I now conclude the tale of Thor’s Journey to Utgard with the final seventeen stanzas, in which all is revealed about the strange happenings in the hall of Utgardaloki. Converting this to what I call “standard lines,” it was 264 lines long. My two longest poems are 729 and 983 lines, and, shorter than this, I think my Brisingamen poem came in at 96 lines. Next month will bring a new poem of some kind. Enjoy!

The crone then came,
cracking her knuckles,
ready for the match.
The wrestling began;
Ennilang strained hard,
yet Elli stood firm,
no matter the force
his might brought forth.

Then tricks she tried
and the True One slipped;
in pulling and pushing
her power set Thor
down on one knee.
The drighten then stopped
the fight and deemed
the feats to be ended.

The night was late
and they needed rest.
All took good quarters
in that excellent hall.
When the day had dawned
dressed they all got,
and a bountiful breakfast
the big man provided.

Filled with food, drink,
and fine good cheer,
Hlórriði and his people
departed that hall;
the king came with,
out the castle gates,
and asked of Thor
his thoughts on the visit.

Badly they fared,
the bold one felt,
and much annoyed
that the monarch would say
that the life-filled Ase
was of little worth.
But the lord would now tell
the truth of the lies.

Not at all again
would Eindriði come
in that king’s castle,
nor would’ve come before,
if he’d known Thor’s strength,
how near he’d bring all
to the greatest disaster
from the games in the hall.

Changed with illusions
were the look of the challenges,
by the crafty magic
that the king possessed.
In the forest he was Skrýmir,
and had fixed the knapsack;
’twas tied with trickery,
a test none could pass.

Of the hammer blows
that Harðvéurr struck,
by the littlest Skrýmir
would lifeless be,
but Mjöllnir had hit
the mountain he placed
in its course; those crashes
had carved three valleys!

And Logi was really
a live wildfire
that burned quickly
bones, meat, and trencher.
And Hugi was really
the headman’s thought;
no chance had Thjálfi
in chasing its speed.

The horn was too
a trick on Hlórriði,
for the end was out
in the ocean’s waters
So much Thor drunk,
a miracle happened,
that its level lowered
and gave life to the tides!

When a paw of that pussy
proud Thor had raised,
all were terrified
with awful fear
and barely restrained
bedlam and panic,
for that mewing cat
was the Midgard Serpent!

‘Round lands it lays,
its length just enough
for tail and head
to touch the earth,
for Rym stretched so high
he reached the sky!
The zeal of Thor
brought disaster’s edge!

And old age itself
was Elli the nurse,
who pulls all down
—the powerful included—
flat on the earth
in the fullness of time,
yet Ásabrag had fallen
only to a knee!

The tyrant now told
it was time for his leave,
and never should Thor
come near again,
for he’d secure his castle
with more craft and tricks.
Harðvéurr took hammer
when he heard those words.

Sönnung swung swiftly,
yet saw nowhere
Utgardaloki
to angle his blow;
he turned for the castle
to attack it next,
but all that was there
was an open field.

With trials ended
and no tricks further,
Thor and company
to Thrúðvang returned.
But Sönnung decided
to seek already
the Midgard Serpent
for a second match.

But now here ends
my noble tale
of a valiant voyage
by Vingþórr to Utgard,
and his triumph in trials
though tricked he was
by a crafty etin’s
cunning magic.

[That concludes this tale. This poem previously appeared on my Patreon site in August 2023.]
Copyright © 2024 Eirik Westcoat