Large Fierce Mammal

Nearly two years ago I wrote about a wonderful piece of work by Solomon Simon called The Wise Men of Helm & Their Merry Tales. I recommend you go there now and watch the hilarious film adaptation made by the National Film Board of Canada under the title Village of Idiots.

The lore is full of tales involving remote or isolated communities that were so cut off – particularly in Winter – that they developed a culture of strangeness all their own. This poem is about one of them, and not all of its elements are fictional.

The Village

By LFM

Up country lies a village
Of an odd and darksome fame.
Its dwellers bear the stamp of Strange –
Fertility’s to blame.

The land whereon the village stands
Is fertile round about.
The harvest fills each bin so full
They build them extra stout.

So through the Spring and Summer
And the Autumn, all must toil.
From youth each learns it’s virtue
To accept this mortal coil.

Nestled in the cleavage
Of some high, protecting hills,
The village weathers Winter well,
While sheltered from its chills.

So one would think that all is well,
And even might admire
Such folks as live in plenty
Having all that they desire.

But “desire”, ah, therein’s the rub,
For when the Winter falls,
No one gets out, nor any in,
But still though, Nature calls.

Fewer chores breed idle hands,
Thence idle hands to sin,
And when THAT starts, it never fails
That other parts join in.

I went there only once myself,
And after days of bother,
Divined a little boy to be
His very own grandfather.

Through nigh a hundred years apart
From outside dwelling folk,
Estrangement even shaped the
Very language that they spoke.

I’ll never visit there again,
But if you choose to go,
This village is one family,
That’s something you should know.

Everyone’s a “cousin” –
Mother, father – everyone.
Another thing you’ll come to learn
Before your visit’s done.

They lack the words for family
As used by you and me,
And the way that they say “cousin”
Sounds like “doesn’t” with a “c”.