  Stumbled across one of my most favourite poems today. It's by Denise Levertov and it's about the poet Caedmon. Basically Caedmon's story is told in Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum (find the original version urlLink here . ) So Caedmon lived as a labourer at the monastery of Whitby, founded in 657. Unfortunately, Caedmon was pretty much mute.
One night, the servants of the monastery were gathered about the table for good-fellowship and the harp was passed from hand to hand (as was often done. ) Caedmon, knowing nothing of poetry and unable to sing, left the company in shame. He went back to the stable with the cattle. As he slept, there stood by him in a vision a person who called him by name, and asked him to sing. "I cannot sing, and therefore I left the feast. " "Sing to me, however, sing of Creation. " So Caedmon began to sing in praise of God verses that he’d never heard before.
This is so significant because this is recognized as the beginning of English sacred poetry. He was the first English Christian Poet. This is his poem (in modern English): Now let me praise the keeper of Heaven's kingdom, the might of the Creator, and his thought, the work of the Father of glory, how each of wonders the Eternal Lord established in the beginning. He first created for the sons of men Heaven as a roof, the holy Creator, then Middle-earth the keeper of mankind, the Eternal Lord, afterwards made, the earth for men, the Almighty Lord. Now this is Denise Levertov's brilliant poem from Caedmon's perspective: 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. Isn't it awesome? Portions from urlLink Ian Lancashire a brilliant professor at urlLink U of T . 
