Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales/ International Human Rights Day—New Murfin Verse

A tip-o’-the-hat today to Paula Brazill Wallrich who included mention of the Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales in her daily Facebook post of such commemorations.  I found it this morning just having posted my blog entry Eleanor Roosevelt’s Triumph—The Universal Declaration of Human Rights.  As something mysteriously does when I am confronted with these calendar coincidences, something clicked in my head.  After a bit internet research on the fly, presto!  An instant poem.

I haven’t the foggiest idea if it is any good.  Just throwing it against this wall to see if it sticks.

Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales/ International Human Rights Day

December 10, 2017

It says right here on this almanac round up

            that today, December 10,

            is the Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales.

It’s supposed to be an Alaskan Inuit thing.

Well, maybe.

            Maybe not.

Someone checked it out.

Seems like the people around Barrow—

pardon me now—Utqiaġvik—

never heard of it.

The Inuit living in the traditional way

            take most of their diet

            from the bowhead whale—

meat, blubber  and organs—

and use every damn last scrap

of skin, bone, and sinew.

Each hunter, they say,

            has his own prayers and rituals          

            of thanks and respect.

Three celebrations each year

show respect for the souls of the animals,

bring luck to the hunt,  

to give thanks to the spirits

of the whale who have given themselves

as food for the People.

The men are the hunters,

            but the sea beasts give themselves

            to the women,

            the keepers of the hearth and home,

            who must honor and venerate

            their spirit.

Then the spirits having dwelt

            in the homes of the People

            return to the sea to tell their brothers

            how they were honored.

But, no, the Inuit of Barrow say,

            we have not heard of

            the Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales.

Perhaps not.

But maybe in remote villages,

            some call a community ritual

            held in the unending night

            when the sea is frozen thick,

            the wind howls,

and the bowheads

are safe from the rifles and harpoons

of the hunters,

by this particular name.

Perhaps some anthropologist

            with notebook in hand

            simply gave the name

            to a nameless, timeless

            thanksgiving.

Whatever.

Like another celebration

            marked on today’s calendar

            the Festival for the Souls of Dead Whales

            is a mere rumor

            honored mostly in the breach.

—Patrick Murfin