A Leopard Lives in a Muu Tree

2014-10-13T23:01:18+02:00

A leopard lives in a Muu tree
Watching my home
My lambs are born speckled
My wives tie their skirts tight
And turn away -
Fearing the mottled offspring.
They bathe when the moon is high
Soft and fecund
Splash cold mountain stream water on their nipples
Drop their skin skirts and call obscenities.
I'm besieged
I shall have to cut down the Muu tree
I'm besieged
I walk about stiff
Stroking my loins.
A leopard lives outside my homestead
Watching my women
I have called him elder, the one-from-the-same-womb
He peers at me with slit eyes
His head held high
My sword has rusted in the scabbard.
My wives purse their lips
When owls call for mating
I'm besieged
They fetch cold mountain water
They crush the sugar cane
But refuse to touch my beer horn.
My fences are broken
My medicine bags torn
The hair on my loins is singed
The upright post at the gate has fallen
My women are frisky
The leopard arches over my homestead
Eats my lambs
Resuscitating himself.

Angola: How to Test a Friend

2019-08-09T22:03:26+02:00

To make sure your friend is a true friend,
you have to go with him,
to travel with him night and day,
travel with him near and far.

Or you have to part with him,
to leave and leave him in your house.
If then he shows himself worthy of trust
then you can really trust
his friendship.

Apache: Poems of Masked Indians

2019-08-10T11:57:47+02:00

When the earth came into being
when the sky arose
when my songs first sounded
the holy mountain stood before me revived.
In the center of the sky, a revived boy
goes down four roads at once.
My mountain became a part of me: revived in front of me.
Players emerged: revived in front of me.

When the sun goes down into the plain of the earth
where the Meskal Mountains lay their heads out
into the rays of the rising sun
A spruce appeared: here it is next to me.

At the very center of the sky, a holy boy revives his steps
in all four directions.
The four-colored light goes down revived four times
This place is called the Black Point of Life
This place is called the Blue Point of Life
This place is called the Yellow Point of Life
This place is called the White Point of Life
all these places have heard of me
black dancers dance in all four points
The sun is moving down towards the earth.

The living sky is smeared with black
The living sky is smeared with blue
The living sky is smeared with yellow
The living sky is smeared with white
Young spruces stand like girls waiting for their game on the path of life.
From the very beginning of my songs, they have been made of black words.
When Earth was created
When the sky arose
The land merged with the end
The sky merged with the end
Black dancer, black thunder,
as they came nearer to each other
all evil things have vanished
Lightning from a black storm hit the evil four times
And hit me four times, too.

The Apache are a group of culturally related Native American tribes in the Southwestern United States, which include the Chiricahua, Jicarilla, Lipan, Mescalero, Salinero, Plains and Western Apache. Distant cousins of the Apache are the Navajo, with which they share the Southern Athabaskan languages. There are Apache communities in Oklahoma, Texas, and reservations in Arizona and New Mexico. Apache people have moved throughout the United States and elsewhere, including urban centers. The Apache Nations are politically autonomous, speak several different languages and have distinct cultures.

California Indians: Three Shaman Poems

2019-08-10T11:42:31+02:00

I'm sitting by the door
making moccasins
and I don’t mean anything,
the sun was half-sunken
at the end of the plain.

I'm talking to the lake.
I tell everyone in the lake.
I'm not a human being.

I'm the hawk of Pis'vis,
I am me.
I thought it was me
but I'm just a head.
I'm a crying head in the desert.

A snake on a wall stretched out in the sun,
slip into your hole
and tell the rain to appear:
my heart dries in my chest.

Ravens on a branch of dry wood,
fly to mother sun,
Old-Spider-in-the-sky
and tell her my heart
is slowly icing among the ribs.

The indigenous peoples of California (known as Native Californians) are the indigenous inhabitants who have lived or currently live in the geographic area within the current boundaries of California before and after the arrival of Europeans. With over forty groups seeking to be federally recognized tribes, California has the second largest Native American population in the United States.

Eskimo Poem: Heaven and Hell

2019-08-10T09:53:07+02:00

When we finally die,
we know so little about what happens later.
But people who dream
They often see the dead as they appear
as they were in life.
And that is why we believe that life does not end here on earth.

We have heard of three places where people go after death:
There is a Heavenly Earth, a blessed place
where there is no sadness and fear.
There were the brave who went there
and they came back to tell us about it:
They see people with shovels, happy people
people of laughter and pleasure.
What we see from there are stars like
windows on houses in the villages of the dead
in Heavenly Earth.

There are other underworlds of the dead:
a little deeper there is an area similar to the terrestrial one
with the difference that we are starving on earth
while they are living in abundance there.
Kraip pastures with innumerable herds
and endless plains
with juicy berries tasty to eat.

Everything down there
is happiness and pleasure for the dead.
But there is another place, the land of Jada,
just below the surface of the land we are stepping on.
That's where all the lazy, all the feeble hunters go
and all women who reject tattooing
not wanting to worry about beauty at all.
For life, they were lifeless
and so now after death they squat
heads bent, gloomy and quiet,
hungry and docile
for they have consumed their lives.
Only when a butterfly flies past them
then they lift their heads
(as a birdling opens its uselessly weak beak hunting a mosquito).
If they do get their hands on the butterflies, they will catch a dust bubble
that pops out of their dry throats.

Eskimo Poem: The Invisible Men

2019-08-09T23:06:56+02:00

There is a tribe of invisible men
who move around us like shadows - have you felt them?
They have bodies like ours and live just like us,
using the same kind of weapons and tools
You can see their tracks in the snow sometimes
and even their igloos
but never the invisible men themselves.
They cannot be seen except when they die
for then they become visible.

It once happened that a human woman
married one of the invisible men.
He was a good husband in every way:
He went out hunting and brought her food
and they could talk together like any other couple.
But the wife could not bear the thought
That she did not know wha tthe man she married looked like.
One day when they were both at home
she was so overcome with curiosity to see him
that she stabbed with a knife where she knew he was sitting,
And her desire was fulfilled
Before her eyes a handsome young man fell to the floor.
But he was cold and dead, and too late
she realized what she had done,
and sobber her heart out.

When the invisible men heard about this murder
they came out of their igloos to take revenge.
Their bows were seen moving through the air
and the bow strings stretching as they aimed their arrows.
The humans stood there helplessly
for they had no idea what to do or how to fight
because they could not see their assailants.
But the invisible men had a code of honor
that forbade them to attack opponents
who could not defend themselves
so they did not let their arrows fly,
and nothing happened; there was no battle after all
and everyone went back to their ordinary lives.

Eskimo or Eskimos are the indigenous peoples who have traditionally inhabited the northern circumpolar region from eastern Siberia (Russia) to Alaska (of the United States), Canada, and Greenland.

Eskimo poetry: Spring

2022-01-08T17:33:12+01:00

The book "Eskimo Poetry" was published in 1961 by the Bagdala publishing house from Kruševac, Yugoslavia, as part of the edition entitled "A Little Library - Poetry in Translation". These poems were translated from the French collection "Poems Eskimo", prepared for the French audience by Paul Emile Victor , a researcher who wrote down the poems during his stay among the Eskimos. The collection was translated from French into Serbo-Croatian by Miodrag Šijaković, who also wrote the following preface:

Eskimos live around the Arctic Ocean, mainly in Greenland, Alaska and northern Canada. They are of Mongolian origin, which can be easily seen by their physiognomy: they are short, have a highly developed upper part of the head, small eyes, yellow-brown skin color and black hair. There are not many of them, barely fifty thousand, since the population in those parts is very small due to large deposits of snow and ice.

Eskimos live a nomadic life, in groups of a patriarchal character; during the summer they live in huts made of fur and leather, and in the winter, which lasts eight months or more, they crawl into dugouts and spend long cold nights there - nights which turn into infinity. Their main occupation is hunting and fishing (they hunt mostly seals, polar bears, reindeer, and various species of fish), and they seek and find happiness and joy in such a harsh climate. Horrific winds, avalanches, blizzards that very often sweep away entire settlements in a short time - this is the nature of this northern region, whose nature is very cruel and unjust, and many of them, those living more towards the North, do not even know about the existence of greenery and trees.

Wooden maps made by Eskimoes, representing coastal relief. Such maps are small and easily portable, light and waterproof. Since they can be read by touch, they can also be used in complete darkness. If they accidentally fall into the water, they remain floating on the surface.

For the Eskimos, life goes on at the same pace; they, like all nations on Earth, have their joys and their sorrows. Many, not without reason, consider them to be the happiest people on the globe. What makes them especially happy is the non-existence of private property. Their social life has, therefore, gone far in comparison with the spiritual, cultural one. Therefore, their feelings of value are different from ours: what is valuable to us, even precious, is of no value to them - and vice versa. Mark Twain parodies this in his story "The Esquimaux Maiden's Romance". In that story, a young Eskimo woman talks about the valuable and precious possesions of her father, and lists everything that is insignificant for the rest of the world, while the things we might consider precious - fur, for example - she sees as worthless and without value.

Eskimo wooden maps representing coastal relief. Such maps are small and portable, light and waterproof. Since they can be read by touch, they can also be used in complete darkness. If they accidentally fall into the water, they remain floating on the surface.

Since there is no private property, everyone participates in the distribution of goods; everyone has their share. When someone kills a seal, it is not his property, but it is divided into equal parts among the whole community, and then they eat in groups, with joy and highly developed social games. It is a kind of unwritten law, which has been maintained in this part of the world since ancient times.

Because, as it is known, happiness and material and spiritual culture do not match, they do not go together.

In terms of the poetic imagery, Eskimo poetry is very poor, which is quite understandable, because the language is also quite poor compared to advanced European languages, but probably one of the most difficult in the world. It is poor because their lives are tied to a poor environment, because they do not know what the inhabitants of the rest of the world know, since they are surrounded only by snow and ice. It is understandable then that they do not have words for many of our things and concepts, since they do not come into contact with them.

As the reader will see from this little book, Eskimo poetry is quite simple and often devoid of stronger poetic figures, but, as such, it is not without its charms. It conjures up a special world for us, a remote world which we can hardly comprehend. Like all poetry, it, therefore, expresses the unique living conditions of its makers, but also the character of this strange people who enjoy it, and which mitigates their hard life, making them happy - perhaps the happiest people in the world. Because, as it is known, happiness and material and spiritual culture do not match, they do not go together.

Spring

I was outside in my kayak,
I was at sea in my kayak,
I rowed in my kayak,
I rowed very lightly,
Amosivik Fjord.

There was ice on the water here,
There was also a seagull on the water,
Who turned his head in all directions,
Not noticing me rowing.
Suddenly only his tail remained,
And then nothing.

He sank, but not because of me:
One huge head was on the water,
The head of a large hairy seal.
A big head with huge eyes,
And her mustache shines,
And drops of water fall from them.

And the seal passed slowly
beside me.
But I didn't throw a harpoon!
Why?
Maybe out of pity?

Maybe because the weather was nice,
and because the seal was playing with the sun,
just like me.

Eskimos: Hunger

2019-08-10T11:26:00+02:00

You, stranger, you who see us only happy and carefree
If only you knew the horrors we often had to endure
you would understand our love for eating, singing and dancing.
There is none of us
who has not experienced a winter of bad hunting
when many were starving.
We are never surprised to hear
that someone died of starvation - we're used to it.
They should not be blamed: The disease comes,
or bad weather destroys the hunt,
Like when a blizzard buries air holes.

I once saw a wise old man hang himself
because he was starving
and he preferred to choose his own way of dying.
But before he died, he filled his mouth with seal bones
to make sure he would have plenty of meat
in the land of the dead.

Once during the winter famine
a woman gave birth to a child
as people lay around her dying of starvation.

What could that baby want from living here on earth?
And how could she possibly live when her mother was starved?
So the mother strangled her and put her out in the frost.
And later she ate her, just to stay alive.

Then one seal was caught and the famine came to an end,
and the mother survived.
But was left paralyzed
because she ate her own blood and her own flesh.

This is what can happen to people.
We went through it all ourselves
and we know what can happen to all people,
so we don't blame them.

And how can anyone who is fat and healthy
understand the frenzy of hunger?

All we know is: we love life so much.

Eskimo or Eskimos are the indigenous peoples who have traditionally inhabited the northern circumpolar region from eastern Siberia (Russia) to Alaska (of the United States), Canada, and Greenland.

Ewe People: The Sky

2019-08-09T21:00:43+02:00

At night, the sky is like a big city
inhabited by many animals and humans
but never has anyone there
killed a chicken or a goat
and no beast has ever
killed its prey.
No coincidence, no loss.
All things follow their course.

An early tribal poem by the Ewe People from West Africa.

Forough Farrokhzad: The House Is Black

2014-10-16T20:24:00+02:00

In 1950's Tehran, in Iran, Forough Farrokhzad is 16 years old and has just gotten married to her cousin Parviz Shapour, against her family's will. A year later she gives a birth to her son, Kamyar.

Four years later, in order to regain her freedom to be an artist, she divorces from Parviz leaving their son with him. She becomes one of the most important contemporary poets, directors and independent Iranian women.

In her lifetime she published four books of poetry and directed an internationally awarded documentary about a lepers colony – The House Is Black. In the meantime she suffered from a breakdown, went to a mental hospital and, later on, traveled across Europe where she fell in love again.

Famous Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci visited Iran only to do an interview with Forough. One minute of the interview:

On her way back from lunch, after the best conversation she had ever had with her mother, Forough Farrokhzad died in a car accident at the age of 32.

This is one of her poems:

The Wind-Up Doll

More than this, yes
more than this one can stay silent.

With a fixed gaze
like that of the dead
one can stare for long hours
at the smoke rising from a cigarette
at the shape of a cup
at a faded flower on the rug
at a fading slogan on the wall.

One can draw back the drapes
with wrinkled fingers and watch
rain falling heavy in the alley
a child standing in a doorway
holding colorful kites
a rickety cart leaving the deserted square
in a noisy rush

One can stand motionless
by the drapes—blind, deaf.

One can cry out
with a voice quite false, quite remote
"I love..."
in a man's domineering arms
one can be a healthy, beautiful female

With a body like a leather tablecloth
with two large and hard breasts,
in bed with a drunk, a madman, a tramp
one can stain the innocence of love.

One can degrade with guile
all the deep mysteries
one can keep on figuring out crossword puzzles
happily discover the inane answers
inane answers, yes—of five or six letters.

With bent head, one can
kneel a lifetime before the cold gilded grill of a tomb
one can find God in a nameless grave
one can trade one's faith for a worthless coin
one can mold in the corner of a mosque
like an ancient reciter of pilgrim's prayers.
one can be constant, like zero
whether adding, subtracting, or multiplying.
one can think of your --even your—eyes
in their cocoon of anger
as lusterless holes in a time-worn shoe.
one can dry up in one's basin, like water.

With shame one can hide the beauty of a moment's togetherness
at the bottom of a chest
like an old, funny looking snapshot,
in a day's empty frame one can display
the picture of an execution, a crucifixion, or a martyrdom,
One can cover the crake in the wall with a mask
one can cope with images more hollow than these.

One can be like a wind-up doll
and look at the world with eyes of glass,
one can lie for years in lace and tinsel
a body stuffed with straw
inside a felt-lined box,
at every lustful touch
for no reason at all
one can give out a cry
"Ah, so happy am I!"'

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