Honorable Mention, Samuel Washington Allen Prize, selected by Charles Coe
Singing Love into Being
From somewhere, some empty where, Tähtikirkas
came like wind — a tumbling down the darkness,
down the long and aching tongue of darkness,
fell like fire among the fishes, blazing deep into the sea,
fell to darkness, chilled to white deep in the sea.
Still she lay amid the weed, still, unbreathing
caught in seaweed, cradled like a babe, a changling
rocked in gently stroking weed, rocked in sleep amid the sea.
Sankarillinen rowed his serpent long boat, searched the glassy sea
for the ending to his longing, nameless longing in the bleakness
of his mornings, curled the body of his evenings, searched while softly
drifting o’er the rocking sea, o’er the noisy silence of the sea.
So he rowed and pulled the oars, the long oak oars, the strong
oak arms, the pull and pull and pull of days, of lonely days
pulled in locks, the oars across the sea, broke the glassy sea,
broke the mirror of the sea, until he saw Tähtikirkas lying there
caught in weed and gently rocking, white as death her breasts
rocking slowly in the sea, white her hips in greenly stroking sea-
weed, held in the deep and unforgiving arms of the sea.
Then he quickened, stilled his rowing, brought his craft to hover over
this weed-wrapped enchantress, hair like golden seaweed floating,
not a breath to lift her breast, not a sigh nor singing heard he,
nothing, only stillness, white and stony stillness, heart an aching
stillness on the mirrored mocking of the sea. So he stood and
unbuttoned all the buttons of his tunic, all the bony buttons
of his heavy linen tunic, bared his fearful heart and all its beating,
tossed the tunic to the keel, tossed the tunic stitched with all his
runes and magic, tossed his safeguards on the keel,
unlashed the leather bindings of his breeches, and cracked the
icy mirror of the sea, dove and dove into deepest darkness
of the sea, guided by the image, white and deathly, still and deathly
image lying on the bottom of the sea. And he pulled from her
all the bindings of the sea, Sankarillinen pulled her loose from the sea,
pulled like oars across the water, pulled her closer to his shore,
ever closer to his shore, pulled her lifeless from the water,
brought her to his rocky shore, placed her on the solid bed
rock of his shore, emptied her being of the sea, emptied
all her lungs and body of the sea. His breath he breathed
in to her, filled her body with his breathing, brought her
heart back to beating, tawny eyes yawn into evening,
Sankarillinen fills all her vision. With his hands he warmed her,
warmed her breasts and belly, warmed her belly and her
hips, warmed her hips and thighs, warmed her thighs into
parting, heated all her being, like the tide, filled her being,
filled her with his salty sea. In his arms brought her
to his cabin like the shining sea shell, brought her
to his hearth and bed, laid her in like cordwood
for the winter, like potatoes in the larder, like the song
for the endless night of winter, kantele and song to kindle
fire in winter. And at dawn in almost-light of morning
teased her lips into the golden thread of his name,
caught it with his tongue, wove it round the liquid light
of their longing, and she from him captured the silver line
of her name, pulled it with her lips, over the light in his eyes,
and so they wove the braid of their days in place, wove their
names in faithful palmikko. At its end she pulled the braid
in her mouth, with her tongue tied the ends, knotted all their
being into one and he with his teeth pulled the knot tight
as the chinkless logs in his pirti, tightened the solmu into forever,
let the knot fall between her breasts.
Morning she awakens, combs her fingers through her hair,
sees him stirring up the fire, hunger in her brewing.
So he speaks to her directly of their wedding on the morrow,
speaks of winter coming, food for larder, wood and kindling gathered.
And the newness of her mouth speaks also directly, says she will not
wed the morrow, nor the next without cauldrons hung in the chimney corner.
Directs him to his longboat, bids him row across the sea to
forges in the bay of magma where bubbling reddens face and hands,
smithy glows, a smoldering man. Ask of him three great pots, iron
handles for the hearthside, bring them to me filled as follows:
one with wheat for lapaa hanging in the rafters all the winter,
one with silli for the salting, herring also in the rafters, the last
nahka filled with wine for the hearth in the allnight of winter.
He departed in his longboat, oared the springtime sea, got the pots
and their fillings, brought them to his bride to be. Sweet she smiled
at their sturdy weight in iron, filled with wealth enough for winter.
Call the townsfolk to our wedding on the morrow, for I have gotten
you your cauldrons, also three needs of winter, Sweet your smile when
you saw them, sweeter yet in the evening, vows and wedding done,
wrapped in arms strong with rowing, twined in the hearthglow of our nuptials.
Then she turned on her heel, said With winter coming, what will I wear
all the long dark days, what will warm my body in the absence of your heating,
what indeed will I wear to my wedding day? Go now to your longboat,
row across the summer sea to the island of the windsheep, bring me
ewes and ram for their sheerwool, also woolcombs for the carding,
bring a wheel for spinning, and a loom for the weaving. Such a cloth
will I treadle, make a gown sheer as moonshine softly warm for my days,
lovely threads interwoven weft in runes and warp as befitting joyous wedding.
Again, rowed he all the pleasant days of summer, all the storms rough in evening,
brought the ewes and rams, her tools, as she asked for. Sweet her smile
at his returning, sat down for the carding, for the spinning, and the weaving,
shuttles flitting through the sheerwool like larks singing all the evening,
raising song in morning as she stitched a gown for her wedding day. Call
the townsfolk for our wedding, gather all around the bridegroom and his bride
decked in moonbeams on this our wedding day. Then she turned, sweet her asking:
What gifts have you for our wedding, what new trinket can I show
all the maidens filled with envy? Go now to your longboat, row out to deepest
ocean, call the whale to your boatside with the moaning of this horn,
offer to him this sweet sea song in exchange for one rib bone of a living whale.
Carve the bone that he offers into clasp for my girdle, carve combs
for my tresses from the living bone of whale, and from the broadest end
carve a kantele for evening, song of living bone for the endless night of winter.
All the fall rowed he over metal seas and chilling, brought to her the carvings
from the living bone of whale. Sweet she smiled at his carving, sweet she nodded
his entreaty for a wedding on the morrow, softly singing as she girdled
snug the sheerwool of her gown, braided up her hair like the snakes
in warm sun mating, combs securing all her coils in the promise of a crowne,
said her vows before the townsfolk, pledging all her nights to her bridegroom.
In evening by the hearthside, sliced the bread, fragrant from the oven,
served up stew from the cauldrons, poured the wine into winecups;
in the fireglow handed him the kantele carved from living bone.
Hands strong from rowing stroked the living bone to moaning,
stroked with song the clasp into opening, the carved combs releasing
all her tresses into wantoning. All the night stroked the living bone,
in tender songs of bonding, pierced the longing in her being with sharp
notes of his need. In the dawnlight saw one tear well and pour out
on her cheekbone, peered deep within this gazing orb, deep past
all their nights together filled with song from living bone, saw her death —
with his tongue licked up the tear, swallowed salt of her briefness.
And so the song of their days was written in soft moans of evening,
Each morning in the braiding of her hair, a new silvered thread, until
like moonlight bright in its fullness, her braids lay all silver on her head.
One last song from his strong hands, one last song she sang him,
in the morning she was cold as he had fished her from the sea.
Then he turned his longboat upright, pulled it down to its mooring,
went to the sprucewood where he gathered all dead branches,
brought their quickfire to his longboat, laid the pyre in its keel. Again he
went to sprucewood, gathered branches fresh with needles, soft
like feathers for her bedding. One last time he fastened firm her girdle,
wove the thickness of her hair into braids held by combs he carved her,
threw the kantele over his shoulder, lifted her in arms weak with longing,
brought her to his longboat, laid her in the branches of the sprucewood,
placed the torch in its holder, shoved off to sea. His oars pulled on steady
through the night, also all the day to the deepest of the ocean. And that night
alone he sang with the kantele. And the whales came to join him,
gathered round the boat in sweetsong of the sea. At dawn he lit the deadwood,
fire dancing to his song, gently stroked from the living bone of whale.
All to smoke went the love song, rising in the dawning, all the longboat
burning, all consumed for the love song spreading to edges of the sea:
whalesong, mournful calling for the loved ones drifting over all the seas.
***
R. Joyce Heon
R. Joyce Heon is too old to be inclined to brag on degrees, publications, and contest placings, all of which she has. She’d rather tell you she’s of Finnish heritage, so it I no surprise that she chose to form her poem in the style of the Finnish epic, the Kalevala. Even though her first spoken words as a toddler were swearing at the cat in Finnish, she claims Finnish is too complicated a language to learn well enough for writing poems, so her poem is written in English, but in trochee which is the meter of the Finnish language. She attends Worcester State University to learn French, and sometimes writes poems in French. She also has written “beaucoup de” ekphrastic poems, a few of which are in French. She lives in north-central Massachusetts, not far from Saima Park, a Finnish gathering place.