Kalevala - The Epic of the Finnish People

'One of the great mythic poems of Europe' The New York Times

Sharing its title with the poetic name for Finland - 'the land of heroes' - Kalevala is the soaring epic poem of its people, a work rich in magic and myth which tells the story of a nation through the ages from the dawn of creation. Sung by rural Finns since prehistoric times, and formally compiled by Elias Lönnrot in the nineteenth century, it is a landmark of Finnish culture and played a vital role in galvanizing its national identity in the decades leading to independence. Its themes, however, reach beyond borders and search the heart of human existence.

Translated with an Introduction by Eino Friberg

Leseprobe:

Runo 1

Creation and the Birthof Väinämöinen

Prelude


I am wanting, I am thinking
To arise and go forth singing,
Sing my songs and say my sayings,
Hymns ancestral harmonizing,
Lore of kindred lyricking.
In my mouth the words are melting;
Utterances overflowing
To my tongue are hurrying,
Even against my teeth they burst.
Come good brother, little brother,
Pretty playmate of my childhood,
Start now with me for the singing
Sit together for the speaking,
Now that we have met together,
After separate pathways travelled;
Seldom do we come together,
Rarely do we have each other
In these ragged border regions,
These benighted northern marches.
Strike we now hand into hand,
Fingers into curve of fingers,
So that we may sing good songs,
Voice the best of all our legends
For the hearing of our loved ones,
Those who want to learn them from us,
Those among the rising young ones
Of the growi ng generation.
Magic verses we have gathered,
Kindled by the inspiration
From the belt of Väinämöinen,
Under forge of Ilmarinen,
Sword blade of the man far- minded,
Aim of Joukahainen s crossbow,
From the way- back fields of Northland,
From the heaths of Kalevala.
Long ago my father sang them
As he carved his ax s handle
And my mother also taught me
Though she kept her spindle spinning,
As I, milk- bearded mischief maker,
Clabber- mouthed and tiny tumbler,
Rolled about the floor before her:
Magic never failed the Sampo,
Louhi never lacked for spells;
Old in story grew the Sampo,
In her spells old Louhi vanished,
In his singing Vipunen,
Lemminkäinen in his capers
There are other words of magic,
Incantations I have learned,
Plucked in passing from the wayside,
Some I broke off from the heather,
Some I gathered from the bushes,
Others pulled from tender saplings,
Rubbed from haytips, snatched from hedges
Where I roamed about the cowpaths
As a youngster herding cattle,
Minding cows in cattle pastures
On honeyed hills and hillocks golden
By the side of spotted Frisky,
Trailing Muurikki, the black one.
Then the frost was singing verses,
Many a rhyme the rain recited,
Other poems the winds delivered,
On the seawaves songs came drifting,
Magic charms the birds have added
And the treetops incantations.
These I rolled up in a ball,
Made a fitting yarnball of them,
On my sled I put the yarnball,
On my sleigh I hauled it home
Right up to the threshing barn,
Hid it in a copper casket
On a shelf- end in the storehouse.
Long and lone in the darkness,
In the cold my verses lie.
Shall I take my verses out,
Save my songs from freezing weather,
Bring the casket to the cottage,
Set it on the bench- end there
Underneath this famous rooftree
And beneath this splendid ceiling? Shall I open up the casket,
Treasure box of magic sayings,
Snip the end off from the yarnball
And undo the knot entirely?
I will sing a good song for you
And I ll make it beautiful:
Do it on a rye bread diet,
Wash it down with barley beer.
If it chance no beer is brought me,
No drink offered to the singer,
From a leaner mouth I ll warble,
Sing along on water only
To make this evening s joy more joyful
Honoring this famous day,
Or tomorrow s joy it may be
With the dawn the new day opens.
. . . . . . . . . .
Thus I heard the poems recited,
Learned how verses were composed.
Lonely come the nights upon us,
Kalevala
Lonely dawn the brightening days;
Lonely born was Väinämöinen,
All alone, the poet immortal,
From the beautiful who bore him,
From his mother, Ilmatar
She, the virgin of the air,
B

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