by Joy Harjo
from the window; almost blind, he is on his hands and
knees gardening in the pale glow. A hawk, an early riser,
hoping for a careless rodent or blow snake, hangs in the wind-
current just behind the house; a signal the world is
right with itself.
I see him
from the days no longer new chopping at the hard-packed
earth, mindless of the dismal rain. I hold the seeds
cupped in my hands.
III.
The sunrise nearly finished
the old man’s dog stays here waiting, waiting, whines
at the door, lonesome for the gentle man who lived here. I
get up and go outside and we take the small footpath to the
flat prairie above. We may pretend.
N. SCOTT MOMADAY (1934–), Kiowa, is a poet and novelist who is best known for his 1969 Pulitzer Prizewinning novel House Made of Dawn. Born in Lawton, Oklahoma, he lived most of his young life in Arizona, eventually moving to Jemez Pueblo in New Mexico at the age of twelve. He attended the University of New Mexico, graduating in 1958 with a BA in English, went to Stanford on a poetry fellowship, and earned his PhD in English literature in 1963. He has taught in numerous universities, including University of California at Berkeley and Santa Barbara. In 2007 he was named Oklahoma’s sixteenth poet laureate and was awarded the National Medal of Arts.
Angle of Geese
How shall we adorn
Recognition with our speech?—
Now the dead firstborn
Will lag in the wake of words.
Custom intervenes;
We are civil, something more:
More than language means,
The mute presence mulls and marks.
Almost of a mind,
We take measure of the loss;
I am slow to find
The mere margin of repose.
And one November
It was longer in the watch,
As if forever,
Of the huge ancestral goose.
So much symmetry!
Like the pale angle of time
And eternity.
The great shape labored and fell.
Quit of hope and hurt,
It held a motionless gaze,
Wide of time, alert,
On the dark distant flurry.
The Gourd Dancer
Mammedaty, 1880–1932
1. THE OMEN
Another season centers on this place.
Like memory the blood congeals in it;
Like memory the sun recedes in time
Into the hazy, southern distances.
A vagrant heat hangs on the dark river,
And shadows turn like smoke. An owl ascends
Among the branches, clattering, remote
Within its motion, intricate with age.
2. THE DREAM
Mammedaty saw to the building of this house. Just
there, by the arbor, he made a camp in the old way,
and in the evening when the hammers had fallen silent
and there were frogs and crickets in the black grass—
and a low hectic wind upon the pale, slanting plane
of the moon’s light—he settled deep down in his
mind dream. He dreamed of dreaming, and of the
summer breaking upon his spirit, as drums break upon
the intervals of the dance, and of the gleaming gourds.
3. THE DANCE
Dancing,
He dreams, he dreams—
The long wind glances, moves
Forever as a music to the mind;
The gourds are flashes of the sun.
He takes the inward, mincing steps
That conjure old processions and returns.
Dancing,
His moccasins,
His sash and bandolier
Contain him in insignia;
His fan is powerful, concise
According to his agile hand,
And holds upon the deep, ancestral air.
4. THE GIVEAWAY
Someone spoke his name, Mammedaty, in which
his essence was and is. It was a serious matter that his
name should be spoken there in the circle, among the
many people, and he was thoughtful, full of wonder,
and aware of himself and of his name. He walked
slowly to the summons, looking into the eyes of the man
who summoned him. For a moment they held each
other in close regard and all about them there was
excitement and suspense.
Then a boy came suddenly into the circle, leading
a black horse. The boy ran, and the horse after him.
He brought the horse up short in front of Mammedaty,
and the horse wheeled and threw its head and cut
its eyes in the wild way. And it blew hard and quivered
in its hide so that light ran, rippling, upon its shoulders
and its flanks—and then it stood still and was calm.
Its mane and tail were fixed in braids and feathers, and
a bright red chief’s blanket was draped in a roll over
its withers. The boy placed the reins in Mammedaty’s
hands. And all of this was for Mammedaty, in his honor,
as even now it is in the telling, and will be, as long as
there are those who imagine him in his name.
The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee
I am a feather on the bright sky.
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain.
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water.
I am the shadow that follows a child.
I am the evening light, the luster of meadows.
I am an eagle playing with the wind.
I am a cluster of bright beads.
I am the farthest star.
I am the cold of dawn.
I am the roaring of the rain.
I am the glitter on the crust of the snow.
I am the long track of the moon in a lake.
I am a flame of four colors.
I am a deer standing away in the dusk.
I am a field of sumac and the pomme blanche.
I am an angle of geese in the winter sky.
I am the hunger of a young wolf.
I am the whole dream of these things.
You see, I am alive, I am alive
I stand in good relation to the earth.
I stand in good relation to the gods.
I stand in good relation to all that is beautiful.
I stand in good relation to the daughter of Tsen-tainte.
You see, I am alive, I am alive.
VICTOR CHARLO (1937–), Bitterroot Salish and an elder of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, is a direct descendant of Chief Victor (Many Horses), who refused to sign the historic Hellgate Treaty of 1855. Born on the Flathead Reservation in western Montana, Charlo’s first calling was the priesthood. He left the seminary to pursue a career as an English teacher. He studied at Gonzaga University and the University of Montana, earning degrees in English and Latin, and a master’s in curriculum. He is an activist for Indigenous issues. He lives in Old Agency, Dixon, Montana.
Frog Creek Circle
Mountains so close we are relative.
Creek so cold it brings winter rain.
We return to warm August home,
Frog Creek, where I’ve lived so long
that smells are stored, opened only
here. This land never changes, always
whole, always the way we want it to be.
We always come back
to check our senses or to remember
dreams. We are remembered today in circles
of family, of red pine, of old time chiefs,
of forgotten horses that thunder dark stars.
There are songs that we come to this day,
soft as Indian mint, strange as this sky.
LOIS RED ELK (1940–), Isanti, Hunkpapa, and Ihanktonwa, was born on the Fort Peck Reservation in Montana. She lived in Los Angeles, where she worked as a TV talk show host, an actor, and a technical advisor for many Hollywood productions. Her first book, Our Blood Remembers (2011), was awarded the Best Non-Fiction award from Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers. She lives in Montana, where she is adjunct faculty at Fort Peck Community College.
Our Blood Remembers
The day the earth wept, a quiet wind covered the
lands weeping softly like an elderly woman, shawl
over bowed head. We all heard, remember? We were
all there. Our ancestral blood remembers the day
Sitting Bull, the chief of chiefs, was murdered. His
white horse quivered as grief shot up through the
crust of hard packed snow. Guardian relatives mourned
on our behalf. They knew our loss, took the pain from
our dreams, left us with our blood. We were asked to
remember the sweeter days, when leaves and animals
reached to touch him as he passed by. You know those
times, to reach for a truth only the pure of heart
reflect. Remember the holy man—peace loving. He
was a sun dancer—prayed for the people, water, land and
animals. Blessed among the blessed, chosen to lead the
people, he showed us the good red road, the one that
passes to our veins from earth through pipestone. Our
blood remembers. In vision he foresaw the demise of
that man, the one with yellow hair. “Soldiers falling
upside down into camp,” he saw. Champion of the people,
a visionary, he taught us how to dream, this ancestor
of our blood. He instructed, “Let us put our minds
together to see what life we will make for our children”—
those pure from God. Remember? Pure from God, the
absolute gift, from our blood and blessed by heaven’s
stars. And, we too, pure from God, our spirit, our blood,
our minds and our tongues. The sun dancer knew this,
showed us how to speak the words and walk the paths
our children would follow. Remember?
JAMES WELCH (1940–2003), Gros Ventre and Blackfeet, was a poet and a novelist born in Browning, Montana. He earned a degree in literature and an MFA at the University of Montana, where he studied with Richard Hugo. His book of poetry, Riding the Earthboy 40, was published in 1971. He is known for his novels Winter in the Blood, The Death of Jim Loney, and The Indian Lawyer, among others. He taught at the University of Washington and Cornell University, and he served on the Montana State Board of Pardons.
Harlem, Montana:
Just Off the Reservation
We need no runners here. Booze is law
and all the Indians drink in the best tavern.
Money is free if you’re poor enough.
Disgusted, busted whites are running
for office in this town. The constable,
a local farmer, plants the jail with wild
raven-haired stiffs who beg just one more drink.
One drunk, a former Methodist, becomes a saint
in the Indian church, bugs the plaster man
on the cross with snakes. If his knuckles broke,
he’d see those women wail the graves goodbye.
Goodbye, goodbye, Harlem on the rocks,
so bigoted you’d forget the latest joke,
so lonely, you’d welcome a battalion of Turks
to rule your women. What you don’t know,
what you will never know or want to learn–
Turks aren’t white. Turks are olive, unwelcome
alive in any town. Turks would use
your one dingy park to declare a need for loot.
Turks say bring it, step quickly, lay down and dead.
Here we are when men were nice. This photo, hung
in the New England Hotel lobby, shows them nicer
than pie, agreeable to the warring bands of redskins
who demanded protection money for the price of food.
Now, only Hutterites out North are nice. We hate
them. They are tough and their crops are always good.
We accuse them of idiocy and believe their belief all wrong.
Harlem, your hotel is overnamed, your children
are raggedy-assed but go on, survive
the bad food from the two cafes and peddle
your hate for the wild who bring you money.
When you die, if you die, will you remember
the three young bucks who shot the grocery up,
locked themselves in and cried for days, we’re rich,
help us, oh God, we’re rich.
The Man from Washington
The end came easy for most of us.
Packed away in our crude beginnings
in some far corner of a flat world,
we didn’t expect much more than firewood and buffalo robes
to keep us warm. The man came down,
a slouching dwarf with rainwater eyes,
and spoke to us. He promised
that life would go on as usual,
that treaties would be signed, and everyone—
man, woman and child—would be inoculated
against a world in which we had no part,
a world of money, promise and disease.
Riding the Earthboy 40
Earthboy: so simple his name
should ring a bell for sinners.
Beneath the clowny hat, his eyes
so shot the children called him
dirt, Earthboy farmed this land
and farmed the sky with words.
The dirt is dead. Gone to seed
his rows become marker to a grave
vast as anything but dirt.
Bones should never tell a story
to a bad beginner. I ride
romantic to those words,
those foolish claims that he
was better than dirt, or rain
that bleached this cabin
white as bone. Scattered in the wind
Earthboy calls me from my dream:
Dirt is where the dreams must end.
RICHARD LITTLEBEAR (1941–), Northern Cheyenne, is a poet and an advocate for bilingualism and bilingual education, who considers his greatest achievement having learned to read and write in the Cheyenne language. He was born on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation and grew up in Busby, Montana. He received his BA from Bethel College in Kansas and his MA from Montana State University. In 1994, he received his Ph.D. in education from Boston University. He is the president and interim dean of culture affairs at the Chief Dull Knife College on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation.
NAMȦHTA’SOOMȦHEVEME
We Are the Spirits of these Bones
He’tohe he’konȯtse nataosee’ešėhae’eševe’ȯhtsemo’tanonėstse.
We have been with these bones for a long time.
Naa ovahe nataešeasėhetotaetanome hetsėstseha
And we are beginning to feel a whole lot better
he’tohe he’konȯtse tse’ešeevȧho’ėhoo’ȯhtseto hetseohe
now that these bones are now back here
Tsetsėhestȧhese tsestaomepo’anomevȯhtsevȯse he’tohe ho’e.
among the Northern Cheyenne people on their Reservation.
Naa ovahe mato nahotoanavetanome.
But we are troubled for another reason.
Nao’omeaseohtsetanome
We want to travel on
he’tohe he’konȯtse etaešeevaovana’xaeno’oma’enenėstse.
now that these bones are safely buried.
Ooxesta etaeševȧhešeovėšemanenėstse.
They have now been properly put to rest.
Hene netao
’o etaešenėšepėheva’e.
All that has happened is all very good.
Naa ovahe naso’hotoanavetanome:
But we are still troubled:
He’tohe he’konȯtse etaešekanomeevapėhevo’tanėstse.
These bones are now in a good place.
Naa taamahe tsemȧhta’soomȧhevetse,
But we, as the spirits,
tsexho’eohtsėhanetse hetseohe nasaahene’enahenone.
do not know this place.
Hetseohe na’ȯhkeva’neamėsohpeohtseme heva
We just used to travel through this place
ho’ve’otsetse naa mato heva ho’eemȯhonetse.
when we were hunting the enemy or hunting for food.
Hetseohe nasaahestȧheheme, nėhešėhene’enome.
We are not from here, we want you to know that.
Hetsėstseha naeveamemano’eeme.
We have been meeting and singing.
Emȧhemoheevameo’o tse’tohe mȧhta’soomaho.
All the spirits who have been with these bones for a long time were called to a meeting to sing songs.
Nanȯhtsenanonėstse ho’nehenoonȯtse tsetao’seevane’evaotsêhaaetse ma’tao’omeaseohtsetse.
We are looking for the right wolf songs that will guide us.
Hetsėstseha naohkenemeneme.
So now we are singing.
Naohkeonesėhahtsenonėstse nemeotȯtse.
We are trying different songs.
Ma’tame’enomatse, nėstseo’omeaseohtseme,
Whenever we find the right wolf songs,
hapo’e tosa’e nėtseovėšename, tosa’e tsehpêhevėhene’enomatse.
we will travel on to a place we know, to a familiar place where we can sleep peacefully.
Tsestao’sėsaa’evave’šėhavėsevetanohetse.
Where we will no longer feel bad.
Tsestao’sėsaa’evave’šėhoonȯsetanohetse.
Where we will no longer feel homesick.
“Taaxa’e netaoneseme’enanonėstse ho’nehenoonȯtse,” naheme.
“Let us find some wolf songs,” we said.
Naevemaemamȯhevananonėstse onehavo’ėstse.
We put together some drums.
Hene koomaa’ėse naevepo’ponȯhanonėstse.
