The poetry ancestors scattered to all parts of the world. Each family of trees, animals, winds, stones needed a poet.
You Can Change the Story, My Spirit Said to Me as I Sat Near the Sea
FOR SHARON OARD WARNER AND DG NANOUK OKPIK
I am in a village up north, in the lands named “Alaska” now. These places had their own names long before English, Russian, or any other politically imposed trade language.
It is in the times when people dreamed and thought together as one being. That doesn’t mean there weren’t individuals. In those times, people were more individual in personhood than they are now in their common assertion of individuality: one person kept residence on the moon even while living in the village. Another was a man who dressed up and lived as a woman and was known as the best seamstress.
I have traveled to this village with a close friend who is also a distant relative. We are related to nearly everyone by marriage, clan, or blood.
The first night after our arrival, a woman is brutally killed in the village. Murder is not commonplace. The evil of it puts the whole village at risk. It has to be dealt with immediately so that the turbulence will not leave the people open to more evil.
Because my friend and I are the most obvious influence, it is decided that we are to be killed, to satisfy the murder, to ensure the village will continue in a harmonious manner. No one tells us we are going to be killed. We know it; my bones know it. It is unfortunate, but it is how things must be.
The next morning, my friend and I have walked down from the village to help gather, when we hear the killing committee coming for us.
I can hear them behind us, with their implements and stones, in their psychic roar of purpose.
I know they are going to kill us. I thank the body that has been my clothing on this journey. It has served me well for protection and enjoyment.
I hear—I still hear—the crunch of bones as the village mob, sent to do this job, slams us violently. It’s not personal for most of them. A few gain pleasure.
I feel my body’s confused and terrible protest, then my spirit leaps out above the scene and I watch briefly before circling toward the sea.
I linger out over the sea, and my soul’s helper who has been with me through the stories of my being says, “You can go back and change the story.”
My first thought was, Why would I want to do that? I am free of the needs of earth existence. I can move like wind and water.
But then, because I am human, not bird or whale, I feel compelled.
“What do you mean, ‘change the story’?”
Then I am back in the clothes of my body outside the village. I am back in the time between the killing in the village and my certain death in retribution.
“Now what am I supposed to do?” I ask my Spirit. I can see no other way to proceed through the story.
My Spirit responds, “You know what to do. Look, and you will see the story.”
And then I am alone with the sea and the sky. I give my thinking to time and let them go play.
It is then I see. I see a man in the village stalk a woman. She is not interested in him, but he won’t let go. He stalks her as he stalks a walrus. He is the village’s best hunter of walrus. He stalks her to her home, and when no one else is there, he trusses her as if she were a walrus, kills her and drags her body out of her house to the sea. I can see the trail of blood behind them. I can see his footprints in blood as he returns to the village alone.
I am in the village with my friend. The people are gathering and talking about the killing. I can feel their nudges toward my friend and I. I stand up with a drum in my hand. I say:
“I have a story I want to tell you.”
And then I begin drumming and dancing to accompany the story. It is pleasing, and the people want to hear more.
They want to hear what kind of story I am bringing from my village.
I sing, dance, and tell the story of a walrus hunter. He is the best walrus hunter of a village. I sing about his relationship to the walrus, and how he has fed his people. And how skilled he is as he walks out onto the ice to call out the walrus.
And then I tell the story of the killing of a walrus who is like a woman. I talk about the qualities of the woman, whom the man sees as a walrus. By now, the story has its own spirit that wants to live. It dances and sings and breathes. It surprises me with what it knows.
With the last step, the last hit of the drum, the killer stands up, as if to flee the gathering. The people turn together as one and see him. They see that he has killed the woman, and it is his life that must be taken to satisfy the murder.
When I return to present earth time, I can still hear the singing.
I get up from my bed and dance and sing the story.
It is still in my tongue, my body, as if it has lived there all along,
though I am in a city with many streams of peoples from far and wide across the earth.
We make a jumble of stories. We do not dream together.
Those who could see into the future predicted the storm long before the first settler stepped on the shores of the Mvskoke story. What was known in both worlds broke. In jazz, a break takes you to the skinned-down bones. You stop for a moment and bop through the opening, then keep playing to the other side of a dark and heavy history.
Shining persons arrive here
Ha yut ke lani
Open your being
Ha yut ke jate
In every small thought of what to fix
In every immense thought of dancers winding through the Milky Way
Ha yut ke lvste
What obscures, falls away.
Ha yut ke hvtke
I knew there was no way we get out of there when I heard the first cannon shot fired over the ramparts we’d built of logs. I knew it was over for this part of the story. I smelled blood even before the musket hole.
There is a small mist at the brow of the mountain,
Each leaf of flower, of taro, tree, and bush shivers with ecstasy.
And the rain songs of all the flowering ones who have called for the rain
Can be found there, flourishing beneath the currents of singing.
Rain opens us, like flowers, or earth that has been thirsty for more than a season.
We stop all of our talking, quit thinking, to drink the mystery.
We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.
We hear how the rain became rain, how we became human.
The wetness saturates and cleans everything, including the perpetrators
We will plant songs where there were curses.
The day went on as it always had, though we fought the government’s troops in that crook of the river that had given us much pleasure. The sun kept moving, as did the clouds. The birds were however silent. They could not comprehend the violence of humans.
Praise the rain, the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—
Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we’re led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
VANCOUVER, BC
Time is a being, like you, like me. Monahwee made friends with time, shared tobacco with time, so when he got on his horse to race his beloved warrior friends he had a little talk with time. Time said, “Get on my back, and we’ll fly free.” No matter how fast all the others raced, Monahwee and his horse always arrived long before it was possible . . . those were the best times.
There’s not enough time,
no puka to squeeze through
the head, then the shoulder
then the rest of it:
a poem
with hands, feet, and
a mysterious heart.
It’s too late.
I’ve promised a ride
to hula, and then
I am to paddle an outrigger
to Kewalo
and back in sprint time.
There is holy woven
even in the rush
where can be found
mythic roots for example how
this island was formed
from desire and fire
from the bottom of the sea
to the heavens,
and how humans came to be
next to the trees
who are teased by kalohe winds
who travel wild
to the other.
I am attracted
by the curling indigo of the holy,
sea turtles alongside the canoe
in the mist of elegant consciousness
floating above the clatter
of annoyance.
I climbed up dawn with the dancers
of sunrise.
The earth moved
lightly because she was
moved.
I begin climbing down sunset
over the Pali
as traffic slowed for a stop,
then the traffic started
all over again.
I thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. I thought of how so many I loved were no longer on this earth. I thought of all of my mother’s songs looking for a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the world. I started with G and rounded the bend at B flat. I followed my soul.
We’ve felt the winds surf the waves
Alongside the canoe
This is where joy lives
This moment of earth breath
Lifting up with us
Letting us go with us
One blue circle of bliss following another
Like dolphins leaping
To catch sunrise
Making happiness of water
We flew in that canoe
Through particles of memory
Sea turtles lifting their heads
Catching wind
Their lungs drumming
We lift up from sleep, and you take me in your arms
We head out for another wave
And then another
FOR OWEN
I returned to the city of country swing, square dance, round dance, stomp dance, gospel, hymn, powwow, rock-and-roll, blues, jazz, and rhythm-and-blues. We each carry the story of our birthplace in pieces of earth, water, sky, and spirit. Though nothing much appears to have changed here in this Indian town along the Arkansas River, it is always changing.
I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree.
—SANDRA CISNEROS
Some things on this earth are unspeakable:
Genealogy of the broken—
A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,
Or the smell of coffee and no one there—
Some humans say trees are not sentient beings,
But they do not understand poetry—
Nor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by
Wind, or water music—
Or hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft—
Now I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth
Between sunrise and sunset—
I cannot walk through all realms—
I carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark—
What shall I do with all this heartache?
The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk
Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway—
To the edge of the river of life, and drink—
I have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down:
Imagine what would it be like to dance close together
In this land of water and knowledge . . .
To drink deep what is undrinkable.
I heard a raven cry the blues one winter, in Anchorage, outside the Indian hospital. There was thick snow on the ground. Bushes with red berries lined the walk to the entrance. On a light post hunched a raven. He was mourning his human who was dying inside, who would be gone by sundown.
What will I do without you?
How will I find you again in the woven story of dark and light?
Everybody Has a Heartache (a blues)
In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon
The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights
Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going
And there’s no way back to where we’ve been.
The sun and the moon have disappeared to an island far from anywhere.
Everybody has a heartache—
The immense gatekeeper of Gate Z-100 keeps his cool.
This guardian of the sky teases me and makes me smile through the mess,
Building up his airline by stacking it against the company I usually travel:
Come on over to our side, we’ll treat you nice.
I laugh as he hands me back my ticket, then he turns to charm
The next customer, his feet tired in his minimum-wage shoes.
Everybody has a heartache—
Everyone’s eating fried, sweet, soft, and fat,
While we wait for word in the heart of the scrambled beast.
The sparkle of soda wets the dream core.
That woman over there the color of broth, did what she was told.
It’s worked out well as can be expected in a world
Where she was no beauty queen and was never seen,
Always in the back of someplace in the back—
She holds the newest baby. He has the croup.
Shush, shush. Go to sleep, my little baby sheepie.
He sits up front of her with his new crop of teeth.
Everybody has a heartache—
The man with his head bobbing to music no one else can hear, speaks to no one, but his body does.
Half his liver is swollen with anger; the other half is trying
To apologize—
What a mess I’ve made of history, he thinks without thinking.
Mother coming through the screen door, her clothes torn,
Whimpering: it’s okay baby, please don’t cry.
Don’t cry. Baby don’t cry.
And he never cries again.
Everybody has a heartache—
Baby girl dressed to impress, toddles about with lace on this and ruffle on that—
Her mother’s relatives are a few hundred miles away poised to welcome.
They might as well live on a planet of ice cream.
She’s a brand-new wing, grown up from a family’s broken hope.
Dance girl, you carry our joy.
Just don’t look down.
Everybody has a heartache—
Good-looking punk girl taps this on her screen
to a stranger she has never seen:
Just before dawn, you’re high again beneath a breaking sky,
I was slick fine leather with a drink in my hand.
Flying with a comet messenger nobody sees.
The quick visitor predicts that the top will be the bottom
And the bottom will flatten and dive into the sea.
I want to tell her:
You will dine with the lobster king, and
You will dance with crabs clicking castanets. You will sleep
Walk beyond the vestibule of sadness with a stranger
You have loved for years.
Everybody has a heartache—
This silence in the noise of the terminal is a mountain of bison skulls.
Nobody knows, nobody sees—
Unless the indigenous are dancing powwow all decked out in flash and beauty
We just don’t exist. We’ve been dispersed to an outlaw cowboy tale.
What were they thinking with all those guns and those handcuffs
In a size for babies?
They just don’t choose to remember.
We’re here.
In the terminal of stopped time I went unsteady to the beat,
Driven by a hungry spirit who is drunk with words and songs.
What can I do?
I have to take care of it.
The famished spirit eats fire, poetry, and pain; it only wants love.
I argue:
You want love?
Do you even know what it looks like, smells like?
But you cannot argue with hungry spirits.
Everybody has a heartache—
I don’t know exactly where I’m going; I only know where I’ve been,
I want to tell the man who sifted through the wreck to find us
In the blues shack of disappeared history—
I feel the weight of his heart against my cheek.
His hand is on my back pulling me to him in the dark, to a place
No soldiers can reach—
No matter fire leaping through holes in jump time,
No matter earthquake, or the breaking of love spilling over the drek of matter
In the ether, stacking one burden
Against the other—
We will all find our way.
We have a heartache.
Everyone comes into the world with a job to do—I don’t mean working for a company, a corporation—we were all given gifts to share, even the animals, even the plants, minerals, clouds . . . all beings.
That day your spirit came to us rains came in from the Pacific to bless.
Clouds peered over the mountains
in response to the singing of medicine plants—
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist.
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years
And your father, and all of us who loved you gathered, where
Pollen blew throughout that earthly house to bless.
And horses were running the land, hundreds of them
To accompany you here, to bless.
I wonder what you thought as you paused there in your spirit house
Before you entered into the breathing world to be with us?
Were you longing for us, too?
Our relatives in that beloved place dressed you in black hair,
Brown eyes, skin the color of earth, and turned you in this direction.
We want you to know that we urgently gathered to welcome you here.
We came bearing gifts to celebrate:
From your mother’s house we brought: poetry, music, medicine makers, stubbornness, beauty, tribal leaders, a yard filled with junked cars and the gift of knowing how to make them run.
We carried tobacco and cedar, new clothes and joy for you.
And from your father’s house came educators, thinkers, dreamers, weavers, and mathematical genius.
They carried a cradleboard, hope, white shell, and turquoise for you.
We brought blankets to wrap you in, soft beaded moccasins of deerskin.
Did you hear us as you traveled from your rainbow house?
We called you with thunder, with singing.
Did you see us as we gathered in the town beneath the mountains?
We were dressed in concern and happiness.
We were overwhelmed, as you moved through the weft of your mother
Even before you took your first breath, your eyes blinked wide open.
Now, breathe.
And when you breathe remember the source of the gift of all breathing.
When you walk, remember the source of the gift of all walking.
And when you run, remember the source of the gift of all running.
And when you laugh, remember the source of the gift of all laughter.
And when you cry, remember the source of the gift of all tears.
And when you dream, remember the source of the gift of all dreaming.
And when your heart is broken, remember the source of the gift of all breaking.
And when your heart is put back together, remember the source of all putting back together.
Don’t forget how you started your journey from that rainbow house,
How you traveled and will travel through the mountains and valleys of human tests.
There are treacherous places along the way, but you can come to us.
There are lakes of tears shimmering sadly there, but you can come to us.
And valleys without horses or kindnesses, but you can come to us.
And angry, jealous gods and wayward humans who will hurt you, but you can come to us.
You will fall, but you will get back up again, because you are one of us.
And as you travel with us remember this:
Give a drink of water to all who ask, whether they be plant, creature, human or helpful spirit;
May you always have clean, fresh water.
Feed your neighbors. Give kind words and assistance
to all you meet along the way—
We are all related in this place—
May you be surrounded with the helpfulness of family and good friends.
Grieve with the grieving, share joy with the joyful.
May you build a strong path with beautiful and truthful language.
Clean your room.
May you always have a home: a refuge from storm, a gathering-place for safety, for comfort.
Bury what needs to be buried.
Laugh easily at yourself; may you always travel lightly and well.
Praise and give thanks for each small and large thing.
May you grow in knowledge, in compassion, and beauty.
Always within you is that day your spirit came to us
When rains came in from the ocean to bless
They peered over the mountains in response to the singing of medicine plants
Who danced back and forth in shawls of mist.
Your mother labored there, so young in earthly years.
And we who love you gather here,
Pollen blows throughout this desert house to bless.
And horses run the land, hundreds of them for you,
And you are here to bless.
I keep thinking of my boyfriend coming upon some children playing with a fox, just a few blocks down the street. He stopped and got out of the car. It’s not every day you see a fox frolicking with children. He asked the children, “Is this your fox?” “No,” they told him, “he just came up and started playing with us.”
It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for “divine”?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast
Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway
Next to mine.
My friend Sarita went visiting an ill friend. She stayed with him for a few days, sharing food, stories . . . to make peace with their unfinished history. One afternoon, while he slept, she drove to the post office. She found a parking space in a lot down the street. She passed a blind man who was tapping the earth with his cane as she walked up the steps of the post office. When she came out she walked around the parking lot looking for her car, but it wasn’t there. She returned to the post office, where stood the blind man. He was looking for her. He asked her how he could help her. When she told him her problem he responded, “Take my arm.” The blind man led her directly to her car. He told her, “See with your heart, not with your eyes.” Then he disappeared.
Sun makes the day new.
Tiny green plants emerge from earth.
Birds are singing the sky into place.
There is nowhere else I want to be but here.
I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will
take us.
We gallop into a warm, southern wind.
I link my legs to yours and we ride together,
Toward the ancient encampment of our relatives.
Where have you been? they ask.
And what has taken you so long?
That night after eating, singing, and dancing
We lay together under the stars.
We know ourselves to be part of mystery.
It is unspeakable.
It is everlasting.
It is for keeps.
MARCH 4, 2013, CHAMPAIGN, ILLINOIS
I confided in him the longing I was afraid to name. I told him I wrote to leave a trail so that love can find us. I told him that poetry is lonely without the music. I wanted to tell him everything, the way you do when you meet the one who’s going to open all the doors in your heart.
I must keep from breaking into the story by force,
If I do I will find a war club in my hand
And the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
Your nation dead beside you.
I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
And from each drop of blood
Spring up sons and daughters, trees
A mountain of sorrows, of songs.
I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north
Not far from the birthplace of cars and industry.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have
Broken through the frozen earth.
Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand
Before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter
Of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war
And desire.
I have buried the dead, and made songs of the blood,
The marrow.
“What are you doing there, soul?” I asked. I felt naked and blown-open without my soul fastened in its usual hidden and dark place.
Sunrise, as you enter the houses of everyone here, find us.
We’ve been crashing for days, or has it been years.
Find us, beneath the shadow of this yearning mountain, crying here.
We have been sick with sour longings, and the jangling of fears.
Our spirits rise up in the dark, because they hear,
Doves in cottonwoods calling forth the sun.
We struggled with a monster and lost.
Our bodies were tossed in the pile of kill. We rotted there.
We were ashamed and we told ourselves for a thousand years,
We didn’t deserve anything but this—
And one day, in relentless eternity, our spirits discerned movement of prayers
Carried toward the sun.
And this morning we are able to stand with all the rest
And welcome you here.
We move with the lightness of being, and we will go
Where there’s a place for us.