The Last Shaman

[TheWingedShadow]

This is probably the longest thing I ever wrote. I probably should note than it's one of the rare poems I actually wrote on paper using a pen, most of the time I use my computer. It came to me one early morning as I sat at Starbucks for a coffee after a walk.


I am the last shaman of my bloodline
Born in the heart of Siberia
Touched by neverending frosts and rains,
Everchanging southern winds.
Grown up by the shores of Black Sea,
Woods and hills of the Caucasus range,
With spirits and stories of old,
Long forgotten anywhere else.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline.
My body is the spawn of Siberia’s seed
Mixed with white russian blood and touched
By the descendants of Odin’s Son
I carry the dire strength of the Bear,
The silent flight of the Horned Owl,
The fierce grace of the Yennisej Stag
Put together with the Wolf’s loyalty for his Pack
My blood is not watered down but enhanced
With the wisdom of those ancient nations.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline,
I am one with the spirits of my ancestors,
I should be.
But they are not guarding my nights
These years.
Old pain echoes in every step I take,
Though I know my spirit mark,
My inner place and my birthright
As I follow their trails.
My voice flies high,
But not high enough to reach Baikal.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline,
Your soul calls out for me and I hear its plea.
I yearn to take your pain unto me,
I know I can hold it, I’ve got enough strength for both,
The touch of my hands should heal.
But I can’t get past my own scars,
I am frail, I am broken,
I fail to find a way,
Back to my blood,
Back to the great mountains of Altai,
Back to the sea of Baikal.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline,
Caught in a world of metal and stone,
With air filled with the obtrusive smell
Of five hundred thousand people.
I watch feral rats play in the shadows
And I know I am one of them,
Only that I don’t have a tail and their whiskers
And scissor fangs, but I do have their eyes
Dark and deep – and almost blind.
Ravens follow me when I walk the parks
Desperately listening to the wind.
It speaks a language here which I don’t understand,
And the giant trees have grown empty and deaf,
They don’t hear my whispers, don’t feel my reach.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline.
This morning I feel nothing more than a rat
Trespassing forbidden lands.
I enter a church, build of stone, ancient yet bold,
Though I would rather stay in a temple
Of a wooden circle, adorned with owl feathers and bear fur braids.
The iron bell has called to me, this I can’t deny
So I obey and come closer. I do not bow down,
I look into Jesus’ statues eyes, standing upright.
I don’t feel home, but I feel peacefully safe.
The old kam said once, we’re all the same
And I would become him after he died.

I am the last shaman of my bloodline
I don’t have a drum but my body, and I’m too far from home
To have a spirit guardian, I’m all on my own.
I don’t have a mask, but now my face shall be enough.
I am one with the old kam now, as I watch the candles
Dance. We are all one, he said, his voice still in my ears.
So is Perun and Jahwe and the Keeper of the misty Path,
And the voice of Father Frost on midnight wind,
The song of the bell that lured me here
One and all the same? The truth is hidden out of my reach.

‘Who are you’, the pastor asks, from a distance
He meets my glance. Deep forest ponds
Full of dark, gloomy secrets are my eyes and his
Are filled with stormy skies.
He opens his arms to welcome me as I move
Closer to the altar, carrying my head high,
Filled with ancient power, and I wear my thorns like a crown.
I raise my voice and crystalline clear it fills the church.
‘I am the last shaman of my bloodline’,
I say, ‘And I have come to learn.’
[9th of May, 2011]