Lewis Carroll: A Song of Love / Canción de Amor

Un Mundo Mejor_derechos de autor Marie Sabal- Lecco, artista de Camerún_Un Monde Meilleur_droit dauteur Marie Sabal- Lecco, artiste camerounais_A Better World_ copyright Cameroonian artist Marie Sabal-Lecco

Un Mundo Mejor_derechos de autor Marie Sabal- Lecco, artista de Camerún_Un Monde Meilleur_droit dauteur Marie Sabal- Lecco, artiste camerounais_A Better World_ copyright Cameroonian artist Marie Sabal-Lecco

John 13: 34
A new commandment I give unto you:  That ye love one another.  As I have loved you, so ye also are to love one another.

Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
A Song of Love
.
Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it coos with the voice of a dove?
‘Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low
– And the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.
.
Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching – a yearning
For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?
Whence the music that fills all our being – that thrills
Around us, beneath, and above?
‘Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes
– But the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.
.
Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?
‘Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though ’tis sung by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear
– And the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.

.     .     .

Juan 13: 34
Un mandamiento nuevo os doy:  Que os améis unos a otros;  como yo os he amado, que también os améis unos a otros.

Canción de Amor
.
Dîgame, ¿qué es la magia que atrae a su nido
el pájaro cuando están piando sus polluelos?
¿O lo que puede despertar a la madre soñolienta
para canturrear y acurrucarse a su bebé que llora?
¿Cuál es el encanto que fascina el niño contento en sus brazos
hasta que arrulla con la voz de una paloma?
Es un secreto, pues cuchicheémoslo en voz baja
– Y el nombre del secreto es Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.
.
Dígame, ¿de dónde llega esa voz cuando quema el enojo,
ella que ordena cesar el tumulto del torbellino?
¿O qué conmueve el alma exaltada con un anhelo
por la mano fraternal de la Paz?
¿De dónde llega la música que llena todo nuestro ser –
que nos anima, alrededor, abajo y arriba?
Es un secreto, y nadie no entiende como llega o va
– Pero su nombre-secreto: Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.
.

Dígame, ¿de quién viene esa habilidad que pinta valle y colina,
como un dibujo tan hermoso mirar?
¿Qué motea el campo con sol y con sombra,
hasta que los corderos saltan con deleite?
Es un secreto no dicho a los corazones fríos,
aunque está cantado por los angeles arriba,
con notas cristalinos para los oídos que pueden oírlas
– Y el nombre del secreto es Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.

.     .     .
Marie Sabal-Lecco, the Paris-based Cameroonian artist whose work is featured above, tells us:  “Je représente sur mes toiles un éternel message de paix, de tolérance, du vivre ensemble, du respect de l’autre, de l’amour.  Bonnes fêtes de Pâques!” (I represent in my canvasses an eternal message of peace, tolerance, of living together, of respect for one another, of love.  A Happy Easter to you!)

Marie Sabal-Lecco, un artista de Camerún que vive en París – (su pintura está arriba) – nos dice: “Quiero mostrar en mis lienzos el mensaje eternal de la Paz, de la tolerancia, de vivir juntos, del respeto del uno al otro, y del Amor. ¡Feliz Pascua!”

.     .     .     .     .


Poemas para Domingo de Pascua: Emily Dickinson: No es La Conclusión este Mundo / This World is not Conclusion + Octavio Paz: Hermandad / Brotherhood

God Love

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
This World is not Conclusion
.
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don’t know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—
.     .     .

No es La Conclusión este Mundo (Traducción del inglés: Alexander Best)

.
No es La Conclusión este Mundo;
Un Especie se ubica más allá de aquí;
Como la Música, invisible,
Pero positivo como Sonido.
Atrae y confunde,
La Ética no lo entiende;
Y por Enigma, y al fin,
Debe cruzar la Sagacidad.
.
Advinarlo deja perplejo los sabios,
Ganarlo hay Hombres que han soportado
El Desprecio de Generaciones
– Y Crucifixión.
Fe resbala – y ríe y se reanima –
Y se sonroja (si alguien le mire);
Arranca una ramita de Inicio,
Y pregunta de una Veleta el camino.
Mucho Gesto del Púlpito,
Surgen Aleluyas fuertes;
Narcóticos no pueden calmar el Diente
Que mordisquea el Alma.

Dios Amor

Octavio Paz (1914-1998)
Hermandad: Homenaje a Claudio Ptolomeo
.
Soy hombre: duro poco
y es enorme la noche.
Pero miro hacia arriba:
las estrellas escriben.
Sin entender comprendo:
también soy escritura
y en este mismo instante
alguien me deletrea.

.     .     .
Brotherhood: an homage to Claudius Ptolemy
(translated from Spanish by Eliot Weinberger)
.
I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out.

.     .     .     .     .


Poemas para Domingo de Pascua: E.E. Cummings, Arthur Stringer / Poems for Easter Sunday

He Qi_Easter Morning_An angel announces that Christ Has Risen...but everyone is either groggy...or still lost in mourning.

E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)
i thank you God for most this amazing
.
i thank you God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
.
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
.
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any – lifted from the no
of all nothing – human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
.
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
.     .     .

te agradezco Dios por el más esta asombrosa

.

te agradezco Dios por el más esta asombrosa
mañana: por los brincandos verde-deramente espíritus de árboles
y un azul auténtico sueño de cielo; y por todo
lo que es natural que es infinito que es
.
(yo que he muerto estoy viviendo de nuevo hoy,
y ésto es el aniversario del sol; ésto es el nacimiento
día de la vida y del amor y de alas: y de la tierra
alegre-grande-ocurriendo-sin límites)
.
¿cómo es posible que tocando-oyendo-viendo
respirando alguien – elevado del no
del todo-nada – simplemente ser humano
dude Tú el inimaginable?
.
(ahora los oídos de mis oídos se despiertan y
ahora los ojos de mis ojos están abiertos)

.     .     .

Arthur Stringer (1874-1950)
The Final Lesson
.
I have sought Beauty through the dust of strife,
I have sought Meaning for the ancient ache,
And Music in the grinding wheels of Life;
Long have I sought, and little found as yet
Beyond this truth: that Love alone can make
Earth beautiful, and Life without regret.
.     .     .
La lección final
.
He buscado la Belleza por el polvo de lucha,
He buscado Significado por el anhelo antiguo,
Y Música en las ruedas que giran de la Vida;
Largo tiempo he estado buscando – y poco he descubierto hasta ahora
Excepto esta verdad: que sólo el Amor puede hacer bella
La Tierra – y una Vida sin arrepentimiento.

.

 

Image:  He Qi is a contemporary painter of religious themes. Here a triumphant angel announces that Our Redeemer Liveth. The women are not especially awake yet, and seem unaware of what has happened. They still mourn, but the angel tells them that the time of grief is over. Instead of a military-style banner often held by Christ in such triumphal depictions, He Qi has his angel bearing a luminous lily – symbol of purity and peace.

 

.     .     .     .     .


Badr Shakir al-Sayyab: The Messiah after The Crucifixion

A painting by Guity Novin_artist poet and translator_visit her site at Artreact. blogspot

Badr Shakir al-Sayyab (Iraqi “modernist” poet, 1926-1964)
The Messiah after The Crucifixion
(translated from Arabic by B.M. Bennani)
.
After I was brought down, I heard the winds
Whip the palm trees with wild laments;
Footsteps receded into infinity. Wounds
And the cross I was nailed to all afternoon
Didn’t kill me. I listened. A cry of grief
Crossed the plain between me and the city
Like a hawser pulling a ship
Destined to sink. The cry
Was a thread of light between morning
And night in a sad winter sky.
Despite all this, the city fell asleep.
.
When the orange and mulberry trees bloom,
When my village Jaykour reaches the limits of fantasy,
When grass grows green and sings with fragrance
And the sun suckles it with brilliance,
When even darkness grows green,
Warmth touches my heart and my blood flows into earth.
My heart becomes sun, when sun throbs with light,
My heart becomes earth, throbbing with wheat, blossom
and sweet water.
My heart is water, an ear of corn,
Its death is resurrection. It lives in him who eats
The dough, round as a little breast, life’s breast.
I died by fire. When I burned, the darkness of my clay
disappeared. Only God remained.
I was the beginning, and in the beginning was poverty.
I died so bread would be eaten in my name
So I would be sown in season.
.
Many are the lives I’ll live. In every soil
I’ll become a future, a seed, a generation of men
A drop of blood, or more, in every man’s heart.
Then I returned. When Judas saw me he turned pale:
I was his secret!
He was a shadow of mine, grown dark,
The frozen image of an idea
From which life was plucked.
He feared I might reveal death in his eyes
(his eyes were a rock
behind which he hid his death).
He feared my warmth. It was a threat to him
so he betrayed it.
“Is this you? Or is it my shadow grown white,
emitting light?
Men die only once! That’s what our fathers said.
That’s what they taught us. Or was it a lie?!”
That’s what he said when he saw me. His whole face spoke.
I hear footsteps, approaching and falling.
The tomb rumbles with their fall
Have they come again? Who else could it be?
Their falling footsteps follow me.
They lay rocks on my chest.
Didn’t they crucify me yesterday? Yet here I am!
Who could know that I . . . ? Who?
And as for Judas and his friends, no one will believe them.
Their footsteps follow me and fall.
Here I am now, naked in my dank tomb
Yesterday I curled up like a thought, a bud,
Beneath my shroud of snow. My blood bloomed from moisture.
I was then a thin shadow between night and day.
When I burst my soul into treasures and peeled it like fruit.
When I turned my pockets into swaddling clothes
and my sleeves into a cover,
When I kept the bones of little children
warm within my flesh
And stripped my wounds to dress the wound of another,
The wall between me and God disappeared.
.
The soldiers surprised even my wounds and my heartbeats.
They surprised all that wasn’t dead,
even if it was a tomb.
They took me by surprise the way a flock of starving birds
pluck the fruit of a palm tree in a deserted village.
The rifles are pointed and have eyes
with which they devour my road.
Their fire dreams of my crucifixion.
Their eyes are made of fire and iron.
The eyes of my people are a light in the skies;
they shine with memory and love.
The rifles relieve me of my burden;
my cross grows moist.
How small such death is! My death. And yet how great!
.
After I was nailed to the cross, I cast my eyes
toward the city; I could hardly recognize the plain, the wall, the cemetery.
Something, as far as my eyes could see, sprung forth
Like a forest in bloom.
Everywhere there was a cross and a mourning mother.
Blessed be the Lord!
Such are the pains of a city in labour, about to give birth.

.

Image:  a painting by Guity Novin:  artist, poet and translator.  Visit her site:  artreact.blogspot

.     .     .     .     .


John Updike: Seven Stanzas at Easter

 

Andrea Mantegna_Ecce Homo, painted around 1500_Ecce Homo are the Latin words "Behold this man" spoken by Pontius Pilate in John chapter 19, verse 5, when he presents a scourged Jesus to the hostile crowd just before His Crucifixion.

Andrea Mantegna_Ecce Homo, painted around 1500_Ecce Homo are the Latin words “Behold this man” spoken by Pontius Pilate in John chapter 19, verse 5, when he presents a scourged Jesus to the hostile crowd just before His Crucifixion.

John Updike (1926-2009)
Seven Stanzas at Easter (1960)
.
Make no mistake: if He rose at all
it was as His body;
if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules
reknit, the amino acids rekindle,
the Church will fall.
.
It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.
.
The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart
that – pierced – died, withered, paused, and then
regathered out of enduring Might
new strength to enclose.
.
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
analogy, sidestepping, transcendence:
making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the
faded credulity of earlier ages:
let us walk through the door.
.
The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,
not a stone in a story,
but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow,
grinding of time will eclipse for each of us
the wide light of day.
.
And if we will have an angel at the tomb,
make it a real angel,
weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,
opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen
spun on a definite loom.
.
Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are
embarrassed by the miracle,
and crushed by remonstrance.

Andrea Mantegna_Study for a Christ_1480s_Tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Patris omnipotentis. Inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos._On the third day He rose again from the dead, He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

Andrea Mantegna_Study for a Christ_1480s_Tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Patris omnipotentis. Inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos._On the third day He rose again from the dead, He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.


Gwendolyn Brooks: La Verdad / Truth

Rembrandt van Rijn_Jesús sepultado_Jesus Entombed_etching_1654

Rembrandt van Rijn_Jesús sepultado_Jesus Entombed_etching_1654

 

Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
Truth
.
And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?
Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?
Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?
Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.
The dark hangs heavily
Over the eyes.

.     .     .

La Verdad
.
Y si el sol viene,
¿cómo debemos saludarle?
Deberíamos temer a él,
Deberíamos amilanarse por él,
después de una sesión larga con la sombra?
.
Aunque hemos llorado por él,
Aunque hemos rezar
Durante los años de noche
– ¿Qué pasará si nos despertamos en una mañana reluciente para
Oír el martilleo feroz
De sus nudillos firmes,
Fuerte en la puerta?
.
¿Deberíamos temblar,
Deberíamos huir
Hacia el querido albergue grueso
Que es la niebla conocida y propicia?

.
Qué dulzura – cómo es dulce –
Dormir en el fresco
De un desconocimiento cómodo.

.

La oscuridad cuelga pesadamente
Sobre los ojos.

.     .     .     .     .


Poemas para Viernes Santo: Stevenson, Browning, Levertov / Poems for Good Friday

 

Paul Gauguin_Christ on The Mount of Olives (Gethsamane)_oil on canvas, 1889

Paul Gauguin_Christ on The Mount of Olives (Gethsamane)_oil on canvas, 1889

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
Evensong
.
The embers of the day are red
Beyond the murky hill.
The kitchen smokes; the bed
In the darkling house is spread:
The great sky darkens overhead,
And the great woods are shrill.
.
So far I have been led,
Lord, by Thy will:
So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still.
The breeze from the embalmed land
Blows sudden towards the shore,
And claps my cottage door.
I hear the signal, Lord – I understand.
The night at Thy command
Comes. I will eat and sleep and will not question more.

.     .     .

Vísperas
.
Las brasas del día son rojas,
Más allá de la colina turbia.
La cocina humea; el lecho de la casa oscura está hecho:
El cielo inmenso se oscurece por encima,
Y viene del gran bosque un chirrido chillón.
.
Hasta ahora, Señor, he sido guiado por Tu voluntad:

Tan larga la distancia, Señor, he seguido a Tí,
Y aún me pregunté.
La brisa del terreno embalsamado
Sopla hacia la orilla, de repente,
Y abofetea la puerta de mi casita.
Oigo la señal, Mi Señor – y la entiendo.
La Noche llega – de Tu dominio.
Comeré y dormiré y no preguntaré más.

 

.     .     .

 

Denise Levertov (1923-1997)
Suspended
.
I had grasped God’s garment in the void
but my hand slipped
on the rich silk of it.
The “everlasting arms” my sister loved to remember
must have upheld my leaden weight
from falling, even so;
for though I claw at empty air and feel
nothing – no embrace –
I have not plummeted.
.     .     .
Colgado
.
Yo había agarrado en el vacío el traje de Dios
pero mi mano resbaló en la seda exquisita.
“Los brazos eternos” que mi hermana amaba recordar
debieron haber soportado la carga pesada de mí
para que no me cayera;
porque aunque araño el aire vacío y me siento
nada – ningún abrazo –
no me he desplomado.

 

.     .     .
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Faith
.
O never star
Was lost; here
We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven
Above us.
If I stoop
Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud,
It is but for a time; I press God’s lamp
Close to my breast; its splendour soon or late
Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.
.     .     .
Fe
.
Ah, nunca fue perdido una estrella; aquí
Aspiramos a llegar al Cielo y existe allá
Por encima de nosotros.
Si me encorvo en un mar de nubes,
Negro y tremendo,
Sólo es por un breve tiempo; estrecho la linterna de Dios
Contra mi pecho; y el esplendor de su luz
Perforará el tiempo plomizo – tarde o temprano.
Algún día me apareceré.

.     .     .     .     .

 


Indigenous Modern: the art of Doug Cranmer (Kesu’) / Truths of The Kwakʼwala-Speaking Peoples

 

ZP_Doug Cranmer_Ravens or Ravens in Nest_2005

ZP_Doug Cranmer_Ravens or Ravens in Nest_2005

Northwest-Coast Kwakwaka’wakw art is identifiable by its flamboyant and colourful carving and painting. Among the leading artists was Doug Cranmer (1927-2006), whose style was understated and elegant, and whose work found an international following from the 1960s onward. Kesu’ / Doug Cranmer was one of the very first Native artists in British Columbia to own his own gallery. A patient and dedicated teacher, he inspired a generation of younger Native artists in Alert Bay, B.C., and throughout the province.
.     .     .

Some Truths of The Kwakʼwala (Kwakiutl)-Speaking Peoples:

.

When the Transformer (Creator), Ḵaniḵiʼlakw, travelled around the world, he eventually returned to the place where Gwaʼnalalis lived. In an earlier encounter, the Transformer had beaten Gwaʼnalalis, who was ready for his return. Ḵaniḵiʼlakw asked, “Would you like to become a cedar tree?” Gwaʼnalalis replied, “No, cedar trees, when struck by lightning, split and fall. Then they rot away for as long as the days dawn in the world.” Ḵaniḵiʼlakw asked again, “Would you like to become a mountain?” “No,” Gwaʼnalalis answered, “For mountains have slides and crumble away for as long as the days dawn in the world.” The Transformer asked a third question: “Would you like to become a large boulder?” Again Gwaʼnalalis answered, “No. Do not let me become a boulder, for I may crack in half and crumble away as long as the days dawn in the world.”
Finally, Ḵaniḵiʼlakw asked, “Would you like to become a river?” “Yes, let me become a river, that I may flow for as long as the days shall dawn in the world,” Gwaʼnalalis replied. Putting his hand on Gwaʼnalalis’ forehead and pushing him down prone, Ḵaniḵiʼlakw said, “There, friend, you will be a river and many kinds of salmon will come to you to provide food for your decendants for as long as the days shall dawn in the world. And so the man Gwaʼnalalis became the river Gwaʼni.
.
As told by: Pa̱lʼnakwa̱laga̱lis Waʼkas (Dan Cranmer), 1930
.     .     .

ZP_Doug Cranmer_Canoe_1996_photo by Vickie Jensen

ZP_Doug Cranmer_Canoe_1996_photo by Vickie Jensen

Before the time of the great flood, the Da̱ʼnaxdaʼx̱w of Dzawadi knew that it would happen and began to prepare for it. Some of the people tied four canoes together and put their provisions in these. Dzawadalalis built a home of small poles, which he covered with clay. The others laughed at him, but he knew that he and his four children would survive the flood. When the rains came, the others tied their canoes to an elderberry tree, while Dzawadalalis began moving his belongings into his clay-covered house. One of the men who had ridiculed him said, “Please let me come with you,” but Dzawadalalis refused, saying, “Go to the mountain, for that is what you said you would do. My children and I will be locked inside this house, for we are going underwater.” Shutting the door, he began to sing, “Take care of us. I am going where you told me to go.”
Those people who had made fun of him floated around in the flood, which had reached the tops of the highest mountains in Dzawadi. For some time, Dzawadalalis and his children lived in the underwater house. Then he sent a small bird out. It retured to their house with a small root in his mouth, and so Dzawadalalis knew that the waters were beginning to subside. He waited for some time, then sent another small bird out. Again, it returned with evidence that the waters were still going down. The third time he sent a bird out, it brought leaves back from a tree. Finally, the fourth small bird was sent out and it brought back blades of grass in its mouth. Dzawadalalis knew then that it was safe to leave his underwater house. He instructed his children to open the door and he thanked the Creator for saving them. They survived because they believed they would be saved.

.
As told by: Watlaxaʼas (Jack Peters), 1980
.     .     .

The G̱usgimukw first lived at a placed called Guseʼ. The Transformer, Hiłatusa̱la, visited there during his travels around the world. There were only two people in the village, an old woman and a child. When asked why they were alone, the old woman replied, “All of our people have been eaten up by a monster in the river. Whenever someone has gone to get water, the monster has eaten them.” Hiłatusa̱la then asked the child to get him some water, for he was thirsty. The child was afraid to go but Hiłatusa̱la told her she had nothing to fear. As he put his Sisiyutł belt around her, the child, still afraid, took a water bucket and began walking towards the river.
Buried in the sand was the huge tongue of the monster. Without knowing it, the child walked right onto the monster’s tongue and was swallowed. Hiłatusa̱la began to sing, which made the monster appear and vomit an immense pile of bones – as well as the child it had just swallowed. “Now we will get to work, so that your tribe will increase in size again,” Hiłatusa̱la said to the child. They began putting the bones together in the right way to form bodies. When they were finished, Hiłatusa̱la sprinkled his life-giving water on the assembled bones and the people whose bones had been lain upon the beach came to life and stood up. They said to each other, “I must have been sleeping a long time.” Hiłatusa̱la told them, “You weren’t sleeping! You were dead and I brought you back to life. Now I will rid the river of the monster.” He shouted at the monster to show himself again. It did so, and, taking hold of it, he flung it away, saying, “You will not come again; you will be gone!”
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As told by: Chief ʼWalas (James Wallas), 1980
.     .     .

ZP_Doug Cranmer at work on a carving, 1961

ZP_Doug Cranmer at work on a carving, 1961

Doug Cranmer_Mask_Chief of the Undersea Kingdom_1974_photo by Ken Mayer

Doug Cranmer_Mask_Chief of the Undersea Kingdom_1974_photo by Ken Mayer

The first man came down at T̕a̱ka, Topaz Harbour on the mainland. His name was Weḵa’yi. Lakata̱sa̱n is the name of the mountain there. After some time, a long time, the great flood was to come. So the people made cedar rope from the top of the mountain down to the salt water at the ocean. With this long rope they made an anchor and tied it to the mountain to secure their canoes during the flood. They fastened two canoes together and lots of people came. The flood lasted for a very long time, and it is said the tides were really strong and the weather was very bad. Because of the rough weather the canoes started to bang together and he feared the canoes would split and they would drown. Therefore Weḵa’yi cut off the people in the other canoe and they drifted away – and now they are the Kitimaat people. Then the great flood went down and he looked around and realized that he was in a different place. He had drifted up into Knight Inlet.
There was a woman named T̕łisda’ḵ and she had wings on her back. Weḵa’yi began to put stakes in the river to build a salmon trap and the woman asked him what he was doing. She told him that this was her river. Weḵa’yi argued and said it was his river and he had been there first. To test Weḵa’yi, the woman asked him, “If it is truly your river, then what type of fish return here?” Weḵa’yi replied and said, “Sockeye salmon, Coho salmon, Pink salmon, Spring salmon, Chum salmon and Steelhead salmon”. The woman told Weḵa’yi that if he really owned the river, then he would have known about the valuable eulachon that comes to this river. The woman and Weḵa’yi continued to argue over the ownership of the river and only in this version does Weḵa’yi win against her. She called them dzaxwa̱n or “candle fish”. She eventually allowed him to build a house there and make t̕łi’na or “eulachon grease” every spring.
After a while, people began to increase in numbers everywhere. Weḵa’yi called the people from all over. He put the grease into kelp bottles. He sold grease for slaves and became a great Chief. He also lived at Xwa̱lkw at Gwa’ni or Nimpkish River where there are logs piled up for the foundation of dwellings there. Weḵa’yi’s wife was a woman from Gilford Island named K̕ix̱waḵ̕a̱’nakw. He married her and got a copper named T̕łaḵwola.
There are many tribes and clans amongst the Ligwiłda’x̱w. But there are mainly two tribes today sharing common ancestry, beginning with Weḵa’yi and his family and their survival of the great Flood.
.
From the Ligwiłda’x̱w, as told by: Chief Billy Assu

.     .     .
Kwakwaka’wakw Truths:  from U’mista Cultural Society, Alert Bay, British Columbia, Canada
.     .     .     .     .


Jacob Nibenegenesabe: “Shaking the Pumpkin”: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree ᓀᐦᐃᓇᐍᐏᐣ

 

Jackson Beardy, Oji-Cree painter (1944 -1984): "Bird Calls", 1977

Jackson Beardy, Oji-Cree painter (1944 -1984): “Bird Calls”, 1977

Jacob Nibenegenesabe_a poem from The Wishing Bone Cycle: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians_Translated by Howard A. Norman, 1976

Jacob Nibenegenesabe_a poem from The Wishing Bone Cycle: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians_Translated by Howard A. Norman, 1976

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Swampy Cree /ᓀᐦᐃᓇᐍᐏᐣ (which has sometimes been known as Maskekon, Omaškêkowak, or anglicized as Omushkego) is a variety of the more widespread Algonquian language – Cree.  Swampy Cree has been spoken in Northern Manitoba, central to northeast Saskatchewan, and along the coast of Hudson Bay and James Bay in Northern Ontario. Approximately thirty years ago Swampy Cree had about 4500 native speakers; that number may be as low as 100 today (2014).

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Jacob Nibenegenesabe
“Shaking the Pumpkin”
Translation from Swampy Cree:  Howard Norman

.
One time I wanted two moons
in the sky.
But I needed someone to look up and see
those two moons
because I wanted to hear him
try and convince the others in the village
of what he saw.
I knew it would be funny.
So, I did it.
I wished another moon up!
There it was, across the sky from the old moon.
Along came a man.
Of course I wished him down that open path.
He looked up in the sky.
He had to see that other moon!
One moon for each of his eyes!
He stood looking
up in the sky
a long time.
Then he suspected me, I think.
He looked into the trees
where he thought I might be.
But he could not see me
since I was disguised as the whole night itself!
Sometimes
I wished myself into looking like the whole day,
but this time
I was dressed like the whole night.
Then he said,
“There is something strange
in the sky tonight.”
He said it out loud.
I heard it clearly.
Then he hurried home
and I followed him.
He told the others, “You will not believe this,
but there are ONLY two moons
in the sky tonight.”
He had a funny look on his face.
Then all the others began looking into the woods.
Looking for me, no doubt!
“Only two moons, ha! Who will believe you?
We won’t fall for that!” they all said to him.
They were trying to send the trick back at me!
That was clear to me!
So, I quickly wished a third moon up there
in the sky.
They looked up and saw three moons.
They had to see them!
Then one man
said out loud, “Ah, there, look up!
up there!
There is only one moon!
Well, let’s go sleep on this
and in the morning
we will try and figure it out.”
They all agreed, and went in their houses
to sleep.
I was left standing there
with three moons shining on me.
There were three . . . I was sure of it.

.
One time
all the noises met.
All the noises in the world
met in one place
and I was there
because they met in my house.
My wife said, “Who sent them?”
I said, “Fox or Rabbit,
yes one of those two.
They’re both out for tricking me back today.
Both of them
are mad at me.
Rabbit is mad because I pulled
his brother’s ear
and held him up that way.
Then I ate him.
And Fox is mad because he wanted
to do those things first.”

“Yes, it had to be one of them,”
my wife said.

So, all the noises
were there.
These things happen.
Falling-tree noise was there.
Falling-rock noise was there.
Otter-mud-sliding noise was there.
All those noises, and more,
in my house.

“How long do you expect to stay?”
my wife asked them. “We need some sleep!”

They all answered at once!

That’s how my wife and I
sometimes can’t hear well!
I should have wished them all away
first thing.

.     .     .

Commentary:

Trickster stories go far back in Cree culture (as elsewhere), but the figure here has been specifically invented by storyteller Jacob Nibenegenesabe, “who lived for some ninety-four years northeast of Lake Winnipeg, Canada.” Nibenegenesabe was also a teller (achimoo) of older trickster narratives, the continuity between old & new never being in question. But the move in the Wishing Bone series is toward a rapidity of plot development & changes, plus a switch into first-person narration as a form of enactment. In the frame for these stories, the trickster figure “has found a wishbone of a snow goose who has wandered into the Swampy Cree region and been killed by a lynx. This person now has a wand of metamorphosis allowing him to wish anything into existence, himself into any situation.” Howard Norman’s method of translation, in turn, involves “first listening to the narratives over & over in the source language, then re-creating them in the same context, story, etc., if notable, ultimately to get a translation word for word.”

[Originally printed in Shaking the Pumpkin: Traditional Poetry of the Indian North Americas. The book, first published by Doubleday in 1972 & later by University of New Mexico Press in 1986 & 1992, has now been out of print for several years. The full gathering of Howard Norman’s Swampy Cree translations, The Wishing Bone Cycle: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians, was published by Ross-Erikson Publishing, Santa Barbara, & went out of print with the demise of that press.]

.     .     .

Three 21st-century Swampy Cree artists:

Phyllis Sinclair, folksinger

Phyllis Sinclair, folksinger

Kevin Lee Burton, filmmaker

Kevin Lee Burton, filmmaker

David Alexander Robertson, author of the graphic novel series Tales from Big Spirit

David Alexander Robertson, author of the graphic novel series Tales from Big Spirit


Itee Pootoogook (1951-2014): A Tribute in Poems

Itee Pootoogook_After Midnight_coloured pencil_2007

Itee Pootoogook_After Midnight_coloured pencil_2007

Itee Pootoogook, an Inuk and artist from Kimmirut, Baffin Island, was born in 1951 to Ishuhungitok and Paulassie Pootoogook. His drawings are characterized by an uncluttered gaze that sees what is directly before it, and an ability to find the profound in the simple. He died earlier this month of cancer; he was 63 years old.
Some artists are rooted in a place;  this was Itee Pootoogook, very much so, and his drawings depict life in Nunavut. But great art travels, becomes universal. And so we have gathered poems from Germany, Russia, India and the USA, to accompany a selection of Itee’s drawings…

.     .     .

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962)
On a Journey
.
Don’t be downcast, soon the night will come,
When we can see the cool moon laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.
.
Don’t be downcast, the time will soon come
When we can have rest. Our small crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road together,
And rain falls, and snow falls,
And the winds come and go.

.     .     .
Hermann Hesse
How Heavy the Days
.
How heavy the days are,
There’s not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down
– Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.

.
Translations from the German: James Wright
.     .     .

Itee Pootoogook_Floe Edge, Winter

Itee Pootoogook_Floe Edge, Winter

Mohan Rana (born 1964, Delhi, India)
After Midnight
.
I saw the stars far off,
as far as I was from them,
in this moment I saw them,
in a moment of the twinkling past.
In the boundless depths of darkness,
these hours hunt the morning through the night.
.
And I can’t make up my mind:
am I living this life for the first time?
Or repeating it, forgetting as I live,
that first breath – every time?
.
Does the fish too drink water?
Does the sun feel the heat?
Does light see the dark?
Does the rain also get wet?
Do dreams ask questions about sleep – as I do?
.
I walked a long, long way…
and when I saw, I saw the stars – close by.
Today it rained all day long
and words washed away from your face.
.
Translation from Hindi: Lucy Rosenstein and Bernard O’Donoghue

.     .     .

Itee Pootoogook_The ground is wet for it's been raining during the night...It is early fall and it's early morning_pencil crayon on paper_2010

Itee Pootoogook_The ground is wet for it’s been raining during the night…It is early fall and it’s early morning_pencil crayon on paper_2010

Itee Pootoogook_Water and Ice_coloured pencil on paper_2012

Itee Pootoogook_Water and Ice_coloured pencil on paper_2012

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (1892-1941)
from: Poems for Blok (1916)
.
Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips’ quick opening.
Your name—four letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.

A stone thrown into a silent lake
is—the sound of your name.
The light click of hooves at night
—your name.
Your name at my temple
—sharp click of a cocked gun.

Your name—impossible—
kiss on my eyes,
the chill of closed eyelids.
Your name—a kiss of snow.
Blue gulp of icy spring water.
With your name—sleep deepens.

.
Translation from the Russian original: Ilya Kaminsky and Jean Valentine

.     .     .
Angelyn Hays (Texas/Florida, USA)
One of the Cardinal Seasons

After the hardest snow of the year
the birches huddle in rows.
Ice breaks their wooden bones,
and hangs them by the thumbs
in a March sun too weak to heal them.
Birds call to each other
from the tangle of bare arms.
A red-dark Cardinal feasts in my backyard,
singing to warm his lungs. He enters
just as I am ready to leave.
I had stopped the clock,
put away my mother’s china,
and wanted to sink to timeless black.
But the bird came for me,
signaling me to rise, recall his password.
The window is framed by trees, no longer trees,
sky, no longer sky, but now a watch
by which I measure my days.
Shouting the weight of his pleasure
from fevered beak, he rolls a black eye
and we click off the minute.
Then he swoops over my white garden,
drunk as Li Po, his floating path
a dance on an empty swingset of wind.

Itee Pootoogook_Electric fan in an abandoned shack_2012

Itee Pootoogook_Electric fan in an abandoned shack_2012

Itee Pootoogook_Frozen Tarp_coloured pencil_2013

Itee Pootoogook_Frozen Tarp_coloured pencil_2013

Michael Valentine (Maryland, USA)
A Meadow in March
.
Early Spring snowfall
dusts late Winter bloom
crystalline fractals piling gently
all around
to rest upon vibrant petal
leaf
stem
and ground.
The field now
a riot of pixelated colour
struggling to be seen under
blank canvas tarp of
Winter’s last throes.
Portrait of Nature’s perfect balance
Yin meeting Yang
flowing together
each becoming the other
flower melts snow into water flowing into flower.
Demonstration of Tao
in this limbo-time between the seasons
that is no longer Winter
and not yet Spring,
when the Universe gives lessons
to remind us that
there is no such thing as
“impossible”.

.     .     .
Mitchell Walters (Temecula, California, USA)
The Shack
.
I walked to the river and back.
Something told me I should.
I saw things I hadn’t seen before:
A dog.  A deer.  A stream.
.
I saw an old abandoned shack.
It was made entirely of wood.
I walked to the shack and opened the door.
And that was the start of my dream.

.     .     .     .     .