evade:
Remember who, that day betrayed.