The songs that Baba taught us were full of life, she said;
the land and nature bursting out in hills and verdant farms.
We sang them at the weddings, we sang them to the dead,
we sang them in the winter nights, we sang for singing's charm.
The songs that Baba taught us were full of men and girls,
who loved and parted, loved and lost, and grieved and loved again.
The orchards full of cherries and the head-wreaths set on curls
were subjects of the stories in the songs of girls and men.
The songs that Baba taught us were sung with winking eyes,
with symbols that the adults knew and youth had yet to learn.
The harmonies wove in and out, we found to our surprise
that other generations knew how men and women yearn.
The songs that Baba taught us were made of love and life,
the songs of ages lost in time, but life is still the same;
she never taught us anything of war or civil strife -
she only taught us love (and sex), and what that love became.
Author notes
With thanks to Orysia Tracz and her audience, 25 Aug 2007
http://www.ukrweekly.com/Archive/1999/319917.shtml
Baba is Ukrainian for Grandmother (or Granny)
This poem was published in The Ukrainian Weekly (Parsippany, NJ) on page 16 of Vol LXXVI, No. 7, Feb 17, 2008.
It was through the enthusiasm and help of Ms. Orysia Tracz that my poem was accepted.
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This has always been one of my favorites, Margaret, and I enjoy it every chance I get. Just wanted to let you know I have plenty to keep me busy, but don't stay gone too long. Many will miss you.
Patricia
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Baba: wisdom of the ages in arms and the joy of living from the heart. I am a grandmother and aspire to such songs. Her laughter was music! I remember a hymn my Grandma used to sing when there was dissension between her children. The first line: "Make channels for the streams of love, that they may broadly run..." ) She always did, and I adored her. So did everyone else who met her.
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That is beautiful, Karen. I did not have a singing grandmother, but mine had many pithy sayings! "The meat is tenderest next to the bone", "you always find it in the last place you look!"
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Sounds like a fun folk lesson (concert?) not sure since the link doesn't come up - a great cultural share, this one. Well done, as always.
P.S. now I see the link, will go read this in a moment, thanks.
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Thank you Marcy. Cultural lectures are not all boring, it depends on the lecturer, the hearer and the audience. This one was wonderful.
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Dear Margaret,
I LOVE the mixed meters you have employed in this poem:
hexameter first lines followed by my favourite heptameter. I also love the slight variation in each of the first lines which leads irresistably into the material of the verse.
More a sonnet than a ballad because of the alternate rhyming of the lines, I know it is of no use to invite its inclusion in the Wyleian series because of its 16 lines but I am bookmarking it so that I can enjoy its perfection again even though it becomes 'buried' beneath the plethora of unmetered, unrhymed stuff that is poured onto the AP site daily.
Congratulations on a well-thought, well-written and beautifully constructed piece.
Applause, love and hugs, XXX Hugh.
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Dear Hugh, I am very happy that you enjoyed this - I had a wonderful afternoon yesterday learning about these old songs of Ukraine. The talk opened many eyes, even of people who had been singing these songs all their lives, never thinking about possible metaphors!
The lecture was illustrated by performances, and the audience of more than 50 sang along in harmony. It was a privilege to be there, and this poem is a small witness to that.
I took the persona of a young Ukrainian, either in Ukraine or the diaspora, whose culture is preserved in this simple and delightful way.
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how wonderful ... baboushka knows how to tell stories, doesn't she ? and she knows how to make yummy cakes as well ... my husband had a russian grandmother, and your poem reminds me of her ...
a very sweet homage to life ...
marion
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A pleasant poem, for sure! The repetition was a real organizer and I found your meter regular for seven-foot lines. Not the easiest thing to write! When I did it I thought of each line as a tetrameter-trimeter and it saved a lot of counting, but tended to have an unconscious caesura in midlines, not entirely a bad thing.
I had heard of Baba before from neigbours we had when I was in school. Is that where the traditional babushka (head-square) gets its name, as something worn by elder grannies?
Terry
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Thank you Terry, you are right, there is a caesura in many lines; I think I will let them rest.
The proper Ukrainian word for grandmother is babúsia, but naturally that is too formal and she is usually called Baba. Traditionally, the headdress and how she wore her hair changed with a woman's status; Baba can wear a kerchief if she wants to.
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I love this. I have learned some things about children's rhymes and stories and their origin over my time here at AllPoetry that is fascinating. So many of these have roots in war and criminal regimes and are full of bloodshed, sex and grief. Amazing information one can learn when we start to hear what we're reading or hearing. Wonderful piece, Margaret.
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Thank you Patricia, I'm happy you enjoyed this one. I enjoyed the lecture I heard yesterday very much, and was inspired by the sweep of history preserved in these (often cute and simple) songs.
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Prior to the Victorian ‘cleanup’, many British folk songs contained quite racy lyrics – really how could they not? Any celebration of life needs must also extol the pleasures, despite puritanical attempts at guilt.
Oh and interesting poem – the rhymes were so far apart I had trouble at first getting the rhythm, even though I could see it was there¡!
I wouldn’t have known what a Baba was either… without the link.
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Thank you, silica. The iambic heptameter is not perfect, and I may have some tweaks later on. I have been steeped in Ukrainian language for two years already - I was at the talk this afternoon.
`Early One Morning` still has the story of a girl wronged by a presumed gentleman, and I learned that at a very tender age. There may be more whose innuendo is so deep in metaphor that Bowdler was boggled.
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