Mid-America Prayer
Standing again
within and among all things,
Standing with each other
as sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers,
daughters and sons, grandmothers and grandfathers--
the past and present generations of our people,
Standing again
with and among all items of life,
the land, rivers, the mountains, plants, animals,
all life that is around us
that we are included with,
Standing within the circle of the horizon,
the day sky and the night sky,
the sun, moon, the cycle of seasons
and the earth mother which sustains us,
Standing again
with all things
that have been in the past,
that are in the present,
and that will be in the future
we acknowledge ourselves
to be in a relationship that is responsible
and proper, that is loving and compassionate,
for the sake of the land and all people,
we ask humbly of the creative forces of life
that we be given a portion
with which to help ourselves so that our struggle
and work will also be creative
for the continuance of life,
Standing again, within, among all things
we ask in all sincerity for hope, courage, peace,
strength, vision, unity and continuance.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
Simon J. Ortiz is an Acoma Pueblo Native American who was born and raised near Albuquerque, New Mexico and grew up speaking the Acoma tongue.
Showing posts with label Native American. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Native American. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Simon Ortiz: Hawk
Hawk
Hawk
sweeps
clear through
the background
which is sky
and mountain ledge,
--Old Chuska Mountain,
my friend, shelter--
His immense knowledge
of wind,
his perception
of circling slow wind,
his edge of wing
on air trail
straightens then suddenly
overhead,
directly above us,
the pines.
This man, he knows
what he is doing.
-- Simon Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
What would it be like to fly like this hawk?
I remember standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon and watching birds fly, first maybe ten feet off the ground where I was standing and then, beyond the edge where I couldn't go. What would that be like, to have the ground maybe ten feet below and then suddenly drop away to hundreds of feet below? What would that be like?
Hawk
sweeps
clear through
the background
which is sky
and mountain ledge,
--Old Chuska Mountain,
my friend, shelter--
His immense knowledge
of wind,
his perception
of circling slow wind,
his edge of wing
on air trail
straightens then suddenly
overhead,
directly above us,
the pines.
This man, he knows
what he is doing.
-- Simon Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
What would it be like to fly like this hawk?
I remember standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon and watching birds fly, first maybe ten feet off the ground where I was standing and then, beyond the edge where I couldn't go. What would that be like, to have the ground maybe ten feet below and then suddenly drop away to hundreds of feet below? What would that be like?
Monday, September 1, 2014
N. Scott Momaday: The Bear
Words are names. To write a poem is to practice a naming ceremony.
These figures moving in my rhyme,
Who are they? Death, and Death's dog, time.
And to confer a name is to confer being. We perceive existence by means of words and names. To this or that vague, potential thing, I will give a name, and it will exist thereafter, and its existence will be clearly perceived. The name enables me to see it. I can call it by its name, and I can see it for what it is.
-- N. Scott Momaday --
The Bear
What ruse of vision,
escarping the wall of leaves,
rending incision
into countless surfaces,
would cull and color
his somnolence, whose old age
has outworn valor,
all but the fact of courage?
Seen, he does not come,
move, but seems forever there,
dimensionless, dumb,
in the windless noon's hot glare.
More scarred than others
these years since the trap maimed him,
pain slants his withers,
drawing up the crooked limb.
Then he is gone, whole,
without urgency, from sight,
as buzzards control,
imperceptibly, their flight.
The quotation and poem are from
-- N. Scott Momaday --
In the Presence of the Sun: Stories and Poems
About the Author:
"N. Scott Momaday is a poet, novelist, painter, playwright, and storyteller. He resides in the American Southwest, and he is Regents Professor of the Humanities at the University of Arizona (in Tucson). Among his numerous awards are the Academy of American Poets Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, and the Premio Letterario Internazionale 'Mondello.' He is a member of the Kiowa Gourd Dance Society and a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He walks long distances, and he rides an Appaloosa mare named 'Ma'am.' At his best he cooks. He is justly famous for a recipe named 'The Washita Crossing Soup,' the ingredients of which are, in his words, 'simple, sacred, and secret.' He is a bear."
Taken from the back cover:
In the Presence of the Sun: Stories and Poems is a collection of poems, stories (obviously), paintings, and illustrations by N. Scott Momaday. They represent thirty years of work, from 1961 to 1991. "Momaday's voice is ancestral and contemporary, profoundly American and genuinely universal. Here, at his best, is a truly distinguished poet, storyteller, and artist.
These figures moving in my rhyme,
Who are they? Death, and Death's dog, time.
And to confer a name is to confer being. We perceive existence by means of words and names. To this or that vague, potential thing, I will give a name, and it will exist thereafter, and its existence will be clearly perceived. The name enables me to see it. I can call it by its name, and I can see it for what it is.
-- N. Scott Momaday --
The Bear
What ruse of vision,
escarping the wall of leaves,
rending incision
into countless surfaces,
would cull and color
his somnolence, whose old age
has outworn valor,
all but the fact of courage?
Seen, he does not come,
move, but seems forever there,
dimensionless, dumb,
in the windless noon's hot glare.
More scarred than others
these years since the trap maimed him,
pain slants his withers,
drawing up the crooked limb.
Then he is gone, whole,
without urgency, from sight,
as buzzards control,
imperceptibly, their flight.
The quotation and poem are from
-- N. Scott Momaday --
In the Presence of the Sun: Stories and Poems
About the Author:
"N. Scott Momaday is a poet, novelist, painter, playwright, and storyteller. He resides in the American Southwest, and he is Regents Professor of the Humanities at the University of Arizona (in Tucson). Among his numerous awards are the Academy of American Poets Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, and the Premio Letterario Internazionale 'Mondello.' He is a member of the Kiowa Gourd Dance Society and a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He walks long distances, and he rides an Appaloosa mare named 'Ma'am.' At his best he cooks. He is justly famous for a recipe named 'The Washita Crossing Soup,' the ingredients of which are, in his words, 'simple, sacred, and secret.' He is a bear."
Taken from the back cover:
In the Presence of the Sun: Stories and Poems is a collection of poems, stories (obviously), paintings, and illustrations by N. Scott Momaday. They represent thirty years of work, from 1961 to 1991. "Momaday's voice is ancestral and contemporary, profoundly American and genuinely universal. Here, at his best, is a truly distinguished poet, storyteller, and artist.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Simon J. Ortiz: The Boy and Coyote
The Boy and Coyote
for a friend, Ed Theis, met at VAH
Fort Lyons, Colorado, November
and December 1974
You can see the rippled sand rifts
shallow inches below the surface.
I walk on the alkalied sand.
Willows crowd the edges of sand banks
sloping to the Arkansas River.
I get lonesome for the young aftenoons
of a boy growing at Acoma.
He listens to the river,
the slightest nuance of sound.
Breaking thin ice from a small still pool,
I find Coyote's footprints.
Coyote, he's always somewhere before you;
he knows you'll come along soon.
I smile at his tracks when are not fresh
except in memory and say a brief prayer
for good luck for him and for me and thanks.
All of a sudden, and not far away,
there are the reports of a shotgun,
muffled flat by saltcedar thickets.
Everything halts for several moments,
no sound, even the wind holds to itself.
The animal in me crouches, poised immobile,
eyes trained on the distance, waiting
for motion again. The sky is wide;
blue is depthless; and the animal
and I wait for breaks in the horizon.
Coyote's preference is for silence
broken only by the subtle wind,
uncanny bird sounds, saltcedar scraping,
and the desire to let that man free,
to listen for the motion of sound.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
A quiet moment of reflection for a man and recollection of a similar moment as a child. I remember times when I've been out hiking and hearing a gun shot and the sudden silence that follows. Like Ortiz, I, too, crouched and waited, waited for what I don't know, but waited for something. Something was out there that was inimical to life--killing because killing was fun.
for a friend, Ed Theis, met at VAH
Fort Lyons, Colorado, November
and December 1974
You can see the rippled sand rifts
shallow inches below the surface.
I walk on the alkalied sand.
Willows crowd the edges of sand banks
sloping to the Arkansas River.
I get lonesome for the young aftenoons
of a boy growing at Acoma.
He listens to the river,
the slightest nuance of sound.
Breaking thin ice from a small still pool,
I find Coyote's footprints.
Coyote, he's always somewhere before you;
he knows you'll come along soon.
I smile at his tracks when are not fresh
except in memory and say a brief prayer
for good luck for him and for me and thanks.
All of a sudden, and not far away,
there are the reports of a shotgun,
muffled flat by saltcedar thickets.
Everything halts for several moments,
no sound, even the wind holds to itself.
The animal in me crouches, poised immobile,
eyes trained on the distance, waiting
for motion again. The sky is wide;
blue is depthless; and the animal
and I wait for breaks in the horizon.
Coyote's preference is for silence
broken only by the subtle wind,
uncanny bird sounds, saltcedar scraping,
and the desire to let that man free,
to listen for the motion of sound.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
A quiet moment of reflection for a man and recollection of a similar moment as a child. I remember times when I've been out hiking and hearing a gun shot and the sudden silence that follows. Like Ortiz, I, too, crouched and waited, waited for what I don't know, but waited for something. Something was out there that was inimical to life--killing because killing was fun.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Simon Ortiz: May 27, 1941
Earth Woman
for Joy
This woman has been shaping
mountains
millions of years and still
her volcanoes erupt
with continuous mysteries.
How gentle
her movements, her hands,
soft wind,
warm rain,
the moving pain
of pleasure
we share.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
I wonder about " How gentle/ her movements, her hands," though, when I consider volcanoes, which Ortiz mentions and earthquakes, which he doesn't. Could he be speaking of a human woman also?
from Woven Stone
for Joy
This woman has been shaping
mountains
millions of years and still
her volcanoes erupt
with continuous mysteries.
How gentle
her movements, her hands,
soft wind,
warm rain,
the moving pain
of pleasure
we share.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
I wonder about " How gentle/ her movements, her hands," though, when I consider volcanoes, which Ortiz mentions and earthquakes, which he doesn't. Could he be speaking of a human woman also?
from Woven Stone
Monday, November 12, 2012
Simon J. Ortiz: Small Things Today
Small Things Today
at my Hesperus Camp
Had a tortilla with some honey
at midafternoon. It was good.
Wished I had some chili.
Smell of apples, wet fields;
in back of the blue tent
is a box of last season's
Animas Valley apples; soon,
it will be another Fall.
Wind blows, shakes the tarp,
water falls to the ground.
The sound of water splashing.
Several hours ago, watched
a woodpecker watching me.
We both moved our heads
with funny jerks.
Rex and his sad, dog eyes.
Somebody looking around in a field,
looking for lost things.
Notice bean sprouts growing.
They're very pale and nude.
Rex doesn't like chicken livers,
but gizzards are okay.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
Small things, little things, all sorts of unconnected things, but now linked together. I wonder how many of these small things he would have noticed if someone else had been there with him. Sometimes others are a distraction.
at my Hesperus Camp
Had a tortilla with some honey
at midafternoon. It was good.
Wished I had some chili.
Smell of apples, wet fields;
in back of the blue tent
is a box of last season's
Animas Valley apples; soon,
it will be another Fall.
Wind blows, shakes the tarp,
water falls to the ground.
The sound of water splashing.
Several hours ago, watched
a woodpecker watching me.
We both moved our heads
with funny jerks.
Rex and his sad, dog eyes.
Somebody looking around in a field,
looking for lost things.
Notice bean sprouts growing.
They're very pale and nude.
Rex doesn't like chicken livers,
but gizzards are okay.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
from Woven Stone
Small things, little things, all sorts of unconnected things, but now linked together. I wonder how many of these small things he would have noticed if someone else had been there with him. Sometimes others are a distraction.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Summer Solstice
It's that time again--the Summer Solstice, the First Day of Summer, and the Longest Day of the Year. I thought the following quotation from Joseph Wood Krutch would be appropriate to begin the day. It is from The Voice of the Desert, and the voice speaks from Tucson, Arizona.
"On the brightest and warmest days my desert is most itself because sunshine and warmth are the very essence of its character. The air is lambent with light; the caressing warmth enfolds everything in its ardent embrace. Even when outlanders complain that the sun is too dazzling and too hot, we desert lovers are prone to reply, 'At worst that is only too much of a good thing.'"
. . . . . .
"It so happens that I am writing this not long after the twenty-first of June and I took especial note of that astronomically significant date. This year summer began at precisely ten hours and no minutes, Mountain Standard Time. That means that the sun rose higher and stayed longer in the sky than on any other day of the year. In the north there is often a considerable lag in the seasons as the earth warms up, but here, where it is never very cold, the longest day and the hottest are likely to coincide pretty closely. So it was this year. On June 21 the sun rose almost to the zenith so that at noon he cast almost no shadow. And he was showing what he is capable of.
Even in this dry air 109 Fahrenheit in the shade is pretty warm. Under the open sky the sun's rays strike with an almost physical force, pouring down from a blue dome unmarked by the faintest suspicion of even a fleck of cloud. The year has been unusually dry even for the desert. During the four months just past no rain--not even a light shower--has fallen. The surface of the ground is as dry as powder. And yet, when I look out of the window the dominant color of the landscape is incredibly green."
Well, today is June 21st, the summer solstice. It hasn't rained for 72 days now, and it looks as though we have a good chance of reaching 80 days if the weekly forecast is accurate. The high for today is predicted to be 102, Wednesday 110, and Thursday 109.
That's Joseph Wood Krutch's thinking about summer. Following are some different reflections.
moonflower,
with a short night's sleep:
daytime
summer in the world:
floating on the lake
over waves
Both haiku are by Basho
Basho's Haiku
trans David Landis Barnhill
SUMMER SOLSTICE
Come, bring the children. Let them
feel for a moment the rhythm
of the hoe. Let them experience
the wonder of green shoots emerging
from earth, earth given us
in guardianship from the Creation.
Body, mind, and spirit full to bursting
with ripe, sweet berries, the first
tender green beans, and corn. We give
thanks, and thanks again. The twin
concepts of Reason and Peace are
seen in each kernel of an ear of corn.
Perhaps we repair our lodges
as do the beavers living close by.
Our children swim like river otters
and as their laughter reaches us,
we join them for a while
in these hottest of summer days.
- Peter Blue Cloud (Aronialwenrate)
Mohawk , b. 1935
from When the Seasons
SUMMER SCHEMES
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go--we two--to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; bug who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
-- Thomas Hardy --
No. 122
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon--
A depth -- an Azure --a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the Sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
-- Emily Dickinson--
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
SUMMERING
I would arise and in a dream go on--
Not very far, not very far--and then
Lie down amid the sunny grass again,
And fall asleep till night-time or next dawn.
In sleepy self-sufficiency I'd turn;
I 'd seek new comfort and be hard to please--
Far in a meadow by an isle of trees,
All summer long amid the grass and fern.
Forests would have to be all round about,
And the mead silent, and the grass deep,
Else I might not gain such a tireless sleep!
I could not slumber if the wains were out!
-- Robert Frost --
Summer has many faces. Robert Frost's summer is closest to mine. Which one is yours?
"On the brightest and warmest days my desert is most itself because sunshine and warmth are the very essence of its character. The air is lambent with light; the caressing warmth enfolds everything in its ardent embrace. Even when outlanders complain that the sun is too dazzling and too hot, we desert lovers are prone to reply, 'At worst that is only too much of a good thing.'"
. . . . . .
"It so happens that I am writing this not long after the twenty-first of June and I took especial note of that astronomically significant date. This year summer began at precisely ten hours and no minutes, Mountain Standard Time. That means that the sun rose higher and stayed longer in the sky than on any other day of the year. In the north there is often a considerable lag in the seasons as the earth warms up, but here, where it is never very cold, the longest day and the hottest are likely to coincide pretty closely. So it was this year. On June 21 the sun rose almost to the zenith so that at noon he cast almost no shadow. And he was showing what he is capable of.
Even in this dry air 109 Fahrenheit in the shade is pretty warm. Under the open sky the sun's rays strike with an almost physical force, pouring down from a blue dome unmarked by the faintest suspicion of even a fleck of cloud. The year has been unusually dry even for the desert. During the four months just past no rain--not even a light shower--has fallen. The surface of the ground is as dry as powder. And yet, when I look out of the window the dominant color of the landscape is incredibly green."
Well, today is June 21st, the summer solstice. It hasn't rained for 72 days now, and it looks as though we have a good chance of reaching 80 days if the weekly forecast is accurate. The high for today is predicted to be 102, Wednesday 110, and Thursday 109.
That's Joseph Wood Krutch's thinking about summer. Following are some different reflections.
moonflower,
with a short night's sleep:
daytime
summer in the world:
floating on the lake
over waves
Both haiku are by Basho
Basho's Haiku
trans David Landis Barnhill
SUMMER SOLSTICE
Come, bring the children. Let them
feel for a moment the rhythm
of the hoe. Let them experience
the wonder of green shoots emerging
from earth, earth given us
in guardianship from the Creation.
Body, mind, and spirit full to bursting
with ripe, sweet berries, the first
tender green beans, and corn. We give
thanks, and thanks again. The twin
concepts of Reason and Peace are
seen in each kernel of an ear of corn.
Perhaps we repair our lodges
as do the beavers living close by.
Our children swim like river otters
and as their laughter reaches us,
we join them for a while
in these hottest of summer days.
- Peter Blue Cloud (Aronialwenrate)
Mohawk , b. 1935
from When the Seasons
SUMMER SCHEMES
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go--we two--to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; bug who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
-- Thomas Hardy --
No. 122
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon--
A depth -- an Azure --a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the Sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
-- Emily Dickinson--
from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
SUMMERING
I would arise and in a dream go on--
Not very far, not very far--and then
Lie down amid the sunny grass again,
And fall asleep till night-time or next dawn.
In sleepy self-sufficiency I'd turn;
I 'd seek new comfort and be hard to please--
Far in a meadow by an isle of trees,
All summer long amid the grass and fern.
Forests would have to be all round about,
And the mead silent, and the grass deep,
Else I might not gain such a tireless sleep!
I could not slumber if the wains were out!
-- Robert Frost --
Summer has many faces. Robert Frost's summer is closest to mine. Which one is yours?
Friday, May 27, 2011
Simon J. Ortiz: May 27, 1941--
Both poems come from
Simon Ortiz: Woven Stone
The University of Arizona Press, Tucson and London
The Dedication from the book:
For my children,
Raho Nez, Rainy Dawn, and Sara Marie,
and their children--
and their children's children henceforth:
The stories and poems come forth,
and I am only a voice telling them.
They are the true source themselves.
The language of them is the vision
by which we see out and in and all around.
Frequently duties require doing things one doesn't want to do, right now, but they must be done--even if one isn't sure of the goal or why it is obscure.
Evening Beach Walk
I don't really feel like walking
at first
but somehow feel I must
since I have come
this far
to this edge,
and so I walk.
The sun is going downwards
or rather one point changes to another,
and I know I am confronting
another horizon.
A dog comes sniffing at my knees
and I hold my hand to him,
and he sniffs, wags his tail
and trots away to join a young couple,
his friends, who smile as we meet.
I look many times as the sun sets
and I don't know why I can't see
clearly the horizon that I've imagined.
Maybe it's the clouds, the smog,
maybe it's the changing.
It's a duty with me,
I know, to find the horizon
and I keep on walking on the ocean's edge,
looking for things in the dim light.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
This is the poem that comes directly after "Evening Beach Walk." I wonder if there's a connection here.
A Patience Poem for the Child
That is Me
Be patient child,
be patient, quiet.
The rivers run into the center
of the earth
and around
revolve all things
and flow
into the center.
Be patient, child,
quiet.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
Simon Ortiz: Woven Stone
The University of Arizona Press, Tucson and London
The Dedication from the book:
For my children,
Raho Nez, Rainy Dawn, and Sara Marie,
and their children--
and their children's children henceforth:
The stories and poems come forth,
and I am only a voice telling them.
They are the true source themselves.
The language of them is the vision
by which we see out and in and all around.
Frequently duties require doing things one doesn't want to do, right now, but they must be done--even if one isn't sure of the goal or why it is obscure.
Evening Beach Walk
I don't really feel like walking
at first
but somehow feel I must
since I have come
this far
to this edge,
and so I walk.
The sun is going downwards
or rather one point changes to another,
and I know I am confronting
another horizon.
A dog comes sniffing at my knees
and I hold my hand to him,
and he sniffs, wags his tail
and trots away to join a young couple,
his friends, who smile as we meet.
I look many times as the sun sets
and I don't know why I can't see
clearly the horizon that I've imagined.
Maybe it's the clouds, the smog,
maybe it's the changing.
It's a duty with me,
I know, to find the horizon
and I keep on walking on the ocean's edge,
looking for things in the dim light.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
This is the poem that comes directly after "Evening Beach Walk." I wonder if there's a connection here.
A Patience Poem for the Child
That is Me
Be patient child,
be patient, quiet.
The rivers run into the center
of the earth
and around
revolve all things
and flow
into the center.
Be patient, child,
quiet.
-- Simon J. Ortiz --
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Something to think about
The native vision, the gift of seeing truly,
with wonder and delight into the natural world,
is informed by a certain attitude of reverence and
respect. It is a matter of extrasensory as well as
sensory perception. In addition to the eye, it
involves the intelligence, the instinct, and the
imagination. It is the perception not only of
objects and forms but also of essences and ideals.
N. Scott Momaday
Kiowa
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Simon J. Ortiz: May 27. 1941--
"Simon J. Ortiz (born on May 27, 1941 in Albuquerque, New Mexico is a Native American writer of the Acoma Pueblo tribe, and one of the key figures in the second wave of what has been called the Native American Renasssance. He is one of the most respected and widely read Native American poets.
Ortiz, a full-blooded Acoma Pueblo, is a member of the Eagle or "Dyaamih" Clan. He was raised in the Acoma village of McCartys (or "Deetzeyaamah"), and spoke only Keresan at home. His father, both a railroad worker and a woodcarver, was an elder in the clan who was charged with keeping the religious knowledge and customs of the pueblo." (above quotation from the Wikipedia entry on Ortiz)
I thought I would post two of his poems today: the first is about Ortiz with his father and the second is Ortiz with his own son.
My Father's Son
Wanting to say things,
I miss my father tonight.
His voice, the slight catch,
the depth, from his thin chest,
the tremble of emotion
in something he has just said
to his Son, his song:
We planted corn one Spring at Aacqu--
we planted several times
but this one particular time
I remember the soft damp sand
in my hand.
My father had stopped at one point
to show me an overturned furrow,
the plowshare had unearthed
the burrow nest of a mouse
in the soft moist sand.
Very gently, he scooped tiny pink animals
into the palm of his hand
and told me to touch them.
We took them to the edge
of the field and put them in the shade
of a sand moist clod.
I remember the very softness
of cool and warm sand and tiny alive
mice and my father saying things.
Speaking
I take him outside
under the trees,
have him stand on the ground.
We listen to the crickets,
cicadas, millions years old sound.
Ants come by us.
I tell them,
"This is he, my son.
This boy is looking at you.
I am speaking for him."
The crickets, cicadas,
the ants, the millions of years
are watching us,
hearing us.
My son murmurs infant words,
speaking, small laughter
bubbles from him.
Tree leaves tremble.
They listen to this boy
speaking for me.
I wonder what Ortiz's father was saying and what Ortiz's son was saying for him.
Ortiz, a full-blooded Acoma Pueblo, is a member of the Eagle or "Dyaamih" Clan. He was raised in the Acoma village of McCartys (or "Deetzeyaamah"), and spoke only Keresan at home. His father, both a railroad worker and a woodcarver, was an elder in the clan who was charged with keeping the religious knowledge and customs of the pueblo." (above quotation from the Wikipedia entry on Ortiz)
I thought I would post two of his poems today: the first is about Ortiz with his father and the second is Ortiz with his own son.
My Father's Son
Wanting to say things,
I miss my father tonight.
His voice, the slight catch,
the depth, from his thin chest,
the tremble of emotion
in something he has just said
to his Son, his song:
We planted corn one Spring at Aacqu--
we planted several times
but this one particular time
I remember the soft damp sand
in my hand.
My father had stopped at one point
to show me an overturned furrow,
the plowshare had unearthed
the burrow nest of a mouse
in the soft moist sand.
Very gently, he scooped tiny pink animals
into the palm of his hand
and told me to touch them.
We took them to the edge
of the field and put them in the shade
of a sand moist clod.
I remember the very softness
of cool and warm sand and tiny alive
mice and my father saying things.
Speaking
I take him outside
under the trees,
have him stand on the ground.
We listen to the crickets,
cicadas, millions years old sound.
Ants come by us.
I tell them,
"This is he, my son.
This boy is looking at you.
I am speaking for him."
The crickets, cicadas,
the ants, the millions of years
are watching us,
hearing us.
My son murmurs infant words,
speaking, small laughter
bubbles from him.
Tree leaves tremble.
They listen to this boy
speaking for me.
I wonder what Ortiz's father was saying and what Ortiz's son was saying for him.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
N. Scott Momaday: The Way To Rainy Mountain
N. Scott Momaday's The Way to Rainy Mountain is a slim volume, less than 100 pages in length. It's a very unusual work, and one that has stayed with me for many years now. My first copy, a paperback edition, disintegrated in the Tucson heat, and I was forced to replace it several times, until I discovered a hardbound copy. I guess I can stop buying replacement copies now.
HEADWATERS
Noon in the intermountain plain:
There is scant telling of the marsh--
A log, hollow and weather-stained,
An insect at the mouth, and moss--
Yet waters rise against the roots,
Stand brimming to the stalks. What moves?
What moves on this archaic force
Was wild and welling at the source.
The book begins with the poem given above. Next is the "Prologue" and the "Introduction." This is followed by three sections: "The Setting Out," "The Going On," and sadly, "The Closing In." A brief epilogue concludes the work. I find it difficult to explain the attraction of the work, so I think I will just let the book talk for itself.
The Prologue begins:
The journey began one day long ago on the edge of the northern Plains. It was carried on over a course of many generations and many hundreds of miles. In the end there were many things to remember, to dwell upon and talk about.
. . .
For the Kiowas the beginning was a struggle for existence in the bleak northern mountains. It was there, they say, that they entered the world through a hollow log. The end, too, was a struggle, and it was lost. The young Plains culture of the Kiowas withered and died like grass that is burned in the prairie wind. . . But these are idle recollections, the mean and ordinary agonies of human history. The interim was a time of great adventure and nobility and fulfillment.
Prior to reading the book, I had imagined that the title referred to some sort of Edenic spot, perhaps even a mythic Garden of Eden, but Momaday in the "Introduction" soon corrected me. The first paragraph of the "Introduction" begins--
A single knoll rises out of the plain in Oklahoma, north and west of the Wichita Range. For my people, the Kiowas, it is an old landmark, and they gave it the name Rainy Mountain. The hardest weather in the world is there. Winter brings blizzards, hot tornadic winds arise in the spring, and in summer the prairie is an anvil's edge. The grass turns brittle and brown, and it cracks beneath your feet. . . Loneliness is an aspect of the land. All things in the plain are isolate; there is no confusion or objects in the eye, but one hill or one tree or one man. To look upon that landscape in the early morning, with the sun at your back, is to lose the sense of proportion. Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun."
The three middle sections are unique in that each section consists of a number of short chapters which are two pages long, and each chapter is comprised of three passages. Each of the three passages presents a different perspective. The first passage is a myth or a legend or a tale of the Kiowa people. The second passage is a fact or an observation that relates to the myth or legend or story in some way. The third and final passage is a reminiscence by Momaday, either of his own experience or one that relates to his family, and which links up the two previous passages. The three perspectives, then, present a picture, that like a hologram, is three-dimensional and can be viewed from several points.
For example, Chapter II of the first section tells of the time the Kiowas went hunting and killed an antelope. One of the 'big chiefs" came up and claimed the udders (a delicacy) for himself. At this another "big chief" insisted on having the udders for himself. An argument ensued and one of the chiefs "gathered all of his follows together and went away." They were never heard of again.
In the second passage of Chapter II, Momaday tells us that "[t]his is one of the oldest memories of the tribe. There have been reports of a people in the Northwest who speak a language that similar to the Kiowa."
The third passage is a personal memory of Momaday's when he "remembered once having seen a frightened buck on the run, how the white rosette of its rump seemed to hang for the smallest fraction of time at the top of each frantic bound--like a succession of sunbursts against the purple hills."
And again, in Chapter III, in the first passage we learn the story of how the Kiowas first got the dog, long before the horse. In the second passage, we get a stronger sense of the importance of the dog when we learn that the "principal warrior society of the Kiowas was the Ka-itsenko, 'Real Dogs,' and it was made up of ten men only, the ten most brave" in the tribe.
In the third passage, Momaday writes
There were always dogs about my grandmother's house. Some of them were nameless and lived a life of their own. They belonged there in a sense that the word "ownership" does not include. The old people paid them scarcely any attention, but they should have been sad, I think, to see them go.
But the horse was also extremely important to the Kiowa for it gave them the freedom to move that they had never had before. In one of the last chapters of the book, we read
Once there was a man who owned a fine hunting horse. It was black and fast and afraid of nothing. When it was turned upon an enemy it charged in a straight line and struck at full speed. . .But, you know, that man knew fear. Once during a charge he turned that animal from its course. That was a bad thing. The hunting horse died of shame.
In the second passage, Momaday tells us of Gaapiatan, his grandfather, who sacrificed a fine horse as a offering in hopes that he and his family might escape a smallpox epidemic.
Momaday, in the third passage, then sums up by saying he thinks he knows what was in Gaapiatan mind--that he will give up something he values highly if his family might be spared.
As you can see, it does have a beginning, middle, and end and can be read that way, but I also open it up randomly and enjoy. One more point, interspersed throughout are stark, spare, and striking black-and-white illustrations by Momaday's father, Al Momaday.
In the epilogue, the Kiowa golden age, according to Momaday, lasted little more than 90 years. "The culture would persist for a while in decline, until about 1875, but then it would be gone, and there would be very little material evidence that it had ever been." Momaday writes that there were still a few who remembered, but he wrote this in the late 1960s, over 40 years ago. I doubt if there are any who are now still alive. Perhaps today Momaday himself is a significant resource of information for he has known some who had direct experience of the Kiowa culture in its last days.
The book concludes with the following poem:
RAINY MOUNTAIN CEMETERY
Most is your name of this dark stone.
Deranged in death, the mind to be inheres
Forever in the nominal unknown,
The wake of nothing audible he hears
Who listens here and now to hear your name.
The early sun, red as a hunter's moon,
Runs in the plain. The mountain burns and shines;
And silence is the long approach of noon
Upon the shadow that your name defines--
And death this cold, black density of stone.
The Way to Rainy Mountain is a remarkable book, but the only way to experience it is to read it. I hope some will sit down and take it up some time. It's well worth the hour or so.
HEADWATERS
Noon in the intermountain plain:
There is scant telling of the marsh--
A log, hollow and weather-stained,
An insect at the mouth, and moss--
Yet waters rise against the roots,
Stand brimming to the stalks. What moves?
What moves on this archaic force
Was wild and welling at the source.
The book begins with the poem given above. Next is the "Prologue" and the "Introduction." This is followed by three sections: "The Setting Out," "The Going On," and sadly, "The Closing In." A brief epilogue concludes the work. I find it difficult to explain the attraction of the work, so I think I will just let the book talk for itself.
The Prologue begins:
The journey began one day long ago on the edge of the northern Plains. It was carried on over a course of many generations and many hundreds of miles. In the end there were many things to remember, to dwell upon and talk about.
. . .
For the Kiowas the beginning was a struggle for existence in the bleak northern mountains. It was there, they say, that they entered the world through a hollow log. The end, too, was a struggle, and it was lost. The young Plains culture of the Kiowas withered and died like grass that is burned in the prairie wind. . . But these are idle recollections, the mean and ordinary agonies of human history. The interim was a time of great adventure and nobility and fulfillment.
Prior to reading the book, I had imagined that the title referred to some sort of Edenic spot, perhaps even a mythic Garden of Eden, but Momaday in the "Introduction" soon corrected me. The first paragraph of the "Introduction" begins--
A single knoll rises out of the plain in Oklahoma, north and west of the Wichita Range. For my people, the Kiowas, it is an old landmark, and they gave it the name Rainy Mountain. The hardest weather in the world is there. Winter brings blizzards, hot tornadic winds arise in the spring, and in summer the prairie is an anvil's edge. The grass turns brittle and brown, and it cracks beneath your feet. . . Loneliness is an aspect of the land. All things in the plain are isolate; there is no confusion or objects in the eye, but one hill or one tree or one man. To look upon that landscape in the early morning, with the sun at your back, is to lose the sense of proportion. Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun."
The three middle sections are unique in that each section consists of a number of short chapters which are two pages long, and each chapter is comprised of three passages. Each of the three passages presents a different perspective. The first passage is a myth or a legend or a tale of the Kiowa people. The second passage is a fact or an observation that relates to the myth or legend or story in some way. The third and final passage is a reminiscence by Momaday, either of his own experience or one that relates to his family, and which links up the two previous passages. The three perspectives, then, present a picture, that like a hologram, is three-dimensional and can be viewed from several points.
For example, Chapter II of the first section tells of the time the Kiowas went hunting and killed an antelope. One of the 'big chiefs" came up and claimed the udders (a delicacy) for himself. At this another "big chief" insisted on having the udders for himself. An argument ensued and one of the chiefs "gathered all of his follows together and went away." They were never heard of again.
In the second passage of Chapter II, Momaday tells us that "[t]his is one of the oldest memories of the tribe. There have been reports of a people in the Northwest who speak a language that similar to the Kiowa."
The third passage is a personal memory of Momaday's when he "remembered once having seen a frightened buck on the run, how the white rosette of its rump seemed to hang for the smallest fraction of time at the top of each frantic bound--like a succession of sunbursts against the purple hills."
And again, in Chapter III, in the first passage we learn the story of how the Kiowas first got the dog, long before the horse. In the second passage, we get a stronger sense of the importance of the dog when we learn that the "principal warrior society of the Kiowas was the Ka-itsenko, 'Real Dogs,' and it was made up of ten men only, the ten most brave" in the tribe.
In the third passage, Momaday writes
There were always dogs about my grandmother's house. Some of them were nameless and lived a life of their own. They belonged there in a sense that the word "ownership" does not include. The old people paid them scarcely any attention, but they should have been sad, I think, to see them go.
But the horse was also extremely important to the Kiowa for it gave them the freedom to move that they had never had before. In one of the last chapters of the book, we read
Once there was a man who owned a fine hunting horse. It was black and fast and afraid of nothing. When it was turned upon an enemy it charged in a straight line and struck at full speed. . .But, you know, that man knew fear. Once during a charge he turned that animal from its course. That was a bad thing. The hunting horse died of shame.
In the second passage, Momaday tells us of Gaapiatan, his grandfather, who sacrificed a fine horse as a offering in hopes that he and his family might escape a smallpox epidemic.
Momaday, in the third passage, then sums up by saying he thinks he knows what was in Gaapiatan mind--that he will give up something he values highly if his family might be spared.
As you can see, it does have a beginning, middle, and end and can be read that way, but I also open it up randomly and enjoy. One more point, interspersed throughout are stark, spare, and striking black-and-white illustrations by Momaday's father, Al Momaday.
In the epilogue, the Kiowa golden age, according to Momaday, lasted little more than 90 years. "The culture would persist for a while in decline, until about 1875, but then it would be gone, and there would be very little material evidence that it had ever been." Momaday writes that there were still a few who remembered, but he wrote this in the late 1960s, over 40 years ago. I doubt if there are any who are now still alive. Perhaps today Momaday himself is a significant resource of information for he has known some who had direct experience of the Kiowa culture in its last days.
The book concludes with the following poem:
RAINY MOUNTAIN CEMETERY
Most is your name of this dark stone.
Deranged in death, the mind to be inheres
Forever in the nominal unknown,
The wake of nothing audible he hears
Who listens here and now to hear your name.
The early sun, red as a hunter's moon,
Runs in the plain. The mountain burns and shines;
And silence is the long approach of noon
Upon the shadow that your name defines--
And death this cold, black density of stone.
The Way to Rainy Mountain is a remarkable book, but the only way to experience it is to read it. I hope some will sit down and take it up some time. It's well worth the hour or so.
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