Linguistic Ginko

In the tradition of early Graeco-Roman humor, Symposius, a fourth century aristocrat, composed in Latin a series of 100 riddles. Symposius, whose name suggests a heavy inclination to dine with Bacchus, popularized what was to become an enduring tradition, composing the perfect riddle...

"Letters sustain me--yet I know them not,
I live on books, and yet I never read,
The Muses I've devoured and gained no knowledge."

Easy enough, but others are woefully obscure.

"You can behold what you can scarce believe
There is but one eye, yet a thousand heads,
Who sells what he has, whence shall he get what he has not?"

Most of Symposius' riddles are three lines long, and no doubt reach at capturing the typical scenes of daily life in the Empire. To a degree, his work inspired a host of later plagiarisms and copycats, yet the riddles themselves became more nuanced and acculturated over time.

The literary work of the Anglo-Saxons is highly treasured. One would expect to find obscure poetry and prose mixed in with the overwhelming amount of beatific work. And in fact, we do. Aldhelm was the first Anglo-Saxon to produce a book of riddles. Titled Aenigmata ex diversis Rerum Creaturis composita it closely follows Symposius' earlier work by being composed in Latin and numbering also 100.

Dudum compositis ego nomen gesto figuris :
Ut leo, sic formica vocor sermone Pelasgo
Tropica nominibus signans praesagia duplis,
Cum rostris avium nequeam resistere rostro.
Scrutetur sapiens, gemino cur nomine fingar!

I long have borne the name of hybrid form:
Both ant and lion I am called in Greek
A double metaphor, foreboding doom;
My beak cannot ward off the beaks of birds.
Let wise men search out why my names are twain.

(The Riddles of Aldhelm: Text and Translation by James Hall Pitman)

Unlike Symposius, Aldhelm's riddles varied in length, with the shortest line count at four, and the longest at around 80. Continuing the tradition after Aldhelm was Tatwine, who followed earlier patterns of composing in Latin. In the 8th century Eusebius, a monk at the Wearmouth-Jarrow complex in Northumbria, wrote a series of his own, albeit numbering less than his predecessors.

Within the largest single collection of surviving English poetry--The Exeter Book--is a collection of 10th century riddles composed in the Old-English vernacular (as opposed to Latin), which makes the tone of the verses somehow more real, and critical. For your amusement and frustration, I'll post a couple of examples here to challenge the extent of your patience.

1.
A lonely wanderer, wounded with iron, I am smitten with war-blades, sated with strife, Worn with the sword-edge; I have seen many battles, Much hazardous fighting, oft without hope of comforts or help in the carnage of war Ere I perish and fall in the fighting of men. The leavings of hammers, the handiwork of smiths, Batter and bite me, hard-edged and sharp; The brunt of the battle I am doomed to endure. In all the folk-stead no leech could I find with wort or simple to heal my wounds; But day and night with the deadly blows the marks of the war-blades double and deepen.

2.
Time was when I was weapon and warrior; Now the young hero hoods me with gold, and twisted silver. At times men kiss me. At times I speak and summon to battle Loyal companions. At times a courser, Bears me o'er marchland. At times a ship Bears me o'er the billows, brightly adorned. At times a fair maiden fills me with breath; At times hard and headless I lie on the board, Bereft of beauty. At times I hang Winsome on wall, richly embellished, Where revelers drink. At times a warrior Bears me on a horse, a battle adornment, And I swallow, bright-shining, the breath from his bosom. At times with my strains I summon the heroes, Proudly to wine. At times I win back spoil from the spoiler, with sounding voice, Put foemen to flight. Now ask what I'm called.

(Charles W. Kennedy, translator)

update:
Here's another riddle, if those above were too easy. This is from a translation by Kevin Crossley-Holland in The Exeter Book Riddles (London, 1979.)

Favoured by men, I am found far and wide,
taken from woods and the heights of the town,
from thee downs and thee dales. During each day
corbiculas carried me through the bright sky,
with care they brought me to a safe shelter.
Then men bathed me in a tub. Now I blind
and chasten them, at once throw a young man
to the ground, sometimes an old churl too.
He who struggles against my strength,
he who grapples with me, will find
he must hit the hard floor with his back
unless he forgoes such a foolish fight.
Robbed of his strength, but not of his tongue,
he has no say over his mind
or his hands or his hands or his feet. Who knocks
young men stupid, and as his slaves binds them
in broad, waking daylight? Yes, ask me my name.