I failed again at doing this on Monday last week - part of the point was to give me something to look forward to after work, but the last few weeks have been so full on that I've either worked late or just collapsed in front of the TV on an evening. So, I'm giving Sundays a go instead; rather than something to look forward to on a Monday, it can be something to think about and sustain me (and hopefully others) as we move into the week.

This week's poem is in Ahtna, one of the indigenous languages of Alaska, with an English translation by the poet. Smelcer, born in 1963, is Ahtna's youngest fluent speaker, and describes himself as 'a living repository of our language.' The poem is collected in Poems from the Edge of Extinction, an anthology of poetry in endangered languages, published by John Murray Press and edited by Chris McCabe.


C'etesen

Dahwdezeldiin' koht'aene kenaege'.
ukesdezt'aet.

Yaane' koht'aene yaen',
nekenaege' nadahdelna.

Koht'aene kenaege' k'os nadestaan,
lukae c'ena ti'taan, Tez'aedzi Na'.

Sii 'e koht'aene k'e kenaes,
Sii ndahwdel'en,

dandiil'en
s'dayn'tnel'en.


The Poet

I am beginning to write in our language,
but it is difficult.

Only the elders speak our words,
and they are forgetting.

There are not many words anyhow.
They are scattered like clouds,

like Salmon in Stepping Creek
at Tonsina River.

I do not speak like an Ahtna elder,
but I hear the voice of a spirit,

hear it at a distance,
speaking quietly to me.


According to the mythology of the Ahtna people, their language was given to them by a raven.

Not for that City

Not for that city of the level sun,
    Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze—
    The shadeless, sleepless city of white days,
White nights, or nights and days that are as one—
We weary, when all is said , all thought, all done.
    We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see
    What, from the threshold of eternity
We shall step into. No, I think we shun
The splendour of that everlasting glare,
    The clamour of that never-ending song.
    And if for anything we greatly long,
It is for some remote and quiet stair
    Which winds to silence and a space for sleep
    Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.

It's Burns Night, so my choice was only going to come from one author this week.  I should probably have made more effort to choose one of his poems in Scots, but this is a personal favourite - I used to recite it when I first moved to Lancashire, and was desperate to get back to Scotland.

My Heart's in the Highlands

Since Monday is my usual day for Poem of the Week, I'm combining that with today's challenge prompt; please enjoy these wonderful Tolkien-inspired poems by my fabulous fellow fans!

Mee and Shee, by Nienna. Mee and Shee dance, each watching the other.

Spring in Doriath, by Himring. Doriath welcomes the spring. Inspired by 'Spring' by William Blake.

Maglor's Lament for Ambarussa, by Bunn. A brief poem. Loosely inspired by Cynddylan's Hall, a lament for a seventh-century prince of Powys, from the fourteenth-century Red Book of Hergest.

Fast Fellows, by Elwinfortuna. Wulfmær wakes Aelfnoth on the morning of the Battle of Maldon.

Dwarven Funeral Rites, by Raiyana. A poem used in funeral rites in Khazad-dûm (and elsewhere, later). Khuzdul, with English translation.

Eight-Pointed Star, by Lferion. A travel-song sung by the Feanorian mounted forces, particularly Maglor's riders.

Teler, by Dawn Felagund. After the Darkening of Valinor, a Telerin Elf looks back at the days of light.

Very very late this week - what is time?  

I'm afraid I haven't been very imaginative in my selection today.  I chose this because it was one of the readings we always had at my school carol service.  My best friend read it the year we both left, so whenever I read it now, I hear it in her voice.

The Oxen

I have something slightly more festive in mind for next week, but for me, ghosts and reflection and remembrance are just as much a part of the season as sleigh rides and snow scenes and sugary treats.

(Also, go me, I managed to post this on an actual Monday for once!)

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone 
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone; 
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
   Which is not loneliness - for them
The spirits of the dead, who stood
   In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever 
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

Time for some Gaelic this week; this is long-ish, so both the original and the English translation are under cuts.

( Coin is Madaidhean-allaidh )

( Dogs and Wolves )

Taken from Hallaig and Other Poems, published by Polygon.  More about the author here.

i was born     at the rupture the root where     i split from my parallel self  i split from     the girl i also could have been     & her name / easy / i know the story     all her life / my mother wanted     a girl named for a flower     whose oil scents all     our mothers /     petals wrung     for their perfume

i was planted     land became ocean became land anew     its shape refusing root in my fallow mouth     cleaving my life neatly     & my name / taken from a dead woman     to remember / to fill an aperture with     cut jasmine in a bowl     our longing     our mothers’     wilting     garlands hanging from our necks

The formatting is far from perfect (it shouldn't really be in a table...) but this is the best I could do on DW.  Here is the poet performing the piece.

My Grandma used to sing this to get my siblings and I to go to sleep when we stayed at her house.  I don't know where she got the tune from; possibly she made it up?  Anyway her funeral was yesterday, which is why I'm a day late posting this, and it's very much an 'in memoriam' choice - please bear that in mind if you'd like to comment.


Vespers

A day late this week because of real life stuff, but I wanted to do it anyway.  Chat welcome in the comments.

The Way through the Woods

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods, 
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.


(I won't bother linking to an online bio of Rudyard Kipling; there are plenty out there.  I recently came across this poem collected here, but just the first stanza.  I remembered studying it at school; I hadn't thought about it for about fifteen years, but I immediately knew something was missing, and went looking for the poem in its entirety.)