here it is:
In Anglo-Saxon poetry, there is a natural pause in the middle of each line. I can't remember the name of it, but there's a name for it. Anyways. In this translation, I'm trying to preserve that.
I can, about myself, tell a true tale,
Relate my journey, how days of toil
and times of hardship I often suffered,
bitter sorrows of heart had to endure,
explored in my ship many ports,
terrible rolling waves, and I often kept
an anxious nightwatch at the ship's prow
whenever the crashing cliffs neared. Frozen & afflicted
were my feet, frostbound,
cold chains, whereas the sorrow and lament
wound hot around my heart; hunger within tore
at my sea-weary mind. He knows not, that man
who on the land happily stays,
how I, wretched, sorrowful, icecold sea
winters weathered on an exile's path,
bereft of beloved kinsmen,
surrounded by icicles; hail storms flying.
There, I hear naught but the roaring sea,
the ice cold waves. Sometimes the swan's song
served as entertainment, the gannet's cry
and the curlew's sound in place of human laughter,
seagulls singing instead of mead-drinking.
Storms there beat the rocky cliff, where the tern answers
icy-feathered; often the eagle screams,
dewey-feathered; no protecting kinsmen
my desolate heart may comfort.
When I finish it, I'm going to post it to LitKicks in 3 forms: the above form (as close to the original form as I could come), a prose form (with ordinary modern english phrasing), and a rock-poem form (filtered through my song/poem style)