And green lightning in your eyes.
It is almost love, almost a story to tell.
On Spring in the Alexander Gardens
Flowers have come from Central Asia,
And old people hold their faces to the sun.
There is rejuvenation in the patient heart
And ice breaking in the waterways.
Grandmother, close your eyes and give thanks,
Tomorrow will be time to sweep the streets.
This Morning the Whirling Wind
It was full of angry sound,
It was not, but its fury was visible.
I watched the tumult among the leaves
And thought of needles of the sun,
How they stitched a stillness
Beneath the green blur of havoc.
II
Now as I look back on that long landscape of the Jemez Valley, it seems to me that I have seen much of the world. And I have been glad to see it, glad beyond the telling. But what I see now is this: If I should hear at evening the wagons on the river road and the voices of children playing in the cornfields, or if in the sunrise I should see the long shadows running out to the west and the cliffs flaring up in the light ascending, or if riding out on an afternoon cool with rain I should see in the middle distance the old man Francisco with his flock, standing deep in the colors and patterns of the plain, it would again be all that I could hold in my heart.
From THE NAMES
A Century of Impressions
1.
on the frosted path
the tracks of many children
crisscross in the noon
2.
summer on the hills
poppies bursting in the sun
five colors rampant
3.
a stone outcropping
gray keeper of a green field
ever standing fast
4.
now the rain-swept plain
tomorrow the burning brush
and the weather rolling
5.
I sit holding her
my lady cello trembling
vibrant her long throat
6.
I behold your hands
the instruments of planting
shaping the harvests
7.
again the snowfall
a shroud of billowing lace
the sheer wind muffled
8.
who will love my face
when age has come upon me
the dog by the hearth
9.
another birthday
a wind in the chimney
a metronome ticks
10.
there are those who know
the prisms in the sunrise
the flakes in the air
11.
strolling in the hills
I am mindful of motion
the river wanders
12.
slowly the reeds dance
the wild river slaps its banks
encore of applause
13.
beyond the forest
a pool of eternity
in the sun’s saddle
14.
an eagle soaring
the wind a reflecting plane
mirror of passage
15.
a dark hinge of time
eclipse of the burning shield
and shadows crawling
16.
vapor of the sun
a haze on the mountainside
a curtain of smoke
17.
an antelope bounds
a tumult in the long grass
and evanescence
18.
in the photograph
a black and blue horse bolting
outburst of silence
19.
a young girl praying
and a hundred koi darting
an efficacy
20.
the ringing of wires
artificial birds abound
the bells of heaven
21.
wan the smile of cats
although the mice are aware
ominous the guise
22.
the tide appearing
absorbed in the silver sand
again and again
23.
the desert at dawn
the flowering saguaro
the drumming of rain
24.
geese sliding on ice
the whistling of reeds
pond music at dusk
25.
an aged merchant
a placard in the window
everything must go
26.
woman of the night
a hard makeup at the eyes
a porcelain doll
27.
the ballerina
a spiral of leaps and turns
lifesize music box
28.
in the great bahnhof
silver serpents side by side
Paris overnight
29.
an old dream of you
vivid as the autumn moon
dissolved in the dawn
30.
carols of the mind
on the pale magenta sky
the soul emerging
31.
the crow in the tree
a black tyrant making fun
a rabbit dancing
32.
a lone evergreen
a sentinel bearing snow
tells the time of cold
33.
the wind chides the cranes
they stand in the fallow fields
tall and tolerant
34.
a stone for grinding
shaped by the labor of years
and a woman’s hand
35.
ruts of wagon wheels
incise the Oregon Trail
graves marked and unmarked
36.
old ghosts of the house
at home in the darkened rooms
thin benign spirits
37.
the land’s crystal light
on the colors of canyons
here my pots of paint
38.
in her quiet space
she wrote of evanescence
and quicksilver days
39.
the house wastes away
there was life and laughter here
who shall remember
40.
time keeps the meadows
cattle low by the river
a bunched committee
41.
the plain in moonlight
a luminous patchwork quilt
fireflies stitch the sky
42.
a sudden downpour
a thousand frogs raining down
the deluge croaking
43.
bees enter a swarm
the mass shifting like a fog
a floating shadow
44.
through the Grand Canyon
the rapids dance with the raft
tango in the toss
45.
the man is worthy
and carries his honor well
children uphold him
46.
old women are wise
indeed they will tell you so
and gossip goes round
47.
a beautiful girl
flowers in her flowing hair
a petal spins down
48.
a golden eagle
clutching the slippery air
incises the storm
49.
on the barn’s red wall
the tobacco’s drifting smoke
a rainy harvest
50.
when you went away
I burned sweetgrass and cedar
when will you return
51.
rolling tumbleweed
a globe and brittle network
wayfaring pilgrim
52.
a seductive scent
your hair like the sheen of flax
je suis dans la lune
53.
on the crooked limb
a harbinger of the fall
the aspens shiver
54.
the chill of morning
becomes the September noon
orange, red, yellow
55.
the wind-shaped icebergs
colors ranging on the sea
little auks skimming
56.
the Silk Road winding
ancient towns and rich bazaars
numberless spices
57.
the mother ditch bends
beneath elder cottonwoods
the sun splinters
58.
I follow the tracks
a lean tawny animal
blends in the grass
59.
the flower most loved
beheaded in the bean field
mere execution
60.
the lowly lizard
crouching on the sandy path
claims the right-of-way
61.
the cemetery
row upon row of headstones
a white armada
62.
a pride of lions
in the streets of Nairobi
shops closing early
63.
the perfect poem
in Tibet it is written
and there it is lost
64.
shadows weave and dance
on the walls of Samarkand
where Tamerlane sleeps
65.
in the city streets
the raucous sounds of commerce
silence the outcast
66.
golden birds of prey
the rodent stiff in shadow
ancient sacrifice
67.
in the wild surround
lions in the underbrush
nothing is unseen
68.
cistern in the rain
a feathered migration
descending in thirst
69.
in a quiet room
the retreat of growing old
dreams of days gone by
70.
in a yellow dress
she glories in the summer
and we give good thanks
71.
we speak of spices
hunger has no urgency
fragrances will do
72.
on the trembling rock
I gaze on infinity
waves crash under me
73.
the poet recites
children listen and wonder
these are the first words
74.
the sound of crickets
in the green and yellow fields
strident threnody
75.
the valley below
a song among the shadows
the lyrical land
76.
thunderheads rising
on the far rim of the world
blackness descending
77.
I will wait for you
make a song as you approach
my soul will listen
78.
butterflies swirling
upon the crest of a knoll
clouds of confetti
79.
landscapes forgotten
a return to sacred sites
a world renewal
80.
a lynx on the slope
paw prints tracing a straight line
to deeps in the wood
81.
words marshaled in file
constructions of thought and dreams
miracles of meaning
82.
a bend in the road
the train curls around a lake
the moon divided
83.
the candle gutters
darkness creeps upon the floor
objects change their shape
84.
on the autobahn
flashing lights in the mirror
whoosh a Mercedes
85.
in the great ballroom
a couple comes together
from a single cell
86.
you were sound asleep
the moon slipped behind a cloud
you bathed in blue light
87.
geologic time
informs the towering cliffs
with eternity
88.
a brush on linen
color and image emerge
a village in snow
89.
the river winding
across the yellow expanse
would define distance
90.
a book of poems
arrived in the afternoon
a bound excitement
91.
then a blue aura
surrounded you where you stood
energy of love
92.
one hundred haiku
elemental exercise
to nourish the mind
93.
to invade Russia
in the fury of winter
surely ill-advised
94.
an imperfection
the flaw in the walking stick
a fortune unique
95.
in Brocéliande
in the hold of Merlin’s tomb
far from Camelot
96.
the wild mare lunges
and bolts through the arroyo
on the edge of fear
97.
on a green hillside
a man herds his flock of sheep
on an heirloom stick
98.
for the villagers
stories as old as the earth
tell the human heart
99.
in the beginning
the sound of the spoken word
the roll of thunder
100.
in far dimensions
you have succeeded at last
mere mortality
III
There was a woman whose hair was long and heavy and black and beautiful. She drew it about her like a shawl and so divided herself from the world that not even Age could find her. Now and then she steals into the men’s societies and fits her voice into their holiest songs. And always, just there, is a shadow which the firelight cannot cleave.
From IN THE PRESENCE OF THE SUN
The Death of Sitting Bear
There is the photograph taken by William S. Soule at Fort Sill, Indian Territory, in 1870, a black-and-white photoprint, 6 x 7 inches mounted on 8 x 10 inches paper and preserved in the National Anthropological Archives of the Smithsonian Institution.
Sitting Bear sits looking directly into the camera. He is an old man, lean, and weathered. His gray hair is loose and reaches to his shoulders, and his mustache droops from the corners of his mouth. His eyes are piercing and narrow and his nose straight and prominent. His cheekbones are high and pronounced as well, and his forehead generous. Most remarkable are his hands, which lie crossed on his lap. They are long and expressive, indeed artistic, as if he might have been a painter or a musician. The nails of his fingers are long and surprisingly light in color, almost white against his dark skin. Befitting his name they resemble the long ivory-like claws of Ursus arctos horribilis. Draped about him is a buffalo robe, and he wears the bandolier of the Kaitsenko society, of which he was the leader. The society was the elite warrior organization in the Kiowa tribe. It was composed of ten men
only. The bandolier has a loop at either end. The warrior wore one loop around his neck. In time of battle the other loop was secured to the ground by means of a sacred arrow. The Kaitsenko must stand this ground to the death.
The portrait of Sitting Bear is that of a formidable man, singular and mysterious, one who exists now in the distance of myth and oral history. The cultural principles by which he lived without compromise—bravery, steadfastness, generosity, and truth—have different meanings and different magnitudes of importance in our time than they had in his. And so, I believe, does the concept of death. Sitting Bear lived the whole way of life he was given and he died the death of a Kaitsenko warrior. For him that was an equation both proper and inevitable.
O sun, you remain forever, but we Kaitsenko
must die,
O earth, you remain forever, but we Kaitsenko
must die.
Sitting Bear, 1870
(Photograph by William S. Soule)
1
It was in my name that the blood bore me,
Set-angya in Kiowa, otherwise Sitting Bear.
The hills are black where I was born,
Dark in the density of wilderness, tangled
In twists of pine and oak, floating on the plain.
Below, a prairie tufted in whispering grass, a fan
Of undulant drifts, a bare definition of the earth.
In me a memory of the ancestral north.
2
Origins confirmed me. There lay the hollow log.
And the emergence of the coming-out people,
One by one. From what mythic world did we come?
Beyond the Yellowstone a Sarsi woman and
The Athapascan strain, and I was of two parts,
Waif and warrior in the camps, then sage and chief.
I heard ice ringing on the wind, and beheld the
Shivering colors of the Arctic night, and a destiny.
3
Mine were a people of pilgrimage. On the Great
Plains they followed the arc of the sun. I so
Embraced the meaning of my name. I was brave,
Steadfast, generous, and true. And I excelled;
Honors were placed on me. I led the Kaitsenko,
The band of ten heroes. We owned the death song.
I was known beyond the camps and among enemies.
My medicine was feared, and I taunted death.
The Death of Sitting Bear Page 5
