Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MAPLE-SUGAR SONG, by LEW SARETT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MAPLE-SUGAR SONG, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ho-yo-ho! Ho-yo-ho-hol! -- yo-ho!
Last Line: Ho!
Subject(s): Sugar


When the first warm days and frosty nights of the
spring-thaws usher in the season of maple-sugaring,
the Otter-tail Indians pitch camp in their favorite
sugar-bush. Before the real work of sugar-making is
begun, however, the Indians go through a ceremony.
They gather a few buckets of the first run of the sap
and boil the first kettle of sap, down to sugar. At
night a feast is spread in honor of Way-nah-bo-zhoo,
a mythological guardian spirit of the Chippewas. At
the feast one place is left vacant for Way-nah-bo-zhoo
who is expected to attend the ceremony in spirit, to
eat the first sugar which has been prepared solely for
him, and to bless the Indians in the sugar-season.
"Maple-Sugar Song" is an interpretation -- in no
sense a translation or transcription, for no specific
words are uttered -- of the spirit and the emotional
content of the chants sung in this ceremony.

I

Ho-yo-ho-ho! Ho-yo-ho-ho! . . . yo-ho! . . .
Way-nah-bo-zhoo, big spirit of our brother,
Come thou and bless us, for the maple flows,
And the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us.
The nights are white with frost; the days are yellow
With sunshine, and now the sap of the maple-tree,
Humming the sugar-song, goes up the stem
With dancing feet. The gabbling geese come tumbling
Out of the wind and into the wet mush-kaig
In clattering families; among the reeds
The fat old women-geese go chattering
Of winter-lands; and gathered on the shore,
Shouting with hearts glad to be home again,
The old men strut in council, and flutter and snort.
Ah-chee-dah-mo, the spluttering tail-up squirrel,
Pokes his blue whiskers from his hole in the oak,
And scurries up and down the swaying branches --
He runs in six directions, all over the earth,
Hurrying, looking everywhere for somebody,
Something he cannot find -- nor does he know
Why the green wet days should be so bitterly sweet.
Ho! The yellow birch throbs, for she knows the pain of life,
Of swelling limbs and bursting buds; she stands
With naked arms stretched out to the warm gray rains,
With hungry arms that tremble for her lover,
For See-gwun, the Maker-of-Little-Children, who comes
With soft blue feet that rustle the fallen leaves! --
Hear thou the maple-water dripping, dripping,
The cool sweet-water dripping upon the birchbark! --
Ho! the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us!

Ho-yo-ho-ho! Ho-yo-ho-ho! . . . yo-ho! . . .
Hear thou our prayers, O Brother, Way-nah-bo-zhoo!
Hear, thou who made the flat green earth for us
To dance upon, who folds us in his hands
Tenderly as a woman holds a broken bird
In winter, thou our Brother who hung the sun
Upon the sky to give us warmth and life,
And the wet moon to make us cool and clean;
Hear, thou who made the hills and the timber-beasts
That roam among them, who made the sliding rivers
And silver fish that shiver in the pools,
That there might be wild meat for empty bellies;
Hear, thou who made cold rapids in the canyons,
Wild waterfalls, and springs in the cool green hollows,
That there might be sweet-water for parching tongues;
Hear, thou who gave us thy mother, All-Mother Earth,
That she might feed her children from her bosom --
Ah-yee! Way-nah-bo-Zhoo, come thou on this night
With blessing as the maple-water flows;
Make thou a song to our heavy-breasted mother,
And pray thou that her children may not hunger, --
For now is the night for maple-sugar feasting.

Ho-yo-ho-ho! Ho-yo-ho-ho! . . . yo-ho! . . .
From the long cold of winter-moons, our eyes
Are deep, our hands like the bundled veins and talons
Of buzzard birds. Before the winter-winds
The moose have run to other lands for feeding;
The rabbits have vanished as the snow -- a plague
Left a strange red sickness in their withered mouths.
Even old Gahg, the clumsy porcupine,
No longer finds his way to our roasting-pots --
We boil his yellow bone-ribs many times --
Ugh! Our teeth grow soft without strong meat to eat.

Ho! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, hear thou our many tears
Dropping among the dead leaves of winter;
Pray thou, and ask our grandmother, Waking-Earth,
To take us in her arms, to make us warm
With food, to hold us safe upon her bosom.
Our mouths go searching for her mighty breasts,
Where the maple-milk comes flowing from the trees --
Ah-yee! Brother, pray thou now the Mother-One
To give us freely of her sugar-sap,
The good sweet-water of her bursting breasts --
For the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us!
Ho-yo-ho-ho! Ho-yo-ho-ho! . . . yo-ho!
Ho!

II

And if the sap flows thin with water, our hearts
Will hold no bitterness; for we shall know
That long ago in thy wisdom thou decreed
That our mother's milk might never be too thick --
Fearing that we should gather plenty sugar
With little labor and soon grow sick with food
And slow to move our legs, like glutted bear --
Ho! We are a faithful children of the soil;
We toil with eager hearts and patient hands.
And if our birchen baskets crack and leak
The gathered sap, our tongues will speak no evil --
We know that thou, our Brother, in thy love
For those of the Otter-tail totem, whipped the growing
Birch tree until the bark was cracked and cut
With round black stripes -- that our birchen pails might leak
The silver sap, that thus all Indian children,
Laboring long with many steps, might never
Grow soft and fat with idling in the bush.
Ho! We are a faithful children of the soil;
We toil with eager hearts and patient backs.

Hi! Way-nah-bo-zhoo! Hear thou, O Mighty One,
Who folds us in his tender hands as a woman
Holding a broken bird in the winter-wind,
Come thou and bless us on this night of feasting;
Pray thou our mother to take us in her arms,
To hold us warm upon her great brown bosom,
To give us freely of her maple-water,
The good sweet-water of her swelling breasts.
And if we labor long, our lips will speak
No bitterness, for our arms are strong for hauling,
Eager for many buckets of sweet sap,
For syrup dancing its bubbles up and down
In the kettles, to the bubble-dancing song.
Ho! For we are a faithful children of the soil;
We toil with trusting hearts and patient fingers --
And now is the Moon-of-Maple-Sugar-Making!
Ho-yo-ho-ho! Ho-yo-ho-ho! . . . yo-ho! . . .
Ho!





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