The Kalevala

Or, Poems of the Kaleva District

Francis Peabody Magoun Jr., Francis Peabody Magoun Jr.

• Publisher: Harvard University Press
• Year: 1985
• ISBN:
  9780674256149
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Literary Criticism
• Index: Literature

The national folk epic of Finland is here presented in an English translation that is both scholarly and eminently readable. To avoid the imprecision and metrical monotony of earlier verse translations, Francis Magoun has used prose, printed line for line as in the original so that repetitions, parallelisms, and variations are readily apparent. The lyrical passages and poetic images, the wry humor, the tall-tale extravagance, and the homely realism of the Kalevala come through with extraordinary effectiveness.

THE KALEVALA

POEM 1

The poem begins (1–102).
A virgin of the air comes down to the sea, where,

tossed by wind and water, she becomes the mother of the water (103–176).

A goldeneye makes its nest and lays its eggs on the knee

of the mother of the water (177–212). The eggs roll out of the nest,

break to bits, and the bits are formed into the earth,

the heavens, the sun, the moon, and the clouds (213–244).

The mother of the water creates headlands, bays, and various shores,

deep and shoal places in the sea (245–280). Väinämöinen is born

of the mother of the water and drifts about on the waves for a long time

until at last he comes to a stop on the shore (281–344).

It is my desire, it is my wish

to set out to sing, to begin to recite,

to let a song of our clan glide on, to sing a family lay.

The words are melting in my mouth, utterances dropping out,

coming to my tongue, being scattered about on my teeth.

Beloved friend, my boon companion, my fair boyhood comrade,

start now to sing with me, begin to recite together

now that we have come together, have come from two directions.

Seldom do we come together, meet one another

on these wretched marches, these poor northern parts.

Let us clasp hand in hand, fingers in fingers,

so that we may sing fine things, give voice to the best things

for those dear ones to hear, for those desiring to know them

among the rising younger generation, among the people which is growing up,

those songs got about, those lays inspired by

old Väinämöinen’s belt, the depths of Ilmarinen’s forge,

the point of the sword of [Lemminkäinen,] a man with a far-roving mind, the range of Joukahainen’s crossbow,

the remote corners of North Farm’s fields, the heaths of the Kaleva District.

These my father formerly sang while carving an ax handle,

these my mother taught me while turning her spindle,

me a child rolling on the floor in front of her knee,

miserable milkbeard, little clabbermouth.

There was no lack of songs in the Sampo nor did Louhi lack magic charms.

In the songs the Sampo grew old, in the charms Louhi disappeared,

in the lays Vipunen died, Lemminkäinen in his frolics.

There are still other songs, magic words learned of,

plucked from the wayside, broken off from the heather,

torn from thickets, dragged from saplings,

rubbed off the top of hay, ripped from lanes

when I was going about as a herdsman, as a child in cow pastures,

on honeyed hillocks, on lovely knolls,

following dusky Blackie, going along with spotted Frisky.

The cold recited me a lay, the rain kept bringing me songs.

The winds brought another song, the waves of the sea drove some to me.

The birds added songs, the treetops magic sayings.

These I wound up in a ball, arranged in a clew.

I thrust the ball into my sled, the clew into my sleigh;

I pulled it home on my sled, on my sleigh to the threshing barn,

put it up in the storehouse loft in a round copper box.

For a long time my lays have been in the cold, housed in darkness.

Shall I pull the lays out of the cold, draw the songs out of the frost,

bring my box into the house to the end of the long bench

under the fine ridgepole, under the lovely roof?

Shall I open my chest of words, unlock my song box,

clip the end off the ball, undo the knot in the clew?

Thus I will sing a really fine lay, intone a beautiful one

out of rye bread, barley beer.

If no one happens to bring any beer, serves no table beer,

I will sing from a leaner mouth, intone on water

to gladden this evening of ours, to honor this memorable day

or to delight the morrow, to begin a new morn.

Thus I heard a song being sung, knew a lay to be composed:

in loneliness do the nights come upon us, in loneliness do the days shine bright upon us;

in loneliness Väinämöinen was born, the eternal singer emerged

from the maiden who bore him, from his Air Spirit mother.

There was a virgin, maiden of the air, lovely woman, a spirit of nature.

Long she kept her purity, ever her virginity

in the spacious farmyards, on the smooth fields of the air.

In time she got bored, her life seemed strange

in always being alone, living as a virgin

in the spacious farmyards, in the vast wastes of the air.

Now indeed she comes lower down, settled down on the billows,

on the broad expanse of the sea, on the wide open sea.

There came a great blast of wind, severe weather from the east;

it raised the sea up into foam, splashed it into billows.

The wind kept rocking the girl, a wave kept driving the virgin

around about on the blue sea, on the whitecapped billows.

The wind blew her pregnant, the sea made her thick through.

She carried a hard womb, a stiff bellyful

for seven hundred years, for nine ages of man.

Nothing is born, the self-begotten fetus does not come free.

As mother of the water the virgin went hither and yon. She swims east, swims west,

swims northwest, south, swims along the whole horizon

in the agonies of her burning gestation, with severe labor pains.

Nothing is born, the self-begotten fetus does not come free.

She keeps weeping softly and unceasingly, uttered a word, spoke thus:

“Woe are my days, poor me, woe is my wandering, wretched child!

Now I have got into trouble: ever to be under the sky,

to be rocked by the wind, to be driven by the waves

on these extensive waters, boundless billows! It would have been better to live as a virgin of the air

than it is nowadays to keep floating about as the mother of the water.

It is cold for me to be here, painful for me to be adrift,

to dwell in the waves, to be going hither and yon in the water.

O Ukko, god on high, supporter of the whole sky!

Come here, since there is need, come here, since you are summoned.

Deliver the maiden from her predicament, the woman from her labor pains!

Come soon, get here without delay; you are needed without any delay at all.”

A little time passed, a little bit passed quickly.

A goldeneye came, a straight-flying bird; it fluttered about

seeking a place for its nest, considering a place to live.

It flew east, it flew west, flew northwest, south.

It does not find such a place, not even the poorest kind of place,

in which it might build its nest, take up its dwelling place.

It flits about, soars about, it ponders, it reflects:

“Shall I build my house in the wind, my dwelling place on the waves?

The wind will tip the house over, a wave will carry off my dwelling place.”

So then the mother of the water, mother of the water, virgin of th...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Illustrations
• TRANSLATOR’S FOREWORD
• THE KALEVALA
• APPENDICES