Don't bother the earth spirit who lives here. a woman can't survive If you hold a blue rock to your ear, We came this way This morning ho do vi i i am making this sound upon the earth i lift toward the sun She had some horses. We learn too late the useless way light leaves
Most late summer evenings The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat
She is working on a story. It is the oldest
story in the world and it is delicate, changing.
If she sees you watching she will invite you in
for coffee, give you warm bread, and you will
be obligated to stay and listen. But this is no
ordinary story. You will have to endure earthquakes,
lightning, the deaths of all those you love, the
most blinding beauty. It's a story so compelling
you may never want to leave; this is how she traps
you. See that stone finger over there? That is the
only one who ever escaped.
Joy Harjo (Muskogee)
by her own breath
alone
she must know
the voices of mountains
she must recognize
the foreverness of blue sky
she must flow
with the elusive
bodies
of the night wind women
who will take her into
her own self
look at me
i am not a separate woman
i am continuance
of blue sky
i am the throat
of the sandia mountains
a night wind woman
who burns
with every breath
she takes.
Joy Harjo (Creek)
you will hear the ancient river
that kept it as its heart,
the dry wind that used it for its tongue,
and the earth that promised it a mouth of fire.
A speckled rock is from the dream
of a galloping appaloosa.
The herd sings its Ceremony of Grass
and their dream-stones fly from their hooves
into the spattered sky.
A black rock has the bear's soul caught
in his last sleep. His song circles
the stone, giving the it illusion
of fur.
All yellow rocks keep the secrets of Owls.
All green rocks are the breath of plants
singing in nightly joy.
A red fist-sized rock is the love
of a man and a woman as their bodies sing
on the grass.
A gray stone is naturally mournful.
It is a word from the common language of the dead.
Keep it. Someday you will understand.
Anita Andrezze(Yaqui)
we came this way
which has not yet been discovered this way
by a Dane across a narrow arm of mast or sea
this way we came
our skin is red-orange from the sun & wild mulberry juice our skin
is mysterious, scattered with ice-colored clouds of cottonwood seeds
this way our skin is a continent
journeying over mapless water
this way
we are beautiful in our ears, long indigo blue loops of cotton
& white pearls, aqua-pink shells this way
we always hear the sea & in our noses like green crescent moons:
bright stones our hair loose & straight as rain
we came
skirted in woven willow, or fibers of maguay, fine cotton this way
we came naked
or in blue capes, skins of night jaguars & green-eyed stars
this way
we became
animals in the spiral breaths of mountain roar,
this way into the rivers dark-mouthed centers we came
discovered, discovering thick forests of ebony, brazil
& rosewood where birds can not fly
this way
we heard the alligators dreaming of carving
sky into flesh shapes so we came to ford rivers
with loud talking this way we are called "People Who Shout"
it is our way
we came
to our enemies & killed them this way: with flint knives & spikes embedded
in the ground with poisoned arrows with blood spattered war clubs, spears
with men drinking the juice of the mescal plant & dancing
this way we impale our enemies' heads on poles we insult them
this way
everyone fears us so we are safe
this way we live when it floods: we build houses in the trees
dreaming of red stars falling into our hands
this way we enter the water of our souls
we came
to the ocean to harvest sea kelp, pearls with nets of sisal fiber
we fish this way there are deer, wild pigs, rabbits, iguanas which we hunt
this way; where there is water in the hollow of trees we find them
& break their jaws, stringing them together
this way
we can hunt many hours with fresh meat & later, with our fingers
we probe for small stones in the iguana's stomach these are good medicine
the hechiceros suck out thorns, sticks or pebbles it goes this way
out
we came
to corn, beans, squash, from the north we came, carrying tobacco
& pieces of coral, silver in medicine bags, small knots of scalps,
animal or human we passed this way with our youngest & oldest
from far north only the Spaniards came from the southeast
they came
with gifts of smallpox & slavery this way they came
with spotted horses & striped blankets which we wore this way
over the arm which pointed north
when they asked where there were riches of gold or silver away
that way
we said, go north there you will find what you seek far north
across the narrow sea follow the Red Road into Asia, go back
far until you come to Spain go home that way go that way
& leave us for we have come this way this way
we came.
Anita Endrezze (Yaqui)
when the chill that rises up from the ground is warmed,
the snow is melted
where the small deer slept.
See how the bodies leave their mark
The snow reveals their paths on the hillsides
the white overcrossing pathways into the upper meadows
where water comes forth and streams begin.
With a new snow the unseen becomes seen.
Rivers begin this way
At the deer dance last year,
after the clashing forces of human good and evil,
the men dressed in black,
the human women mourning for what was gone
the evergreen sprigs carried in a circle
to show the return of spring,
That night, after everything human was resolved,
a young man, the chosen, became the deer.
In the white skin of its ancestors
wearing the head of the deer
above the human head
with flowers in his antlers, he danced,
beautiful and tireless,
until he was more than human,
until he, too, was deer.
Of all those who were transformed into animals,
the travelers Circe turned into pigs,
the woman who became the bear,
the girl who always remained the child of wolves,
none of them wanted to go back
to being human. And I would do it, too, leave off being human
and become what it was that slept outside my door last night,
rested in my sleep.
One evening I hid in the brush south of here
and watched at the place where they shed their antlers
and where the deer danced, it was true,
as my old grandmother said,
water came up from the ground
and I could hear them breathing at the crooked river
The road there I know. I live here,
and always when I walk it
they are not quite sure of me,
looking back now and then to see that I am still
far enough away, their gray brown bodies,
the scars of fences
the fur never quite straight,
as if they'd just stepped into it.
Linda Hogan
buffalo blood
ma gi mi
sumac berry
i yoda davo hi ah moo mii i
blue sky
nivi payu gist ut
your pictures
vi hoo mi ni no
they are walking
i yi mi zo zi yoo
they are walking
hani
over the
am mhoo ma zi soto zi
mirror
voo
of the morning star
ha ho
thank you
ha ho
thank you
Lance Henson
(go go hoh/ni meod)
hi do nah/na ma nist/sti doh/hist tah nov
the curled leaf filled with water
mo mi gun/vip eht/eyo eh dowin/mahp
holds a looking glass of sky
eh dion/im bohmp dists/voheh
in a quiet place
digh ho eh/eh hi/goht
i make this small sound
na ma nist/diki/iiiss
Lance Henson
as the wind lifts feather by feather
redtail hawk and crow
my sorrows are circling
they are a bird my relatives hear
as the earth remembers
they will remember
nothing endures
only the earth and sky
Lance Henson
She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.
She had some horses.
She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.
She had some horses.
She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.
She had some horses.
She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren't afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.
She had some horses.
She had horses who called themselves, "horse."
She had horses who called themselves, "spirit." and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.
She had some horses.
She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.
She had some horses.
She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.
She had some horses.
She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.
These were the same horses.
Joy Harjo (Muskogee)
footprints of its own. We traveled miles going home
in the submarine closeness of a car. Sand hills
recalling the sea. A coyote slipped across the road
before we knew. Night, the first skin around him.
He was coming from the river
where laughter calls out fish. Quietly a heavery wind
breaks against cedar. He doubled back,
curious, to meet the humming moons we rode
in this gully, without grass or stars. Our footprints
were foreign to him. He understood the light
and paused before the right front wheel, a shadow
of the mineral earth, pine tar in his fur.
Such dogs avoid our eyes, yet he recognized and held
my gaze. A being both so terrible and shy
it made my blood desperate
for the space he lived in:
broad water cutting terraced canyons,
and ice gleaming under hawthorne like a floor of scales.
Thick river, remember we were light thanking light,
slow music rising. Trees perhaps, or my own voice
out of tune. I danced a human claim for him
in this gully. No star s. He slipped
by us, old as breath, moving in the rushing dark
like moonlight through tamarack,
wave on wave of unknown country.
Crazed, I can't get close enough
to this tumble wild and tangled miracle.
Night is the first skin around me.
Roberta Hill-Whiteman(Oneida)
my dog sits about the door and howls,
I toss under a full moon,
admire my hairless legs, under my arms.
By the day geese eat our grain
and tolerate our tresspassing
They look to the sky
far into light
a V of honkers
follow their hearts
to the northland
When it rains,
we strip and run through trees
our bodies free to dance,
and in the night
I'll make a song that satisfies
like no other lover,
and when sleep comes, I dream
of shuffling through the forest,
liking bark and stones,
floor wet with leaf and pine,
growling over a bed of boughs,
breasts hanging to my cubs' mouths
I,
the women who wakes in my house
to make morning coffee,
to butter toast,
I look at the sky
far into light
a V of honkers
follow their hearts
to the northland
Mary Donahoe
to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it
has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teeth at the corners.
They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be
human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our
children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the
shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for
burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering
and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end here at the kitchen table, while we are laughing
and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Joy Harjo(Creek)
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