Eskimo Poem

I call to mind
And think of the early coming of spring
As I knew it
In my younger days.
Was I ever a hunter!
Was it myself indeed?
For I see
And recall in memory a man in a kayak;
Slowly he toils along in toward the shores of the lake,
With many spear-slain caribou in tow.
Happiest am I
In my memories of hunting in kayak.
On land, I was never of great renown
Among the herds of caribou.
And an old man, seeking strength in his youth
Loves most to think of the deeds
Whereby he gained renown.

Eskimo poems from Canada and Greenland. Translated by Tom Lowenstein, from material originally collected by Knud Rasmussen

~ ~ ~

Magic Words for Hunting Caribou

You, you caribou
yes you
     long legs
yes you
      long ears
you with the long neck hair –
From far off you’re little as a louse;
Be my great swan, fly to me,
big bull cari-bou-bou-bou

Put your footprints on this land-
this land I’m standing on
is rich with the plant food you love.
See, I’m holding in my hand
the reindeer moss you’re dreaming of –
so delicious, yum, yum, yum –
Come, caribou, come.

Come on, move them bones,
move your leg bones back and forth
and give yourself to me.
I’m here,
I’m waiting
    just
         for
         YOU
you, you, caribou
APPEAR!
COME HERE!

~ ~ ~

Song about the Reindeer, Musk Oxen, Women, and Men who want to Show Off

It’s wonderful to see
the reindeer come down
from the forest,
and start pouring north
over the white tundra,
anxiously avoiding pit-falls in the snow.
     Jai-ja-jija.

And it’s wonderful to see
the short-haired reindeer
in the early summer
start wandering.
      Jajai-ja-jija.

It’s wonderful to see them
trotting back and forth
over the headlands,
searching for a crossing-place.
     Ja-ja-jija.

It’s wonderful to see
the great musk-oxen
bunching up in herds
to guard themselves
against the dogs.
      Jajai-ja-jija.

It’s wonderful to see
girls coming out
and visiting,
the men showing off,
the girls all telling little lies.
      Jai-ja-jija.

It’s wonderful to see
the reindeer with their winter fur
returning to the woods,
anxiously avoiding us, the little men,
and following the ebb-mark of the sea,
with a rustle
and a creak of hoofs.
Oh, it’s wonderful!
      Jajai-ja-jija.

Shaking the pumpkin; traditional poetry of the Indian North America, Jerome Rothenberg

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