by Joy Harjo
Grandfather is kindling like trees of the world.
My brothers are gunpowder,
and I am smoke with gray hair,
ash with black fingers and palms.
I am wind for the fire.
My dear one is a jar of burned bones
I have saved.
This is where our living goes
and still we breathe,
and even the dry grass
with sun and lightning above it
has no choice but to grow
and then lie down
with no other end in sight.
Air is between these words,
fanning the flame.
PHILLIP CARROLL MORGAN (1948–), Choctaw and Chickasaw, earned his PhD in Native American literature from the University of Oklahoma. Morgan won the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas First Book Award for Poetry for his poetry collection The Fork-in-the-Road Indian Poetry Store (2006). He is also the author of three Native American history books.
Anumpa Bok Lukfi Hilha
(Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek)
pi-pokni lawah
micha pi-mafo lawah-vt
yakni imposa-ttok
itikba peni fohki
bok boha chitoah akkahikah
fichi-ivknah-vt
ai ninak kolaha okchamali-lhiposhi
isht-alhpisa hikia okla-sahnoyechih
yakni-imposa-ttok
itikba akuchi hastula nowa
akuchi hina-chilukoah
chukfi lumah-vt hilha micha lobukachi-ttok
hvcha hinlatuk anufohkah-kiyoh
hanima okla-ilap-immih aia
lukfi lhali-tuk im-ibbak
nishkin okchi lawah yaya-ttok
hakta yakni chuka pisachukmah
anoa kiyoh pis-achi kanima im-oklah-vt
talhepa sipokni lvwa aiashe-ttok
kalampi-ttok issish bano-ttok
ahni-ttok illi-ttok
i-fonih-vt okla hummah ist ona-ttok
i-chabiha sitoha-fonih-vt
talli-tuk micha itamoa
amba chim-pisa
amtakla okchay-achi
im-boshulli micha im-tushtua-vt
okcha alichih
kia aiena anumpa lvwa
pa il-anumpilih
chukfi luma-vt hilha micha lobukahci-ttok
Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek
(Anumpa Bok Lukfi Hilha)
many of our grandmothers
and grandfathers
kissed the earth
before loading on the boats
to travel the big muddy river
light yellow stars
in the jade green magnolia night
stood watch as the old ones
kissed the earth
before walking out into the winter
into the broken road
the rabbit danced and fell into the creek
pearl river could not understand
where his own people were going
they cupped the dirt in their hands
they cried many tears
because they would never again see
our beautiful home land where our people
had lived for thousands of years
they froze they were bleeding
they suffered they died
their bones were carried to oklahoma
some of the bone bundles
were scattered and lost
but they see you
and live on through me
bits and pieces of them
awaken strengthen
even with these words
we are speaking
the rabbit danced and fell into the creek
MOSES JUMPER JR. (1950–), Seminole, is the son of Moses, an alligator wrestler and tribal leader, and Betty Mae, a writer and first woman to be tribal chair. He is the director of the recreation program for the Seminole Tribe of Florida, Hollywood Reservation, and is a cattle rancher and breeder of Seminole ponies. His book of poetry is Echoes in the Wind: Seminole Indian Poetry of Moses Jumper, Jr. (1990).
Simplicity
The small tunnel which the rabbit uses for escape and travel,
The small imprints of the killdeer in the soft white sand near the pond,
The fragileness of the newborn doves and how the mother puts on an act to lure away approaching enemies,
The unity of the small minnows as they protect themselves by staying near the shoreline of the stream,
The clear whistling sound the scorpion makes to let one know he’s near,
The shagginess of the owl’s nest and the neatness of the hummingbird’s,
The long, graceful jumps of the sleek, green frog,
The short, choppy hops of the lumpy toad,
The agileness and grace of the otter,
The awkward wing flapping of the crane,
The camouflage nest of the mobile alligator and the will to reach the water of her young,
The winding tunnels, that lead to nowhere, of the sly red fox,
The abundance of life in the wet season and stench of death in the dry.
The persistence of the mother hawk to nudge her young to make that flight,
I saw all these things, and many more, and I know they were right.
LEANNE HOWE (1951–), Choctaw, writes poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and screenplays. She is the Edison Distinguished Professor at the University of Georgia. Howe is a United States Artists (USA) Ford Fellow as well as the recipient of a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas, an American Book Award, and an Oklahoma Book Award. She was also a Fulbright Distinguished Scholar to Jordan. Her most recent collection of poetry is Savage Conversations (2019).
Noble Savage Sees a Therapist
NOBLE SAVAGE:
She’s too intense for me.
And I feel nothing. No emotion.
In fact, I’m off all females
—even lost my lust for
attacking white chicks.
(Pause.)
THERAPIST:
(He writes furiously on a yellow pad, but says nothing.)
NOBLE SAVAGE:
People expect me to be strong.
Wise,
Stoic,
Without guilt.
A man capable of a few symbolic acts.
Ugh—is that what I’m supposed to say?
THERAPIST:
(He continues writing.)
NOBLE SAVAGE:
I don’t feel like
Maiming
Scalping
Burning wagon trains.
I’m developing hemorrhoids
From riding bareback.
It’s an impossible role.
The truth is I’m conflicted.
I don’t know who I am.
What should I do, Doc?
THERAPIST:
I’m afraid we’ve run out of time. Let’s take this up during our next visit.
Ishki, Mother, Upon Leaving
the Choctaw Homelands, 1831
Right here is where I once suckled babies into Red people
Right here we grew three sisters into Corn, Beans, and Squash
Right here we gave goods to all who hungered
Right here we nurtured abundance.
Right here my body was a cycle of giving until
Torn from our homelands by the Naholla, and
Andrew Jackson, the duteous seamster
Intent on opening all veins.
Right here there’s a hole of sorrow in the center of my chest
A puncture
A chasm of muscle
Sinew
Bones
Right here I will stitch my wounds and live on
And sing,
And sing,
I am singing, still.
The List We Make
PART 1
Luis and Salvadore, the two Miwok guides for the 1848 Donner Party, were the first to be shot and eaten as food.
William F
oster had become deranged, and it is understandable why, knowing what he endured. He was terrified he would die of starvation, and Foster planned on murdering the Indians for food. Luis and Salvadore promptly ran away. The party followed their tracks. It was easy. The feet of the Indians had become so raw from exposure all their toes had fallen off, marking their trail with blood. Foster figured if the Indians didn’t lead them to safety, they could at least find their corpses to use as food.
By January 9th or 10th, the Indians had suffered terrible exposure to the cold, and survived on practically nothing to eat, with no fire. They couldn’t last like that. They gave out near a small creek, and it was here the Forlorn Hope came upon them. Despite argument from some and the Indians' look of terror, Foster shot the two Indians with his rifle. Though they would not have lived long, the act was horrifying.*
PART 2
The waiting road
arrives
this time San Francisco
moves along the abyss
in a black car filled with dawn and
men’s underwear.
Again,
a membrane binds us
and I crave all you offer
your hands,
your poet’s wrists that bleed
on the page
your penis of words
that penetrates my vagina
like a wet weapon.
We drape our bodies with new surroundings,
but like moveable sets on a theater stage
we fear hammer and nails,
hunger,
death,
longing,
and consumption.
We café
trying to remember who we are,
for each other, I mean.
At Dollys, wide omelets,
big cups of brown Espresso unearth
old hungers, centuries old,
beckon.
“Yes,” curves us together
and we breathe in the same thin air.
We breathe in each other
and forget all that has happened.
On the road made flesh
they separate us
from our fingers and toes
separate us from our bones.
At first, we are swallowed whole
like the wafers of God
down the gullets of hungry Christians.
Everything we did, everything we didn’t do
is digested in their dreams
Now they know us better than we knew ourselves.
On the lam (again) we head north to the casinos
becoming what we fear: Consumers of goods and services.
We give twenty dollars to a stranger
to teach us how
to attach chains so
we can slip past Donner Pass
where banquet chairs pose
still as icicles
patiently awaiting our return.
We race toward the Biltmore Motel
our music is hard sevens.
We lunch in the high Sierras and
You teach me to gamble.
We crash a writers' conference
A bad poet reads an “ode to appetite”
But this time we will not be dinner.
PART 3
Seven thousand feet up
though Lake Tahoe stalks us
we practice our escape by devouring a
repugnant pig like our killers once devoured us.
At the All-American Café
you in grey to my conventional black,
we dine on goose liver,
pineapple, and curried ice cream.
Where are Luis and Salvadore now?
Who the hell cares? We’re following
a treasure map of flesh and blood,
the ghost camouflage of exotic appetites
that came for Luis and Salvadore
has infected us all.
And,
what of this steamy you and I?
This steam,
This you and I?
Imprisoned by a hoary’s God’s ravenous hunger
we have not shadow’s gaze
Nor eyes and ears.
No shadowy past.
Nothing, but here and now
made manifest within a complexion of stars
Our bodies
Conjoined in the heavens
On earth as
Luis y Salvadore
Conjoined in blood,
And oddly enough
Love.
JOY HARJO (1951–), Mvskoke, a poet, musician, writer, playwright, and performer, was appointed the twenty-third Poet Laureate of the United States in 2019. She is the author of nine books of poetry, including her most recent, An American Sunrise. She has been honored with the 2017 Ruth Lilly Prize from the Poetry Foundation, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and a Guggenheim Fellowship. Her memoir Crazy Brave won the PEN USA Literary Award for Creative Non-Fiction. Her music has been awarded a Native American Music Award (NAMMY) for Best Female Artist of the Year, 2009. She is cofounder with Jennifer Elise Foerster of an arts mentorship program for Mvskoke citizens.
Running
It’s closing time. Violence is my boyfriend
With a cross to bear
Hoisted on by the church.
He wears it everywhere.
There are no female deities in the Trinity.
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here,
Said the flying fish to the tree.
Last call.
We’ve had it with history, we who look for vision here
In the Indian and poetry bar, somewhere
To the left of Hell.
Now I have to find my way, when there’s a river to cross and no
Boat to get me there, when there appears to be no home at all.
My father gone, chased
By the stepfather’s gun. Get out of here.
I’ve found my father at the bar, his ghost at least, some piece
Of him in this sorry place. The boyfriend’s convincing to a crowd.
Right now, he’s the spell of attraction. What tales he tells.
In the fog of thin hope, I wander this sad world
We’ve made with the enemy’s words.
The lights quiver,
Like they do when the power’s dwindling to a
dangling string.
It is time to go home. We are herded like stoned cattle, like children for the
bombing drill—
Out the door, into the dark street of this old Indian town
Where there are no Indians anymore.
I was afraid of the dark, because then I could see
Everything. The truth with its eyes staring
Back at me. The mouth of the dark with its shiny moon teeth,
No words, just a hiss and a snap.
I could hear my heart hurting
With my in-the-dark ears.
I thought I could take it. Where was the party?
It’s been a century since we left home with the American soldiers at our backs.
The party had long started up in the parking lot.
He flew through the dark, broke my stride with a punch.
I went down then came up.
I thought I could take being a girl with her heart in her
Arms. I carried it for justice. For the rights of all Indians.
We all had that cross to bear.
Those Old Ones followed me, the quiet girl with the long dark hair,
The daughter of a warrior who wouldn’t give up.
I wasn’t ready yet, to fling free the cross
I ran and I ran through the 2 A.M. streets.
It was my way of breaking free. I was anything but history.
I was the wind.
She Had Some Horses
She had some horses.
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 eyes of trains.
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.
