Constance Lindsay Skinner

O Kia-Kunæ, praise!Thou hast opened thy hand among the stars,And sprinkled the sea with food;The catch is great; thy children will live.See, on the roofs of the villages, the red meat drying;Another year thou hast encompassed us with life.Praise! Praise! Kunæ!O Father, we have waited with shut mouths,With hearts silent, and hands quiet,Waited the time of prayer;Lest with fears we should beset thee,And pray the unholy prayer of asking.We waited silently; and thou gavest life.Oh, praise! Praise! Praise!Open the silent mouths, the shut hearts, my tribe:Sing high the prayer of Thanksgiving,The prayer He taught in the beginning to the Kwakiutl—The good rejoicing prayer of thanks.As the sea sings on the wet shore, when the ice thunders back,And the blue water floats again, warm, shining, living,So break thy ice-bound heart, and the cold lip’s silence—Praise Kunæ for life, as wings up-flying, as eagles to the sun.Praise! Praise! Praise!

O Kia-Kunæ, praise!

Thou hast opened thy hand among the stars,

And sprinkled the sea with food;

The catch is great; thy children will live.

See, on the roofs of the villages, the red meat drying;

Another year thou hast encompassed us with life.

Praise! Praise! Kunæ!

O Father, we have waited with shut mouths,

With hearts silent, and hands quiet,

Waited the time of prayer;

Lest with fears we should beset thee,

And pray the unholy prayer of asking.

We waited silently; and thou gavest life.

Oh, praise! Praise! Praise!

Open the silent mouths, the shut hearts, my tribe:Sing high the prayer of Thanksgiving,The prayer He taught in the beginning to the Kwakiutl—

Open the silent mouths, the shut hearts, my tribe:

Sing high the prayer of Thanksgiving,

The prayer He taught in the beginning to the Kwakiutl—

The good rejoicing prayer of thanks.As the sea sings on the wet shore, when the ice thunders back,And the blue water floats again, warm, shining, living,So break thy ice-bound heart, and the cold lip’s silence—Praise Kunæ for life, as wings up-flying, as eagles to the sun.Praise! Praise! Praise!

The good rejoicing prayer of thanks.

As the sea sings on the wet shore, when the ice thunders back,

And the blue water floats again, warm, shining, living,

So break thy ice-bound heart, and the cold lip’s silence—

Praise Kunæ for life, as wings up-flying, as eagles to the sun.

Praise! Praise! Praise!

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughsFor the plaiting of thy whip.They were wet with sweet drops;They still thought of the night.All alone I shredded cedar-boughs,Green boughs in the pale light,Where the morning meets the sea,And the great mountain stops.Earth was very still.I heard no sound but the whisper of my knife,My black flint knife.It whispered among the white strands of the cedar,Whispered in parting the sweet cords for thy whip.O sweet-smelling juice of cedar—Life-ooze of love!My knife drips:Its whisper is the only sound in all the world!Finer than young sea-lions’ hairsAre my cedar-strands:They are fine as little roots deep down.(O little roots of cedarFar, far under the bosom of Tsa-Kumts!—They have plaited her through with love.)Now, into my love-giftClosely, strongly, I will weave them—Little strands of pain!Since I saw theeStanding with thy torch in my doorway,Their little roots are deep in me.In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs:Sweet, sweet was their odor,They were wet with tears—The sweetness will not leave my hands,No, not in salt sea-washings:Tears will not wash away sweetness,I shall have sweet hands for thy service.(Ah—sometimes—thou wilt be gentle?Little roots of pain are deep, deep in meSince I saw thee standing in my doorway.)I have quenched thy torch—I have plaited thy whip.I am thy Woman!

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughsFor the plaiting of thy whip.They were wet with sweet drops;They still thought of the night.

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs

For the plaiting of thy whip.

They were wet with sweet drops;

They still thought of the night.

All alone I shredded cedar-boughs,Green boughs in the pale light,Where the morning meets the sea,And the great mountain stops.

All alone I shredded cedar-boughs,

Green boughs in the pale light,

Where the morning meets the sea,

And the great mountain stops.

Earth was very still.

I heard no sound but the whisper of my knife,My black flint knife.It whispered among the white strands of the cedar,Whispered in parting the sweet cords for thy whip.O sweet-smelling juice of cedar—Life-ooze of love!My knife drips:Its whisper is the only sound in all the world!

I heard no sound but the whisper of my knife,

My black flint knife.

It whispered among the white strands of the cedar,

Whispered in parting the sweet cords for thy whip.

O sweet-smelling juice of cedar—

Life-ooze of love!

My knife drips:

Its whisper is the only sound in all the world!

Finer than young sea-lions’ hairsAre my cedar-strands:They are fine as little roots deep down.(O little roots of cedarFar, far under the bosom of Tsa-Kumts!—

Finer than young sea-lions’ hairs

Are my cedar-strands:

They are fine as little roots deep down.

(O little roots of cedar

Far, far under the bosom of Tsa-Kumts!—

They have plaited her through with love.)Now, into my love-giftClosely, strongly, I will weave them—Little strands of pain!Since I saw theeStanding with thy torch in my doorway,Their little roots are deep in me.

They have plaited her through with love.)

Now, into my love-gift

Closely, strongly, I will weave them—

Little strands of pain!

Since I saw thee

Standing with thy torch in my doorway,

Their little roots are deep in me.

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs:Sweet, sweet was their odor,They were wet with tears—The sweetness will not leave my hands,No, not in salt sea-washings:Tears will not wash away sweetness,I shall have sweet hands for thy service.

In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs:

Sweet, sweet was their odor,

They were wet with tears—

The sweetness will not leave my hands,

No, not in salt sea-washings:

Tears will not wash away sweetness,

I shall have sweet hands for thy service.

(Ah—sometimes—thou wilt be gentle?Little roots of pain are deep, deep in meSince I saw thee standing in my doorway.)

(Ah—sometimes—thou wilt be gentle?

Little roots of pain are deep, deep in me

Since I saw thee standing in my doorway.)

I have quenched thy torch—I have plaited thy whip.I am thy Woman!

I have quenched thy torch—

I have plaited thy whip.

I am thy Woman!

I am Ah-woa-te, the Hunter.I met a maiden in the shadow of the rocks;Her eyes were strange and clear,Her fair lips were shaped like the bow of dawning.I asked her name,Striking my spear in the deep earth for resting.“I am Kantlak, a maiden, named for the Morning.On the mountain-top I heard two eagles talking—The word was Love.They cried it, beating their wings on each otherUntil they bled; and she fell,Yet, falling, still weakly cried itTo him soaring: and died.I came to a mossy low valley of flowers.There I saw Men-iak, the white grouse,(White with chaste dreams, like the Spring Moon, fairer than flowers).Through the forest a dark bird swooped, with fierce eyes,And Men-iak flew down to it.Her white breast is red-dyed, she lies on the moss;Yet faintly cries the same strange word,Hunter, will you come to my little fire and tell meWhat Love is?”I could not see the maiden’s face clearly, for the dusk,Where she sat by her small fire—only her eyes.In the little flicker I saw her feet; they were bare—Tireless, slim brown feet.I saw how fair her lips were—I drew nearer to cast my log on the fire. I said:“Maiden, I am the Hunter.When dusk ends the chase I leave the Mighty Killing.Far or near, where gleams some little fire,I grope through the forest with my heavy log;Till I find one by the fire, sitting alone without fuel.I cast my log gladly into the fire—thus,It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.“Almost I can see your face, Woman;The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows,Your strange clear eyes have darkened.Fear not—our fire will outlast the dark.”“Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillsideWhen the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?”I replied, “I have never seen this:When the fire burns low I am asleep.”She said: “What of me, if I sleep not, and see the ashes?”I yawned: I said, “I know not;I wake in the sun and go forth.”The bow of her lips was like the moon’s cold circle.She said, “Hunter, you have told me of Love!”“It may be so,” I answered. I wished to sleep.She said, “Already it is ashes.”I looked and saw that her face was gray,As if the wind had blown the ashes over it.I was angry; I said, “Better you had slept.”She said, “Yes—but I lie bleeding on the moss,Crying this word.”I answered, “This is so; but wherefore?” and asked, idly,“Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fireThe log that now is ashes?”She shivered in the cold dawn;I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows.Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow,But I could fit no more arrows to it.She said, “Hunter, see how gray are these rocksWhere we have sheltered our brief night.”I looked—they were ashen.She said: “See how they come together here—and here—As the knees, the breast, the great brow, the forgotten eyes,Of a woman,Sitting, waiting, stark and still,And always gray;Though hunters camp each night between her knees,And little fires are kindled and burned out in her hollows.”It was so; the mountain was a stone woman sitting.Kantlak said: “She remembers him who turned her fire to ashes;She waits to know the meaning of her waiting—Why the love that wounded her can never be cast out.”I asked idly, “Who will tell her?”—And laughed, for the sun was up. I reached for my arrows;I drew my strong spear from the deep earth by her feet.Kantlak looked up to the other gray face, and said,“No answer is given.”Down to the cold white endless sea-shoreSlowly she went, with bent head.A young deer cast its leaping shadow on the pool.I ran upon the bright path, swaying my spear.

I am Ah-woa-te, the Hunter.

I met a maiden in the shadow of the rocks;Her eyes were strange and clear,Her fair lips were shaped like the bow of dawning.I asked her name,Striking my spear in the deep earth for resting.

I met a maiden in the shadow of the rocks;

Her eyes were strange and clear,

Her fair lips were shaped like the bow of dawning.

I asked her name,

Striking my spear in the deep earth for resting.

“I am Kantlak, a maiden, named for the Morning.On the mountain-top I heard two eagles talking—The word was Love.They cried it, beating their wings on each otherUntil they bled; and she fell,Yet, falling, still weakly cried itTo him soaring: and died.I came to a mossy low valley of flowers.There I saw Men-iak, the white grouse,(White with chaste dreams, like the Spring Moon, fairer than flowers).Through the forest a dark bird swooped, with fierce eyes,And Men-iak flew down to it.Her white breast is red-dyed, she lies on the moss;Yet faintly cries the same strange word,Hunter, will you come to my little fire and tell meWhat Love is?”

“I am Kantlak, a maiden, named for the Morning.

On the mountain-top I heard two eagles talking—

The word was Love.

They cried it, beating their wings on each other

Until they bled; and she fell,

Yet, falling, still weakly cried it

To him soaring: and died.

I came to a mossy low valley of flowers.

There I saw Men-iak, the white grouse,

(White with chaste dreams, like the Spring Moon, fairer than flowers).

Through the forest a dark bird swooped, with fierce eyes,

And Men-iak flew down to it.

Her white breast is red-dyed, she lies on the moss;

Yet faintly cries the same strange word,

Hunter, will you come to my little fire and tell me

What Love is?”

I could not see the maiden’s face clearly, for the dusk,Where she sat by her small fire—only her eyes.In the little flicker I saw her feet; they were bare—Tireless, slim brown feet.I saw how fair her lips were—I drew nearer to cast my log on the fire. I said:“Maiden, I am the Hunter.When dusk ends the chase I leave the Mighty Killing.Far or near, where gleams some little fire,I grope through the forest with my heavy log;Till I find one by the fire, sitting alone without fuel.I cast my log gladly into the fire—thus,It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.

I could not see the maiden’s face clearly, for the dusk,

Where she sat by her small fire—only her eyes.

In the little flicker I saw her feet; they were bare—

Tireless, slim brown feet.

I saw how fair her lips were—

I drew nearer to cast my log on the fire. I said:

“Maiden, I am the Hunter.

When dusk ends the chase I leave the Mighty Killing.

Far or near, where gleams some little fire,

I grope through the forest with my heavy log;

Till I find one by the fire, sitting alone without fuel.

I cast my log gladly into the fire—thus,

It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.

“Almost I can see your face, Woman;The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows,Your strange clear eyes have darkened.Fear not—our fire will outlast the dark.”

“Almost I can see your face, Woman;

The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows,

Your strange clear eyes have darkened.

Fear not—our fire will outlast the dark.”

“Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillsideWhen the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?”I replied, “I have never seen this:When the fire burns low I am asleep.”She said: “What of me, if I sleep not, and see the ashes?”I yawned: I said, “I know not;I wake in the sun and go forth.”

“Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillside

When the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?”

I replied, “I have never seen this:

When the fire burns low I am asleep.”

She said: “What of me, if I sleep not, and see the ashes?”

I yawned: I said, “I know not;

I wake in the sun and go forth.”

The bow of her lips was like the moon’s cold circle.She said, “Hunter, you have told me of Love!”“It may be so,” I answered. I wished to sleep.She said, “Already it is ashes.”I looked and saw that her face was gray,As if the wind had blown the ashes over it.I was angry; I said, “Better you had slept.”She said, “Yes—but I lie bleeding on the moss,Crying this word.”I answered, “This is so; but wherefore?” and asked, idly,“Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fireThe log that now is ashes?”She shivered in the cold dawn;I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows.Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow,But I could fit no more arrows to it.

The bow of her lips was like the moon’s cold circle.

She said, “Hunter, you have told me of Love!”

“It may be so,” I answered. I wished to sleep.

She said, “Already it is ashes.”

I looked and saw that her face was gray,

As if the wind had blown the ashes over it.

I was angry; I said, “Better you had slept.”

She said, “Yes—but I lie bleeding on the moss,

Crying this word.”

I answered, “This is so; but wherefore?” and asked, idly,

“Wherefore remember him who brought to your lone little fire

The log that now is ashes?”

She shivered in the cold dawn;

I saw that her eyes were darker than shadows.

Her fair mouth was like my perfect bow,

But I could fit no more arrows to it.

She said, “Hunter, see how gray are these rocksWhere we have sheltered our brief night.”I looked—they were ashen.She said: “See how they come together here—and here—As the knees, the breast, the great brow, the forgotten eyes,Of a woman,Sitting, waiting, stark and still,And always gray;Though hunters camp each night between her knees,And little fires are kindled and burned out in her hollows.”It was so; the mountain was a stone woman sitting.Kantlak said: “She remembers him who turned her fire to ashes;She waits to know the meaning of her waiting—Why the love that wounded her can never be cast out.”

She said, “Hunter, see how gray are these rocks

Where we have sheltered our brief night.”

I looked—they were ashen.

She said: “See how they come together here—and here—

As the knees, the breast, the great brow, the forgotten eyes,

Of a woman,

Sitting, waiting, stark and still,

And always gray;

Though hunters camp each night between her knees,

And little fires are kindled and burned out in her hollows.”

It was so; the mountain was a stone woman sitting.

Kantlak said: “She remembers him who turned her fire to ashes;

She waits to know the meaning of her waiting—

Why the love that wounded her can never be cast out.”

I asked idly, “Who will tell her?”—And laughed, for the sun was up. I reached for my arrows;I drew my strong spear from the deep earth by her feet.Kantlak looked up to the other gray face, and said,“No answer is given.”Down to the cold white endless sea-shoreSlowly she went, with bent head.A young deer cast its leaping shadow on the pool.I ran upon the bright path, swaying my spear.

I asked idly, “Who will tell her?”—

And laughed, for the sun was up. I reached for my arrows;

I drew my strong spear from the deep earth by her feet.

Kantlak looked up to the other gray face, and said,

“No answer is given.”

Down to the cold white endless sea-shore

Slowly she went, with bent head.

A young deer cast its leaping shadow on the pool.

I ran upon the bright path, swaying my spear.

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