"Caedmon," by Denise Levertov

Caedmon is the earliest poet who wrote in English whose name we know — though only one of his compositions (actually a translated version of it) survives: “Caedmon’s Hymn.”

A seventh-century Northumbrian cowherd who took care of the local monastery’s cattle, Caedmon wasn’t much of a talker or a singer (cowherds would sometimes sing to pass the time, keep the cattle close, and keep predators away). But one night in the cowshed, the story goes, an angel inspired him to sing about creation — and he never looked back. Convinced he was divinely called, the monastery took him in as a monk, and he wrote lyrics for songs on Genesis, Exodus, the New Testament, and more, always honoring God the Creator. So when it comes to the English language, the earliest poet we know of was a composer praising creation.

In “Caedmon,” Denise Levertov imagines that fateful night, drawing on imagery from Luke (Mary in Luke 1 and the shepherds and the manger in Luke 2), Isaiah (the throne room in Isaiah 6), Exodus (the burning bush in Exodus 3) and Acts (the fiery encounter at Pentecost in Acts 2) to tell the story of an ordinary, humble person who’s given the courage to speak, create, and sing.

One other note: “a twist / of lit rush” refers to a rushlight, an old, inexpensive sort of candle (essentially a wick of rush drenched in fat).

Caedmon

All others talked as if
talk were a dance.
Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet
would break the gliding ring.
Early I learned to
hunch myself
close by the door:
then when the talk began
I’d wipe my
mouth and wend
unnoticed back to the barn
to be with the warm beasts,
dumb among body sounds
of the simple ones.
I’d see by a twist
of lit rush the motes
of gold moving
from shadow to shadow
slow in the wake
of deep untroubled sighs.
The cows
munched or stirred or were still. I
was at home and lonely,
both in good measure. Until
the sudden angel affrighted me — light effacing
my feeble beam,
a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying:
but the cows as before
were calm, and nothing was burning,
nothing but I, as that hand of fire
touched my lips and scorched my tongue
and pulled my voice
into the ring of the dance.

+ Denise Levertov