  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Becky Simpson  
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The Hopi Indians of the American southwest were inventive and, as with many Indian tribes, most of their songs and stories were handed down generation to generation. Part of their inventive spirit was reflected in the design of their homes. The homes were basically caves, but recognizing the value of the sun in the winter, the opening faced south. By doing this they were able to provide heating for their homes. I studied this particular tribe in college, but am unable to remember whether they had any poetry in their civilization.
That lack of knowledge in me begs to be filled, so this month we will have a look at American Indian poetry. As we research poetry written by American Indians, we will discover its roots and explore what it is today. Then we will see if we have any American Indian poets who bless us with their works here on Writing.Com. Along with that, I will provide you with this week’s list of favorite poets. In closing I will answer the feedback from the last edition, listing the winner of the tee shirt. Becky Simpson
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As I began my research for this newsletter I was aghast at the amount of information available. The stuff I found was mostly historical or research studies about the tribes but not much actual poetry. So bear with me and my ignorance as we take a quick look at American Indian poetry. Please keep in mind this is not supposed to be the definitive work of years of research.
Hundreds of years ago Europeans landed for the first time on what one day would be known as America. They thought the land to be new and did not expect to find living beings inhabiting it. I find it amazing how quickly people form opinions about and then stereotype others. The native people of America were quickly placed in a sub-human classification which placed no value on their language, culture, music, religion, and literature. They were thought of as simplistic animals capable of saying “Ugh” and “How” but not much more. It is shameful how much of the Indian way was lost.
As the years passed and many tribes were driven to complete extinction, we began to see through their eyes. They taught us how to survive in this new land and how to fertilize crops. They helped us to fight our wars, dying right along beside us in the struggles they did not start. In World War II they became an important part of our communication efforts. Rather than relying on cryptography, our military leaders relied on the American Indians to speak in their native tongues. To the Japanese this was gibberish.
The Indians I have researched had deep religious beliefs that include Father Time and Mother Earth. They were and are a peaceable and loving people. Okay that’s enough of a history lesson. We are here to enjoy some poetry. Let’s start with the oldest work I could find. This work was written between, 1826 – 1859. I will present it in three forms just as I found it.
Chant to the Fire-fly
(Chippewa original)
Wau wau tay see!
Wau wau tay see!
E mow e shin
Tahe bwau ne baun-e wee!
Be eghaun—be eghaun—ewee!
Wau wau tay see!
Wau wau tay see!
Was sa koon ain je gun.
Was sa koon ain je gun.
(literal translation)
Flitting-white-fire-insect! Waving-white-fire-bug!
Give me light before I go to bed! Give me light
Before I go to sleep. Come, little dancing white-
Fire-bug! Come, little flitting white-fire-beast!
Light me with your bright white-flame-instrument
--your little candle.
(Literary translation)
Fire-fly, fire-fly! Bright little thing,
Light me to bed, and my song I will sing.
Give me your light, as you fly o’er my head,
That I may merrily go to my bed.
Give me your light o’er the grass as you creep,
That I may joyfully go to my sleep.
Come little fire-fly, come, little beast—
Come! and I’ll make you tomorrow a feast.
Come, little candle that flies as I sing,
Bright little fairy-bug—night’s little king;
Come, and I’ll dance as you guide me along,
Come, and I’ll pay you, my bug, with a song.
I have two more from the same time frame, then, I think we should fast forward to some newer works. Notice that in this next work we see the change from nature and the celebration of something as simple as a fire-fly to concern for the fast approaching end of the life they had lived for as long as memory served.
From the South: I
(Chippewa original)
From the south they come,
The birds, the warlike birds,
With sounding wings.
I wish to change myself
To the body of that swift bird.
I throw away my body in the strife.
From the South: II
(Chippewa original)
From the south they came, Birds of War—
Hark! to their passing scream.
I wish the body of the fiercest,
As swift, as cruel, as strong.
I cast my body to the chance of fighting.
Happy shall I be to lie in that place,
In that place where the fight was,
Beyond the enemy’s line.
Such a change, so sad, and noble; the Indian who put into words his heart’s desire. From here let’s fast forward to the present and some poetry written by Native Americans.
Ghost Dance
by Sandy Kewanhaptewa
Crow has brought the message
To the children of the sun
For the return of the buffalo
And for a better day to come
You can kill my body
You can damn my soul
For not believing in your god
And some world down below
You don't stand a chance against my prayers
You don't stand a chance against my love
They outlawed the Ghost Dance
But we shall live again, we shall live again
My sister above
She has red paint
She died at Wounded Knee
Like a latter day saint
You got the big drum in the distance
Blackbird in the sky
That's the sound that you hear
When the buffalo cry
Crazy Horse was a mystic
He knew the secret of the trance
And Sitting Bull the great apostle
Of the Ghost Dance
Come on Comanche
Come on Blackfoot
Come on Shoshoe
Come on Cheyenne
We shall live again
Come on Arapaho
Come on Cherokee
Come on Paiute
Come on Sioux
We shall live again.
And now, grandfather, I ask you to bless the white man.
He needs your wisdom, your guidance.
You see for so long he has tried to destroy my people
and only feels comfortable when given power.
Bless them, show them the peace we understand,
teach them humility.
For I fear they will destroy themselves and their children
as the have done
and so with Mother Earth.
I plead, I cry, after all
They are my brothers [and sisters].
Amen. Indians knew nothing of lying or stealing. It seems to me that they achieved what Jesus desired of us all: to become as little children in innocence. The Ghost Dance was outlawed by the government; it was a religious movement. I have to wonder what the Catholics might say if the confession was outlawed. I guess the real irony is the immigrants to the new world came here to escape religious persecution. All of this is not to say that Indians are simpletons, far from it. Our next poet returns to nature for his inspiration:
Call To The Four Sacred Winds
By Spirit Wind (Pat Poland)
I call to the East, where the Father ascends
to all Mother Earth where life begins.
I fly through the cedars, pines, willows, and birch
as animals below me wander and search.
I call to the South, to the land down below.
Turtle stands silent, as man strings his bow
to hunt food and fur for his kin before snow.
A life will end so others will grow.
I call to the North, that yansa once knew.
I follow their path til it disappears from view.
Once vast in number, there stand but a few.
I hear only ghost thunder of millions of hooves.
I call to the West, to the ends of the lands,
to the Tsalagi, Kiowa, Comanche ... all bands.
Unite for the strength. Teach the young and demand
that you are Native Americans. Learn your tongue and stand.
My name is Freedom... I fly through this land.
I call to the Four Sacred Winds of Turtle Island.
One last poem from published works, once again we see nature as the subject of the poem, and as is normal this work reflects the closeness of the Indian soul to his natural world.
Rainbow
By Red Unicorn (Barbara Mann) ©1997
Shimmering color arched against grey sky,
Painted by dancing light on air-borne mist.
Wide flung by a sacred hand...
The Hand that formed of dust nothingness
The solid Earth below.
Beauty and promise together blended,
Beauty ethereal, promise divine.
Given to grace the clouds and the rain,
Given to bless the world-weary heart...
Shimmers... fades... brightens...
To vanish in brilliance...
Shines through the dark in my soul.
I am part Seminole, and though I did not grow up on a reservation, such works speak to my soul and tug at my consciousness, almost making me wish I had. Yes, I know that many reservations face severe poverty, but I faired little better in the beginning of my life. I have indeed been blessed though, and I have never been spotted as an Indian, or forced to face any denigration for my heritage. I am one of the lucky ones. Now it is time to look at our poets on Writing.Com. This is "Invalid Item" by larryp. I don’t think Larry is full blooded Indian, but, he does understand their plight.
Wave upon wave the herds wandered
across vast plains, endless prairies,
stretching out, reaching to the horizon.
The earth trembled beneath hooves;
the noise of their bellowing echoed,
thousands of voices blended as one.
Tromping through valleys, o’er hilltops,
en masse, moving slowly, methodically,
single bodies crowding, indistinguishable,
into the huddled legions of rolling fur.
Clouds of dust and swarms of flies
followed them into ancestral grounds.
They roamed freely, proud and unfettered,
preyed upon by the skillful Plains Indians,
who sought only a source of sustenance:
meals to appease their hungry bellies
and furs for warmth against winter freeze,
thankful hunters, taking only for need.
Then the intruders came, pleasure hunters,
torturing, slaughtering wave upon wave
for the mere joy of sport, the thrill kill.
Skinners, for pay, ripped away precious fur
leaving pile upon pile of bleached bones
and decaying flesh, the smell of death.
Putrid landfills, naked corpses rotting,
bones scattered across ancestral lands,
until they returned back to the dust.
Gone, the once great herds are no more,
the sound of the bellowing, the trembling
diminished and fragmented, a lost voice.
Now, but a few of these great buffalo remain
of what once formed the huddled legions,
a remnant, protected on reserves, fettered.
Hired mercenaries, ruthless marauders,
leaving bones of ancestors piled in heaps,
brought the herd to the edge of extinction.
~~~~~~
*Author’s Note:
In the 1860’s, as the railroad came west in the United States, hunters killed the buffalo to feed the employees who built the railroad tracks. When the trains rolled west, many of the passengers were hunters, killing buffalo for the sport, often from the moving train. What meat the wolves did not consume merely rotted on the plains. Later, men called skinners killed the buffalo for the valuable pelt, leaving the corpse to rot. As farmers and ranchers moved west, they shot the buffalo to make room for grazing and farming land.
With the destruction of the buffalo, the Plains Indian way of life also suffered, since they depended upon the buffalo for sustenance. In some cases, hired mercenaries killed the buffalo in an attempt to starve out the hungry Plains Indians. The great buffalo herd, once over sixty million strong, numbered a mere 550 by the year 1889. The buffalo neared extinction. The loss of the buffalo herds forced the Plains Indians onto reservations, their traditional way of life on the open plains ended.
Almost too late, efforts to preserve what remained of the buffalo began in the early 1900’s. Thank you Larry for the grim reminder of what in essence robbed the Indians of a source of food and materials used in building and clothing. Our next work reflects once again the Indians connection with nature if only through the poet’s name. wolfpoetress (wolfpoetress) shares with us a painful moment in her life in "Invalid Item" .
ikwezens awenen nibon
Feathers in the wind
invisible against the window pane
she is but a whisper
of things that could have been
a breath in time
yet to be breathed
and I light a candle
because today is the day
she became ikwezens awenen nibon
She who died
~Teena~
*Authors Notes:
Ojibwe
ikwezens awenen nibon = girl who died
dedicated to my first grandchild. The one that did not make it here
I can’t speak for others, but the way you dealt with this sensitive subject of the loss of a child is especially touching and well done. Thank you for sharing with us wolfpoetress. Moving quickly now because we are running out of space, we next look at another example of Indian poetry, this one from redshirt who is Cherokee. Notice that the basket is given a life as it were and is asked to help keep the family fed, bring her a child, and love. Have a look at "Invalid Item" soak up some truly beautiful work.
SING ME A BASKET
Little basket I sing I sing
Little basket be strong
Like my warrior's hands
I sing like grandmother I see
Her face turned into the sun
She sings little basket come alive
As the river tumbling by her side
She weaves the strands little basket
She sings too for a good catch she sings
For a good crop she sings for a baby
To fill her belly and her basket
She sings for plenty she sings for love
Little basket I sing I sing
Be strong and forever full
I have two more offerings for you to read, the next one it is also from redshirt presented here in both Cherokee and English. I was searching for poetry at Barnes and Noble for this newsletter when I found a book on learning to speak Cherokee. Good luck, I don’t think my tongue twists in that many directions. Well, let’s give it a try as we read "Invalid Item" .
itsula
(we)
nihi ama
(you are water)
ayv ama
(I am salt)
agasga
(it is raining)
ama gvnawosga
(salt melting)
nihi atsila
(you are fire)
atsila agohvsga
(fire is burning)
ayv kosdu
(I am ash)
Hmmm, any ideas about this one? Well as I understand it this poem is about love. The longer you look at it and read it the more you see. Personally I think that is the way of Indian life. The more you study it the more you find yourself wanting to know more. So it was with the Hopi Indians when I was in college.
One final note: We recently lost one of our Native American poets. BlueThunder  passed from this earth. The circumstances surrounding her death to some seem suspect. I would like to highlight her work in my selected readings section, but because her works are mostly novels and stories, it is not possible. Still here I present you with "Fifteen Horses" .
Fifteen Horses
Fifteen horses rode this day
Across wide open dancing prairie grass
Each horses mane dappled silver
Through Grandmother suns sweet golden rays
Brave warriors kept their pace
Not sure of what fate they might face
Fearless war horses thundered on
To the enemy's village and beyond.
The night before they danced and prayed
Sang their death songs before the raid
The warriors smudged, War ponies were painted
Eagle feathers adorned their manes and tails.
The women said their farewells,
Praying to the Great Spirit to guide them home
Cries, wails, and trills came morning light
As the warriors circled and rode out to fight.
Never knowing which of their men might fall,
Taking that fateful journey to the spirit world
Knowing that their sacred ground and hunting land
Must be protected, Survival, The spirits called.
Warriors were painted, each showing his rank
Shields, lances, arrows, and bows
Medicine bundles worn around their necks, close
To defend and cherish their gift of Mother Earth
The time had come, the invading tribe near
Thundering hooves crested the high bluffs
The enemy below ran for their weapons and mounts
Arrows were nocked, all were prepared
For battle to begin at the lift of a staff
Arrows flew, war clubs were lifted, shields,
Lances all did their jobs against the enemy mobs
As the war regalia beads and quills shined.
Dust flew, the ground soaked red,
Warriors slung low alongside of their brave horses
Using a shield as they let arrows fly
From under the brave steeds necks.
Fearless war horses thundered on with speed
Each performing their duty and deed
The warriors war cries sounded, loud and high
Death songs could be heard as a few rode by
The Creator looked down that day
The spirits converged, deciding who would live
And who would die, who would win, who would loose
As tradition laid a hand, upon this land.
The battle pursued into mid afternoon
No deaths this day, but many wounded
The enemy retreated, carrying their dead
They had won this day, at least for now
Their sacred grounds were safe,
And hunting lands secure
Bloody, dusty, weary, and dazed
The fearless war horse carried them home.
That night as the village fire burned bright
A runner came bringing the news
The women all ran, to find their man,
And to see if he would return,
Or Spirits took him to the feathered lodges above
The women trilled high and long
as they ran to their men seeing them return
Smiles and relief, they cared for the weak.
Every warrior returned that night,
The tales were told around the fire light
A great feast was prepared, the wounded taken care
For now they were safe and sound
But always knew another enemy would abound
Another battle, another day
Hoka Hay!!
It is a good day to die
BlueThunder
We say farewell to a sister poet, but shall never forget her. Now we look to the future and pray for happier hunting grounds. I hope you, like myself have seen the beauty and nobility of the Indian life. They certainly are not and were not the unintelligent animals that our predecessors thought they were. If we sat and discussed this, I would not hesitate to point out that their dances, which were accompanied by music and words, are yet another form of poetry.
Father, I come;
Mother, I come;
Brother, I come;
Father, give us back our arrows.
That finishes another newsletter. I hope you discovered something you enjoyed, and let me encourage you to visit our poets and give them all the advice you can. Until the next issue, keep writing. See you next month.
Tip of the Day: Life is never destroyed it simply takes on a new form and new meaning.
I am always at your service.
Becky L Simpson
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The following members of Writing.Com are some of my favorite poets on Writing.Com. They exhibit and understanding and skill that, simply put, amaze me. I hope those I have forgotten will forgive me, but as time goes on and my memory prods, me this list will change.
Vivian 
reblackwell
COUNTRYMOM-JUST REMEMBER ME
Ann Ticipation 
Tornado Day
b_boonstra
daycare
SUGGESTED READINGS:
My suggested readings for this month:
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#1001422 by Not Available. |
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#1067512 by Not Available. |
CONTESTS:
This issue’s challenge is all or nothing: I will give 20,000 points to the best work that celebrates Native Americans. I will be the only judge, and as such I would ask you to submit your work to me by email in bitem format. Good luck!
LAST MONTH’S CONTEST:
The winner from last month’s contest is:
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#1074514 by Not Available. |
by oscines
With your indulgence I now present to you the poem for which they will receive a tee shirt.
“Which one of you naughty kids
Stole cookies from the jar?”
Mum’s face is red; in fury she glares.
It’s on! That special radar!
Tom and Jo vaguely grunt denial,
Glued to PlayStation and sofa
But little sis, she blushes deep
Mumbling, “N-not me, mama”.
Mum leaves the room in a huff
And Mona’s knees grow weak
She feels a little dizzy now-
From guilt’s unpleasant reek.
It’s gnawing at her conscience
It’s scratching in her ears
It’s a clammy clutch on her lungs
She feels its mocking jeers.
Her heart sinks down deeper
In her diaphragm it has sat.
The guilt that will not leave her
Buzzes annoyingly, like a gnat.
Why, oh why did she steal cookies?
Now she’s weighed down with sins.
Mona dashes to the bathroom
Maybe it helps to rinse.
She won’t have any friends now
Nobody likes a thief.
She hadn’t confessed to anyone
But maybe they’d sense her grief.
Mona cannot bear it now.
She knocks on mother’s door.
She whispers guilty secret
And waits for the uproar.
“Oh,” says mum distractedly
“Well. At least you told me.”
A soft, happy sigh is heard
Mommy doesn’t seem angry!
My thanks to all those who entered, you were all quite good.
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Questions and comments from last week, my thanks to those who wrote in:
Submitted By: jw52130
Submitted Comment:
I cannot believe it I actually read your newsletters, thanks for encouraging the youngsters. The Granny in me wishes them well I have written poetry for the lord and other friends since 1944. I was 14 then I actually won first place in poetry contest at school ....I will soon be 76 and still love to write. I have written a weekly newspaper column for over 21 years, I also wrote the same column in West Virginia and Florida for ten years before that. Tell those kids to write on from this great granny poet. jenny wren
Jenny,
I think you just did that! I believe there are many young poets who play with or seriously write for themselves and family. I would love for them to release their creativity and show us what is near and dear to their hearts. – hugs Becky
Submitted By: jaywalking
Submitted Comment:
I really enjoyed your newsletter. The poems from the children were refreshing and a joy to read. Thank you!
Hi jaywalking ,
I could not agree more! At least about the children’s poetry…they are still at their most imaginative and are impressionable. I think they have a view of the world we older ones are sometimes unable to make connection with. – Hugs Becky
Submitted By: amaiyaamir
Submitted Comment:
I love this newsletter. It's so encouraging for young writers. My little sister who is 15 years old, told her parents she wanted to become a writer and they where not pleased with that. I will still encourage her to go for her dreams in anyway possible. Thanks for this newsletter once again.
Hi Alex,
Though it would be remiss of me to pass judgment on your parents or your sister I would quickly point out that this site is free. I myself am an engineer and writing is just where my heart resides. I make no claim to great ability just great desire. So encourage your sister and remind her it is okay to do those things our parents expect and then indulge yourself in your heart’s desire. - Hugs Becky
Submitted By: scribbler
Submitted Comment:
Thank you so much highlighting younger poets. Society seems to think because children are young, they cannot write poetry relevant to older generations, but if we step back isn't there truths all of us can relate to in children’s poetry?
Hi scribbler ,
Poetry for me and I think others must contain truth for it to be truly great. Without that it is meaningless prattle. Even comedic poetry such as the work I call My Dreams or Silverstein’s poem about digging in your nose contains an element of truth. So I must agree whole heartedly that these poems even more so contain points that are profound (if not for us then for the children). Otherwise why would they take the time to write them. Hugs – Becky
Submitted By:
Submitted Comment:
Thanks for this issue of the newsletter! It prodded me to travel back in time to the poetry I wrote as a kid. Amazingly, I still have just about everything I ever wrote.
Let me just say that English teachers do not know everything about poetry as I have one particular poem that received a "D" from my teacher that was published later in a children's magazine. The same teacher that gave me a D also told me I would never be an accomplished writer! Talk about crushing someone's dreams! Now, my poetry is for all to see and although that teacher crushed me then, I never EVER stopped writing poetry as it is my love. Write On and thank you for helping me to travel back in time to my own youth!
Hi lejenpoet,
Ahem! Okay all you English teachers out there, you heard it from the horses mouth (just teasing). I think perhaps it was your bad luck to get a teacher who was either too distracted or too self absorbed to see promise in the words of a student. I must tell you I took some stiff blows from a professor once and being stubborn I re-worked the article she was criticizing. To my surprise she took it to the Dean and recommended it for an honorary position in a display case. I would say good teachers are willing if the student is. – Hugs Becky
Submitted By:
Submitted Comment:
It is always a pleasure to read your Newsletters Becky. The research you do and the feeling you put into what you say is remarkable.
Hi Monty,
I wish I could collect the kind comments you readers send my way. They are the substance that keeps me going. I will be the first to admit that I enjoy writing the newsletters. I do realize one day I shall have to give it up, because at times I feel as if I have not fulfilled my obligations on the site to other works. In the work I do my time can be severely limited. – Hugs – Becky
Sent to my email by:Hana
Hello Becky,
I’m a completely new member here. After months of research, I have found this amazing
website where I can boost my talent.
Becky, I always wanted to be the one earning as a poet. A field dedicated to marketing
and poetry can be so well connected. They both need creativity and diversity, which I
think I’m progressing in as the time goes by.
However, my main area of interest is writing poetry which suits my feelings. The poems can be hard, sad, happy or romantic. You see i have gone through a lot of phases, my dad
died, I got married and then gave birth to a beautiful treasure who is eight months
today. These are some emotional things which influence me.
Sorry I am just throwing in my thoughts but I would really appreciate if you would
guide me through this journey....together...forever. Can you just tell me where I can start writing my poems you know publishing them and
everything.
Till then waiting for your reply.
Hana,
Thank you for writing and sharing your experiences with me. I also appreciate the opportunity to see if I can help you with your desire to publish. First let me say you found the right site to spend time on. Writing.Com is all about helping writers to become better and to share their works so that they may be given editing suggestions.
So you have taken the first step already. Now for a word of caution…It is easy to mistake some of the less scrupulous companies for publishers who really care about you and your writing. I have made that mistake before. These people just want you to pay them for the honor of seeing your work in print.
One suggestion would be to self publish. You or you and a group of selected other poets would get together and self publish. It does cost money but at least you do know where the money is going. With your marketing background it should be a breeze for you to figure out some publicity that would help.
My last suggestion is to find a budding company like the one Vivian is trying to start and use them to do the heavy lifting. This is attractive if you need help with formatting, editing, and illustrations. If you would like her address please write me back.
Thanks for such a thought provoking question.
Hugs
Becky
To the rest of you kind readers who made comments about last month’s newsletter; thank you. If it were not for your kind words I would be inclined to find another way to spend the time I spend here.
If you have a question, comment or just an observation concerning this edition of the Poetry Newsletter please feel free to send it to me. I would also like our poetry newsletter readers to send me their favorite poem. Please include the poet’s name. I prefer poets from Writing.Com.
Next weeks editor:Stormy Lady 
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Poetry: March 29, 2006 Issue [#944]
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