The Arctic Nature People Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

Ancient folk, a wonder deep,
By harsh cold coast, their secrets keep.
Nature's whispers, a gentle art,
Passed through time, in every heart.

From fjord's dark floor, a silent sign,
Respect for all, a bond divine.
Ingenious ways, they found their stride,
With what the land and sea supplied.

Reindeer blood, a warming flow,
Into wood it starts to go.
Fingers stiff, from frosty air,
Working sinew with utmost care.

Threads so fine, from hide they spin,
Stronger than hemp, where life begins.
Miles away, where waves do roar,
Iron ships that bravely soar.

But in the fjord, a different hand,
Builds with roots and sinew strand.
Pine boards drilled, with patient eye,
Bound by nature, reaching high.

Moss and tar, a sealing art,
Pulling tight with all their heart.
This flexes soft, on water's sway,
Easily pulled, at close of day.

For knowledge flowed, from shore to shore,
Of craftsmen's skill, and so much more.
To build with wood, they understood,
A reputation, strong and good.

Risk they spread, on sea and land,
Samisk, Norwegian, hand in hand.
Different paths, the same goal met,
Life's demands, they won't forget.

When dark nights fall, and fish are few,
They turn inland, for something new.
In turf huts warm, where creatures sleep,
With grass and soil, the cold they keep.

Hay is sparse, with heather mixed,
From shore and sea, their food is fixed.
In iron pots, the meal is made,
To last the months, in sunless glade.

Fresh fish caught, from home's own bay,
Grouse from snares, to light the way.
Seal fat stored, from hunt's cold chase,
A bounty found, in this wild place.

If fish depart, the wild calls near,
The Siida's strength, dispelling fear.
They share the land, the woods, the streams,
Respecting nature, fulfilling dreams.

Then sound of oars, from distant lands,
Russian ships, with flour in hands.
Seeking fish, so fresh and bright,
A trade they forge, in fading light.

Copenhagen sighs, and Bergen frowns,
These direct trades, wear weary crowns.
But in the fjords, away from sight,
A common tongue, makes spirits bright.

Russionorsk, a voice they share,
Melting hardship, showing care.
Barrels roll, a welcome store,
Food for winter, and so much more.

But change arrives, with paper's hold,
Men with ink, both stern and bold.
They measure land, and draw new lines,
Ignoring ancient, shared designs.

They see the huts, with earthy grace,
And write of poverty, in this place.
They miss the wisdom, deep and true,
Of Arctic life, forever new.

Mobility, reuse, a shifting pace,
A perfect fit, for this wild space.
Old customs fade, before new law,
Private ownership, a growing awe.

The sewn boat waits, by rising tide,
Bound by threads, where sea and shore collide.
Stretching slow, as waters creep,
The ancient ways, they still do keep.