ЦАЦКАДУМА / Saskadumy
by Kitz Willman (2023)
Widow’s Saga
A green pine was rustling, but it wasn’t a green pine
it was a poor poor widow lecturing her nine kids,
“We are an invading people on these Cree and Dene lands. These maps show nothing new. We’re opîtatowew.
For us to swallow a stone and make supper of air on these plains,
well it is much more difficult to bear and to raise you kids.”
And that poor widow earned her bread in bitterness and through tears.
But she did raise kids.
Nine kids
in a strange and foreign land
And she did not let them go and work as hired hands in the tar sands.
Strange and foreign land
That widow watched her children leave in the night.
She kept her lips tight around the NWMP.
She did not support the infantry,
“No!”
Hid her trademarks in the sand,
kept tight-lip around the Man who asked questions in the bait of a Slavic tongue, said “all traitors get hung.”
She shrugged, pointed to the door and the visit was done.
But one day the farmhouse set aflame when the oil rig apparently jumped the tracks.
Life flashed before the widow’s eyes,
her children of nine who had left in the summer time…
She had a handle of sherry,
canned carrots and some Saskatoon berries.
The cold never tarry!
Frost bitten on both hands
in a strange and foreign land.
Our Hairs
A falcon became sad at the sight of a populated city.
For they had left their winter post much earlier than most
but now snow still lay in the meadow and rivers push ice lest they freeze.
While poppies are blooming in cities.
But those were not poppies the falcon saw
That was the Kozak Olive six miles east of Zealandia
marching along headed to the depot.
Then its onward to Sheho.
Oh, that Kozak Olive was riding
but she barely passed the next plot before she was stopped
greeted by her mother,
Her mother pleaded for the young Kozak to come home,
“Come home!”
She had traveled graveled roads in a car with no tires.
She beckoned to her daughter,
“Daughter, my dearest ilk come home
and I will wash your hair til it’s smooth as silk
and I will braid the mane of your horse.
Braid the mane of your horse and wash your hair until it’s smooth as silk.
Oh, my ilk…”
And the daughter replied,
“Oh mother, wash your own hair. For our hair will be washed by the rains and dried by tempestuous winds.
Oh, our hair?!
Oh, our hair will be combed by dense brambles
and conditioned by sea and sun.
Oh mother, don’t be sad for me, because I know sorrow…
For my hetman is sending me south past Sheho tomorrow.
Sends me on a mission to Winnipeg and perhaps I may ask some people,
where they keep their teeth at night?
Where the fuck they keep their teeth at night?”
Without Measure
Along the well-worn path to Foam Lake,
there a Kozak named Olive was riding.
She feared neither fire, nor the sword, nor the vicious swamp.
As it happens, the Kozak was dressed in fine clothing.
She was dressed in three stunning garments; one was bad and the other no good. The third was not suitable for wearing in a pigsty.
And as for her footwear: shoes of fine leather and foot cloths of silk.
They are like men’s filthy rags and shoes are like men’s dainty boots.
Yet the Kozak wears a stunning hat with a hole on top, it is sewn with grass
and lined with the wind.
Where the wind blows, it wafts through and keeps Olive cool.
Well, the Kozak rides and she wanders.
She attacks neither city nor village
as she eyes up Yorkton and looks down at Bethune.
She knows that in Foam Lake there sits a Mountie…
An old bearded one,
He walks through his chambers and speaks to his wife,
“Are you thinking my thoughts?”
(He’s drunk)
“Are you seeing my vision?”
She says, “Now please listen! I haven’t got an idea of your vision,
nor any semblance of your thoughts!
So get lost!”
[Kozak Olive] measures the Mountie with the eye of a wolf,
“What are you after?
My shining weapons or my raven horse?
Or is it me and an untold number of gold coins?
Your loins are bereft of the sacred Kozak gruel.”
The Kozak Olive kept her cool.
“You do not know the Kozak customs,” she spat.
Having said this, she raised herself up in the saddle.
Poured gun powder without a measure.
And sent the Mountie a gift right into his chest.
She pulls off the Mountie’s boots,
and puts them on her feet.
The Mountie’s hat would surely cover her hair!
She takes his horse by the reins.
She takes his horse by the saddle,
and leads it to the city…
“Oh most wretched field,
may you been green in the summer,
and green in the winter,
because you have aided me in the hour of my misfortune
and for that I have eternal gratitude.
Thank you!”
Dinner
Kozak Olive was rising,
her raven horse had stopped its taunting trot.
Her gun cocked.
She wears a cloak made of wheat
and a sash made of hops,
her feet complete with leather boots,
and a stunning hat on top.
She’ll remove that hat if you wanna catch crop.
“Catch this, catch a whiff.
I’ll introduce you to my great gift! My great gift!”
Just then the prairie plates shift,
revealing a great rift in the green steppe.
The Mountie’s chest caves in,
he prays to the heavens to save him,
“Oh lord!”
Kozak Olive shows teeth.
She breathes deep from beneath her big brim.
Big grin.
She plucks a small coin from within.
Coin Coin
Kozak’s loins
Mountie innards
Eagle formation spinner
Dinner!
“I’ll introduce you to my great gift! My great gift!
I’ll introduce you to my great great gift!
I’ll introduce you to my,
I’ll introduce you to my,
I’ll introduce you to my great great…”
Inanimate Things
“In Ukrainian communities, the homes,
farm buildings and churches are now modern, well-built structures.”
A young coyote yelped herself awake from a dream
but it wasn’t a coyote because they never dream
nor do they ever sleep.
It was some opîtatowew planting a sod house somewhere on Treaty 4
in a town that pleaded to know.
The eldest held the geolocational question
scribbled on a cigarette card.
Knuckle bones scarred.
Cutting grass into shards for a house.
Bruises on the back of both of my hands.
Marching bands from Ukraine to Indigenous lands.
From Ukraine to Indigenous lands.
Well, when they arrived the wind stopped their wondering.
And while they had hoped to enjoy their bread and salt in peace
instead they fed hordes of mosquitos with their bodies.
The sod house and the stable,
an obstruction viable through no legal purchase nor lease.
Entered quarrels with mounted police…
“I’ll teach you how to eat raw horse meat.
I have pins and needles,
flints and pipes.
Trust my wares…”
Like the coyote who howls at night.
Oh, like the coyote who howls at night.
Fending off misfortune
and drinking liquor from the still.
A storm cloud hovered the valley
and rain drops melt in the hills.
They counted the kills,
counted the crops,
counted the neighbours,
then hid in the willows til later.
Til a stream of smoke billowed from a freighter.
Driving a grader,
riding a stallion
and rallying.
Fight or fail!
Dodging hail,
hating jail
and collapsing while the Kobzar wails.
While the Kobzar wails,
“You tethered to me to a cannon,
(a canon)
and gave me nothing to drink,
(nothing)
no audience to abandon,
(no audience)
sing for inanimate things,
(sing!)
“Ran rivers with blood,
(blood)
broke knives with thieves,
(broke knives and teeth)
no audience to come after,
(no audience)
sing for inanimate things!
Sing it!”
Elapsed in Ukraine
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
Under the green sycamore tree
lies a young Kozak his body turned [redacted].
Covered with scabs from the wind.
His horse,
standing over him,
pines in sorrow.
His horse pined in sorrow…
“Your son will come home from battle.”
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine,
but I really mean Saskatchewan.
Dry Hooves
“Horse, oh my horse.
I prize you for a pittance of gold.
Horse, oh my horse…
Gold coins worth the weight of bandura.”
In Sheho at the market square,
a young Kobzar walks the shops.
She walks through the market leading her horse.
She kneels down to speak with him,
“Horse, oh my horse.
I prize you for a pittance of gold.
Gold coins worth the weight of bandura.
A hundred pieces or a brick, I’m told.
A brick of gold and a barrel of wine.”
Just then the horse replied,
“Rider, oh rider,
do not prize me, please.
Rider, oh rider, here’s a memory…
We had to flee the red coat hounds
for causing trouble at the rodeo grounds.
I leapt across the whole river Red.
Didn’t even get my hooves wet,
I didn’t let em wound you in the slightest.
Didn’t let em cut an inch of your hair!
Rider, oh rider, do not prize me, please!
Rider, oh rider,
Do not make it so!”
“Horse, oh my horse,
I prized you pittance of gold,
But horse, oh my horse,
truth be told you’re my only friend.”
When Stone Sprouts Tiger Lilies
“Brother!”
On a Sunday, just at daybreak
it was not a sharp grouse calling,
and it wasn’t a small bird chirping.
It was a sister praying to her brother.
She opened a small small window
and she spoke with words,
“My dear brother, fair as a turtle dove.
Come and visit me in a strange and foreign land.
During times of misfortune,
during times of ill fate.”
“Oh my sister,” he said
“My dear one, my beloved kin,
I cannot come and be with you,
for I live beyond the dark meadows
and fast flowing rivers.
Beyond fast flowing rivers…”
“My beloved brother, fair as a turtle dove, fly to see me.
Fly across the bright meadows as a bright hawk.
Swim across as a swift swan.
And run across the wretched fields as an eight-week agile quail.
Slight and rest as a grey dove
in my courtyard,
lean your head to one side
and call out mournfully.”
“You can expect me to come visit you
when on the feast of Ste. Dominique
the rivers and lakes freeze over.
When a birch branch ruffles your hair.
Go, my sister,
to the swift flowing South Saskatchewan,
take sand in your white hands
and sow that sand upon a pale stone.
Arise early in the morning
and water the sand often.
At the twilight of dawn.
At the twilight of dusk.
Water it with copious tears,
and when that sand starts to sprout,
when it blooms with spring-like flowers.
When it covers the stone with cross-shaped tiger lilies,
that is when, sister.
That is when I will be your guest.
Can you wait for me?”
“My brother,” she says,
“Fair as the turtle dove, I am not an infant.
And I have not just begun to stand with my own volition.
Yet, I have never heard people talk of such a possibility;
that swift rivers and lakes might freeze,
on the feast of Ste. Dominique?
That swift rivers and lakes might freeze?
Or that a birch branch could be anthropomorphic?
That sand could sprout on a pale stone
and bloom with beautiful flowers
that cover the stone with cross-shaped tiger lilies?
You must think I’m pretty silly.
“Does it mean that I will not lay my eyes on you
for all of eternity?
It is hard for a winged-bird to spend the night in a meadow
with neither birch nor elm to rest.
Oh, as it is hard for a trout to live so long without water.
As it hard to sprout tiger lilies on a pale stone.
It is so hard and difficult to die in a foreign land…
Chuzhyna!
Sheho!
Sheho, brother, why?
It is hard for a winged-bird to spend the night in a meadow
with neither birch nor elm to rest.
As it is hard for a trout to live so long without water.
Like a mother who’s lost her daughter,
a sister with no brother in sight.
So brother,
I know its hard to sprout tiger lilies on a pale stone,
but I’ll do it on my own.
I’ll do it on my own.
I’ll never die in this foreign land.
I’ll never die in this…
Chuzhyna!
Sheho!”
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
Three years and three weeks
have elapsed in Ukraine.
But I really mean Saskatchewan…
Bloody Bandura
“But I think first one should ask the question;
just what is a ‘duma?’
Well, rather than talk about it,
let’s listen to a recording.
A rather ancient recording…”
One side of the valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
She herself calls upon the righteous judge in heaven,
receives comfort from neither father nor mother.
Bullet wounds fill with blood…
Sabre wounds penetrate her heart…
The Kozak curses the valley with three curses,
“Curses! Curses!
May you valley be swamped by mosses and marshes,
so that you will not glow nor shine in the summer time.
For this is my third valley visit and not once have I seen treasure.
The first time that I ventured my raven horse was lost.
The second time my oldest friend.
And now in my third visit,
I must lay down my own Kozak head…”
One side of the valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
Just then the black winged eagles that keep vigil over Kozaks,
well those black-winged eagles spun circles around her destined position,
laying stretched beneath two poplars.
Bullet-holes black with blood…
Eagles soaring in the sky above…
She calls out to her last remaining kin,
“My brother, fair as a turtle dove,
help me get to my knees.
Help me pick up my rifle and measure three hammers of powder,
ram in three lead bullets.
So that I may send the black-winged eagles a great great gift.
A great great gift!
A great great…”
Just then the Kozak grabbed her rifle
seven spans long
and played the valley a solemn song.
She pours in three measures of powder,
never more careful in her Kozak life.
She rams in three lead bullets
and sends those black-winged eagles a gift.
Sends those black-winged eagles a great great gift.
A great great gift!
Great great…
And she herself falls upon the earth with her noble heart.
Throws her rifle aside.
Cries…
And gazes towards the sky one last time
She gazes toward the prairie sky,
one last time.
One side of the valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
Just then some leaves crumpled in the valley,
and it wasn’t a white tail deer,
and it wasn’t a swift hare hopping.
No, it was a noble Kobzar hiking trails,
her bandura strapped to her back.
She stopped in her tracks
and knelt at the feet of the Kozak.
Experienced in introductions, the Kobzar mourned for the Kozak’s soul.
Felt around for a spot to dig…
Culled soil with precious finger tips…
She piled dirt as high as seven mounds would be,
as high as chokecherry tree.
As high as seven mounds would be,
as high as chokecherry tree.
As high as chokecherry tree!
One side of the valley,
next to two black poplars
a Kozak shot and cut to pieces,
succumbing to her mortal wounds.
The valley erupted with the Kobzar’s lament!
Strumming forcefully with no fingertips…
Her mournful tone stung like thistles on horsehide,
“Don’t cry!!!”
The valley erupted with the Kobzar’s lament!
Strumming forcefully with no fingertips…
Her mournful tone stung like thistles on horsehide,
“Don’t cry!!!”
With the bloody bandura…
With the bloody bandura…
She played a bloody bandura!
Bloody bandura!
She played a bloody bandura!
The Kobzar’s lament,
and the bloody bandura!
Three years and three weeks…
These lyrics are informed by the research and translations of Natalie Kononenko in her 2019 book Ukrainian Epic and Historical Song: Folklore in Context. The lyrical motifs and structures are also informed by the work Robert Klymasz and Bohdan Medwidsky have done cataloguing and categorizing the Ukrainian Canadian Folksong Repertoire.
Kitz Willman is a multi-instrumentalist, producer, songwriter, and vocalist based in Winnipeg, MB, Treaty 1. Their matrilineal and patrilineal lines of trespass trace from the prairies of so-called Canada back to Ukraine. Saskadumy is their most direct contribution to the Ukrainian-Canadian Folksong Cycle to date.
https://open.spotify.com/album/2egfApHxtsHHdtVC9rlyPg
https://music.apple.com/us/album/saskadumy/1691964806
https://kitzwillman.bandcamp.com
