Three Superb Poems by Meg Freer

 

Oak and Barley

 

Daring, reliable shaman, Väinämöinen,

eternal poet, spawned by sea-foam

and wind, growing and aging

but trapped unborn and bored

for 700 years (or maybe only 30),

never seeing sun or moon, breaks free

into the waves at last, emerges alone

from bleak inner life to a treeless land

in bleaker outer world.

 

His first desire (why wait

so many years)—trees: willow, pine,

juniper, fir, larch, rowan, birch,

alder, spruce, chokecherry, oak,

but oak won’t sprout in misty meadow,

needs ashes from burnt grasses sown

with salt, needs extra care from magic leaf.

 

The oak tree grows and thrives, grows

too tall, shears the air, shuts out moon

and sun, its voice, the wind through leaves,

too loud, and Väinämöinen worries

(even at his age), calls on his mother,

daughter of creation, to send him aid.

 

A man arises from the deep, just inches tall,

dressed all in copper with copper axe,

and Väinämöinen wonders how one so small

could hew the oak, but tiny sea chap becomes

a giant—one step to shore, a second to turf,

a third to the oak—and with three strokes

of his ax fells the tree, frees sun and moon

(he disappears, but he’ll help in a later tale).

 

Sacred oak offers gifts—branches

for good fortune, crown tips for a magic touch,

sprays of leaves for faithful love—

the other trees grow (little do they know

what is to come), grass and berries,

flowers grow, but barley doesn’t sprout.

 

Seeds and kernels in the sea sand,

Väinämöinen saves them, scatters

more seeds in a field, until that vocal

songbird, titmouse, warns they still

won’t grow unless he clears and burns

the land (why would a bird wish away

trees), so he spares a single birch

for birds to rest, become part of its song.

 

Grateful eagle conjures flames, from ashes

barley grows, rustles in spring rain,

silver-breasted cuckoo comes to call,

morning, noon and evening, from the birch,

exults for life, for riches blooming,

and in less than no time (as stories go),

Väinämöinen, child-man of water, with fire

has rushed his world into a farming age.

* Source material: E. Lönnrot, The Kalevala, Runos 39-41, trans. E. Friberg (Otava Publishing, 1988). Previously published online in Rat’s Ass Review, Summer 2021.

 

Tears to Pearls

 

Daring, reliable shaman, Väinämöinen,

eternal poet, sails north to gloom and sedges

to steal back the Sampo, magic three-part mill

fashioned of cow’s milk, swan quill, barley,

ewe’s summer fleece—one part to grind flour,

one for salt, one for money—three binfuls

every morning to ensure prosperity

for its owner (that’s all anyone wants,

despite the beauty of its ciphered lid).

 

He chants spells, travels safely through rapids,

marshlands, inland waters, until the ship stalls

on a giant pike’s shoulders and must be freed,

he cuts the fish in two with a sword (what else

could he do), tail part into the sea, front part

into his boat, he steers to an island to cook

the pike and eat it until only bones remain.

 

Väinämöinen crafts a five-stringed harp

from the pike bones (one can make the first

of its kind from anything), body from jaw,

pegs from teeth, but the kantele sends out

no joyful music at the hands of any islander,

nor can any in the Northland make it ring,

its charming chords speak only for its maker.

  

Animals come to listen: squirrel, weasel,

elk, lynx, wolf, bear, eagle, hawk, swan,

salmon, carp, perch (even pike, not knowing

the music’s source), all weep to hear the harp,

the song maker too, his tears big as peas,

cranberries, partridge eggs, a swallow’s head,

the tears roll to the sea, down below the water.

 

Väinämöinen offers a gift to the one

who can retrieve his tears (there is always

an impossible task), asks the people gathered,

asks the raven but even he does not comply,

only the blue-billed scaup offers to dive,

finds rare blue pearls, the tears changed

by sweet tones into lasting treasure.

 

* Source material: E. Lönnrot, The Kalevala, Runos 39-41, trans. E. Friberg (Otava Publishing, 1988). Previously published online in Gone Lawn, Issue 41, June 2021.

 

 

Fire and Water

 

Daring, reliable shaman, Väinämöinen,

eternal poet, plays his five-stringed harp,

the air itself joyful, Sun and Moon descend

to pine and birch to listen (and don’t set the trees

aflame), until jealous, spiteful Matron of Northland

spirits them away, hides them inside a mountain,

golden fire and silver sheen to shine no more.

 

Even great Creator knows nothing,

strikes a spark to create them anew,

but careless fingers let the ember drop,

Väinämöinen sees it fall like flames

piercing holes in the sky, goes to search

in hopes the blazing ball is Sun or Moon,

hears tales of destruction (vivid tapestry

woven of fire and water), burnt houses

and marshes, lake ablaze, churning water,

fish tossed up on shore.

 

Whiting catches the ember, gulps it down,

his insides in fiery pain and torment,

Trout swallows Whiting to relieve

his misery, Pike sees Trout in agony,

swallows him whole (fire inside fish,

inside fish, inside fish, in the water).

 

A seine net of juniper fibre can’t capture

the red-hot fish, but Väinämöinen (a model

of persistence) finds a hidden flaxseed,

planted, grown, cleaned and carded,

spun and woven by a family clan

in a single summer night, flax to weave

the linen net to catch the fire trapped

in the fish that swims in the water.

 

Väinämöinen sings a fisherman’s chant,

asks for aid, and a man just inches tall,

who has helped before, rises from the deep

one more time (tiny sea chap will need a rest

when his skills are no longer required),

rips up a pine tree, lashes to it a boulder

for a long-pole beater, threshes the water,

drives fish into the net.

 

Väinämöinen hauls in a net-full,

and there is Pike, with Trout inside,

with Whiting inside, and inside Whiting

a blue ball of yarn, then a red ball of yarn

(no word on how yarn got into the water),

the red ball unravelled reveals the ember.

 

Väinämöinen wants to bring the fire

to places still in darkness, but the spark

scorches his beard, goes out of control

back through the lake, through a juniper heath,

through forests of fir and spruce, burns

a huge swath of the north country lands,

he chases it, finds it at the root of old stumps

(gives it a good scolding), scoops it up

onto a bit of birch fungus, into a copper kettle,

and from there to all homes without light.

 

Still no Sun and Moon in the sky,

day and night seem both the same

(the wind still knows how far a ship

sails in a day), Väinämöinen, great knower,

cuts alder chips, shakes one in the divining box,

receives answers about Sun and Moon locked

in rock, travels to the cavern doors with no luck,

but a clever friend tricks Matron of Northland

into releasing Sun and Moon back into their orbits,

lights of heaven returned, and Väinämöinen

greets them in song and prayer, may they shine

with joy forever, good health and fortune to all.

 

* Source material: E. Lönnrot, The Kalevala, Runos 47-49, trans. E. Friberg (Otava Publishing, 1988).

Meg Freer grew up in Missoula, Montana and studied musicology in Minnesota and New Jersey, where she also worked in scholarly book publishing. She now teaches piano, takes photos, enjoys the outdoors year-round in Ontario, and wishes she had more time to write poetry. Her photos, poems and prose have been published in journals such as Ruminate, Vallum, A3 Review, Poetry South, Eastern Iowa Review, and Arc Poetry. She co-authored a poetry chapbook, Serve the Sorrowing World with Joy (Woodpecker Lane Press, 2020). Her poems have been shortlisted and have won awards in several contests in both the U.S. and Canada.