A month of (Native) poetry #6

The last "official" poetry entry for National Poetry Month, while there is just a few hours left in April. I do plan on posting more poetry though - I've found a few poets I'm hooked on, and I have some books on order, still on their way, from the excellent suggestions I received.

The first is from an author I am familiar with, but as a novelist. She has beautiful prose, so it is no surprise that her poetry is also quite beautiful.

The second is a "traditional" Native poem (looks like a song, that was translated), though I don't know much about it. It is quite haunting when spoken though, and it reminded me of a ceremony (though brief) held at my grandfather's memorial/remembrance party.

The Strange People

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The antelope are strange people ... they are beautiful to look at, and yet they are tricky. We do not trust them. They appear and disappear; they are like shadows on the plains. Because of their great beauty, young men sometimes follow the antelope and are lost forever. Even if those foolish ones find themselves and return, they are never again right in their heads.
—Pretty Shield, Medicine Woman of the Crows transcribed and edited by Frank Linderman (1932)
_

All night I am the doe, breathing
his name in a frozen field,
the small mist of the word
drifting always before me.
And again he has heard it
and I have gone burning
to meet him, the jacklight
fills my eyes with blue fire;
the heart in my chest
explodes like a hot stone.
Then slung like a sack
in the back of his pickup,
I wipe the death scum
from my mouth, sit up laughing
and shriek in my speeding grave.
Safely shut in the garage,
when he sharpens his knife
and thinks to have me, like that,
I come toward him,
a lean gray witch
through the bullets that enter and dissolve.
I sit in his house
drinking coffee till dawn
and leave as frost reddens on hubcaps,
crawling back into my shadowy body.
All day, asleep in clean grasses,
I dream of the one who could really wound me.
Not with weapons, not with a kiss, not with a look.
Not even with his goodness.
If a man was never to lie to me. Never lie me.
I swear I would never leave him.

_

- Louise Erdrich

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A House Made of Dawn

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The Navajo Night Chant

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In Tse'gihi
In the house made of the dawn,
In the house made of the evening twilight,
In the house made of the dark cloud,
In the house made of the he-rain,
In the house made of the dark mist,
In the house made of the she-rain,
In the house made of pollen,
In the house made of grasshoppers,
Where the dark mist curtains the doorway,
The path to which is on the rainbow,
Where the zigzag lightning stands high on top,
Where the he-rain stands high on top,
Oh, male divinity!
With your moccasins of dark cloud, come to us.
With your leggings of dark cloud, come to us.
With your shirt of dark cloud, come to us.
With your head-dress of dark cloud, come to us.
With your mind enveloped in dark cloud, come to us.
With the dark thunder above you, come to us soaring.
With the shapen cloud at your feet, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the dark cloud over your head, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the he-rain over your head, come to us soaring..
With the far darkness made of the dark mist over your head, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the she-rain over your head, come to us soaring.
With the zigzag lightning flung out on high over your head, come to us soaring.
With the rainbow hanging high over your head, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the he-rain on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the dark mist on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring.
With the far darkness made of the she-rain on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring.
With the zigzag lightning flung out on high on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring.
With the rainbow hanging high on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring.
With the near darkness made of the dark cloud, of the he-rain, of the dark mist and of the she-rain, come to us.
With the darkness of the earth, come to us.
With these I wish the foam floating on the flowing water over the roots of the great corn.
I have made your sacrifice.
I have prepared a smoke for you.
My feet restore for me.
My limbs restore for me.
My body restore for me.
Mt mind restore for me.
My voice restore for me.
Today, take out your spell for me.
Today, take away your spell for me.
Away from me you have taken it.
Far off from me, it is taken.
Far off you have done it.
Happily I recover.
Happily my interior becomes cool.
Happily my eyes regain their power.
Happily my head becomes cool.
Happily my limbs regain their power.
Happily I hear again.
Happily for me is taken off.
Happily I walk.
Impervious to pain, I walk.
Feeling light within, I walk.
With lively feelings, I walk.
Happily abundant dark clouds I desire.
Happily abundant dark mists I desire.
Happily abundant passing showers I desire.
Happily an abundance of vegetation I desire.
Happily an abundance of pollen I desire.
Happily abundant dew I desire.
Happily may fair white corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
Happily may fair yellow corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
Happily may fair blue corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
Happily may fair plants of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
Happily may fair goods of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
Happily may fair jewels of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you.
With these before you, happily may they come with you.
With these behind you, happily may they come with you.
With these below you, happily may they come with you.
With these abovee you, happily may they come with you.
With these all around you, happily may they come with you.
Thus happily you accomplish your tasks.
Happily the old men will regard you.
Happily the old women will regard you.
Happily the young men will regard you.
Happily the young women will regard you.
Happily the boys will regard you.
Happily the girls will regard you.
Happily the children will regard you.
Happily the chiefs will regard you.
Happily, as they scatter in different directions, they will regard you.
Happily, as they approach their homes, they will regard you.
Happily may their roads back home be on the trail of pollen.
Happily may they all get back.
In beauty I walk.
With beauty before me, I walk.
With beauty behind me, I walk.
With beauty below me, I walk.
With beauty above me, I walk.
With beauty all around me, I walk.
It is finished in beauty,
It is finished in beauty,
It is finished in beauty,
It is finished in beauty.

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From Four Masterworks of American Indian Literature edited by John Bierhorst, University of Arizona Press. The text is the translation of Washington Matthews.

A month of (Native) poetry #5

April is nearly over, but I have really enjoyed focusing in on Native poetry. I enjoy poetry, and read it somewhat regularly, but almost entirely devoting this month to Native poets, it's given me a new appreciation for the talent and beauty they can produce. In the past, I would only be able to name a few "favorite" Native poets - I now have too many to choose from.

I've also really appreciated the suggestions on books or poets - please keep sending them! I even ordered a few books online that I couldn't find here in town. Because I've actually had to limit what to place here in posts, I am going to take the suggestions of some of the commenters here and continue this beyond National Poetry Month. I think a little variety of Native art can only do some good.

This next one was sent to me just today (thanks Freddie!) and I think I reread it a half dozen times. While I usually tend to "feel" after a good poem, or begin a "long think," this Mary TallMountain poem, though short, did what I usually depend on prose for - made me really visualize something.

The second poem is another by Chief Dan George (I was trying not to repeat poets, but he is one of my favorite poets/authors.) I wasn't originally going to post it - it is incredibly sad to me - but this TallMountain one made me think of the contrast of the two.

The Last Wolf

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The last wolf hurried toward me

through the ruined city

and I heard his baying echoes

down the steep smashed warrens

of Montgomery Street and past

the few ruby-crowned highrises

left standing

their lighted elevators useless

_

Passing the flicking red and green

of traffic signals

baying his way eastward

in the mystery of his wild loping gait

closer the sounds in the deadly night

through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks

I heard his voice ascending the hill

and at last his low whine as he came

floor by empty floor to the room

where I sat in my narrow bed looking west, waiting

_

I heard him snuffle at the door

and I watched

He trotted across the floor

he laid his long gray muzzle

on the spare white spread

and his eyes burned yellow

his small dotted eyebrows quivered

_

Yes, I said.

_

I know what they have done.

_

- Mary TallMountain

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The Wolf Ceremony

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I wanted to give something of my past to my grandson.

So I took him into the woods, to a quiet spot. Seated at my feet he listened as I told him of the powers that were given to each creature. He moved not a muscle as I explained how the woods had always provided us with food, homes, comfort, and religion.

He was awed when I related to him how the wolf became our guardian, and when I told him that I would sing the sacred wolf song over him, he was overjoyed.

In my song, I appealed to the wolf to come and preside over us while I would perform the wolf ceremony so that the bondage between my grandson and the wolf would be lifelong.

I sang.

In my voice was the hope that clings to every heartbeat.

I sang.

In my words were the powers I inherited from my forefathers.

I sang.

In my cupped hands lay a spruce seed-- the link to creation.

I sang.

In my eyes sparkled love.

I sang.
And the song floated on the sun's rays from tree to tree.

When I had ended, it was if the whole world listened with us to hear the wolf's reply. We waited a long time but none came. Again I sang, humbly but as invitingly as I could, until my throat ached and my voice gave out.

All of a sudden I realized why no wolves had heard my sacred song. There were none left! My heart filled with tears. I could no longer give my grandson faith in the past, our past.

At last I could whisper to him: "It is finished!" "Can I go home now?" He asked, checking his watch to see if he would still be in time to catch his favorite program on TV. I watched him disappear and wept in silence. All is finished!

_

- Chief Dan George

A month of (Native) poetry #4

Fourth installment to honor National Poetry Month, and all those brilliant Native poets out there!

The first, really, the first line still rings in my ears, like an anthem. "Today, I am more native than yesterday..."

And I promise it's not just because she's a fellow Tlingit, and Raven moiety as well! The whole subject of the poem is really only something I've begun to understand in the last few years, "And my heart spoke a purpose in my life,/of seeking integrity in myself..."

It's the kind of poem that you have to think on for a few hours, or a few years, and really let it sink into your life. The rhyme scheme isn't that strong, maybe, but it is easy to ignore because of the quite peaceful, and strong, words she writes.

The second messed with my mind a little, so I thought I'd share. It kind of reminded me of my Intro to Philosophy class, when the professor showed us the french painting of an apple, with the words painted across it, "This is not an apple."

Moses is a Canadian First Nations member, I believe.

Today

Today, I am more native than yesterday,
I didn't hurry so fast, running from my past,
I sat real still when I was alone,
didn't have to call someone on the phone,
listening to the silence until my head heard,
my heart speaking to me....
And my heart spoke of purpose in my life,
of seeking integrity in myself,
of walking a solitary path of peace,
seeking harmony instead of wealth,
of seeing the strength in a prayer,
sharing with my children the power there,
of honoring everything that is alive,
being one with nature, not strife....
On this journey I walk,
my heart continues to talk,
turning me into what I was born this day,
for I am more Native than yesterday....

- Melody Jackson

The Line

This is not the poem, this line

I'm feeding you. And the thought

that this line is not the poem

is not it either. Instead

the thought of what this line is not is

the weight that sinks it

in. And though this image of

that thought as a weight is quite

a neat figure of speech, you

know what it's not

this time let the line smoothly

arc to this spot, and now lets

it reach down to one other,

one further rhyme

of which almost does measure

up, the way it keeps the line

stirring through the dampening

air. Oh, you know you can hear

the lure in that. As you know

you've known from the start the self

referring this line's doing

was a hook bit of wit that made you look

and see how clear it is no

part of this line or its gear

could be the poem. Still it cast

and kept the line reeling out

till now at last the hook's on

to itself and about to

tie this line I'm feeing you

up with a knot. Referring

to itself has got the line and us nowhere. So clever's

not what the poem is about

either. We're left hanging there

while something like a snout starts

nudging at your ear, nibbling

near my mouth

it's the poem about to take

the bait. From the inside ought

to be a great way to learn

what the poem is. And we'll use

this line when the poem's drawn it

taut and fine as breath to tell

what we know, where we are and

where we'll go

breaks. How would it feel, knowing,

at last, what the poem really

is, to lack the line to speak?

- Daniel David Moses

A month of (Native) poetry #3

In honor of National Poetry Month, I'm highlighting Native poems throughout the month.

Of the two below, the first is a wonderful Tlingit (Alaska Native) woman. Nora and her husband have done an immeasurable amount for the Tlingit people. She is truly a living treasure.

Her poem reminds me of the Southeast waters, and being on the boat (though a much bigger one) with my own papa, on Mother's Day.

The second poem is very striking, and actually reminds me of another Tlingit woman who told us the story of being put into school for the first time, and the fear, the beatings for speaking your language.

A POEM FOR JIM NAGATAAK'W (JAKWTEEN)

MY GRANDFATHER, BLIND AND NEARLY DEAF

by Nora Marks Dauenhauer

I was telling my grandfather

about what was happening

on the boat. My father

and his brothers were trying to anchor against the wind

and tide.

I could smell him, especially

his hair. It was a warm smell.

I yelled as loud as I could,

telling him what I saw.

My face was wet from driving

rain.

I could see his long eyebrows,

I could look at him and get

really close. We both liked this.

Getting close was his way

of seeing.

Halfbreed Girl in the City School
by Jo Whitehorse Cochran

are you Mexican

are you Italian

are you Chinese

are you Japanese

spic wetback greaseball slant-eye

you are dark enough to question

you are light enough to ask

you have near black hair brown eyes

and speak slow-english

we are blonde blue eyed

and wear store bought sweaters skirts or pants

you wear homemade clothes out of style

we circle round you and your sister

you hug your sister close she's small and even darker

we kick we tug at braids and coats

we pull "I'm Indian!" out of you

the social worker wants

you to describe your family

she asks

does your father beat

your motherdoes your father drink

does your mother

do you hate your parents

do you cry

tell me tell me do you

like the reservation better

are you ashamed in the classroom

when you wet your pants

why don't you speak up

why don't you get excused

why don't you go at recess

tell me tell me speak!

you stare out the window

turn an alphabet block in your hand

speak english speak english

the social worker caws

outside Canadian geese pass through your immediate sky

six in an arc going south

if you were a Changer like Star Boy

you could fly with those long-necks

but you must stay and look out this window

Grandma's words pound in your head

they want to strip us of our words

they want to take our tongues

so we forget how to talk to each other

you swallow the rock

that was your tongue

you swallow the song

that was your voice

you swallow you swallow

in the silence

A month of (Native) poetry

I like to celebrate the written word as much as possible, and wierd to say I actually look forward to, and remember, that April is National Poetry Month. A ticker-tape parade it is not, but there IS a lot more poetry out there being highlighted in April, and that's a good thing. Native authors, for the most part, aren't well-known, and Native poets even less so.

I'm no poet (the meager bits I've plunked down are not going to see the light of day) but I still want to celebrate with all the other litera-nerds out there, so look forward to some samplings of beautiful Native poetry on the blog this month!

The first is a quite recent one from an Open Salon blogger, Noahvose:

I saw him, the last eagle.
Someone pointed, and for a moment
We were all still.
A breeze suddenly touched us,
And in that moment my heart sank,
For somehow I knew.
I think, despite hope, we all knew.
So we stood there, silently.
At last, together.

I was there in the crowd
When the dancers stopped dancing
And the singers forgot the words.
A group of children played tag,
While an old man sat outside the circle
In his blue, foldout chair
Trying hard to hide his tears.
I didn't realize until then
How much they had taken...
How much we had let them take.

I had to narrow it down to only one from Chief Dan George. But pick up any of his books for some truly beautiful - and often sad - thoughts:

The beauty of the trees,

the softness of the air,

the fragrance of the grass,

speaks to me.

The summit of the mountain,

the thunder of the sky,

the rhythm of the sea,

speaks to me.

The faintness of the stars,

the freshness of the morning,

the dew drop on the flower,

speaks to me.

The strength of fire,

the taste of salmon,

the trail of the sun,

and the life that never goes away,

They speak to me.

And my heart soars.