Second World
poetry and short stories of Man, human nature, and survival
T'áá Diné Nishli I am that which is: A Navajo Person. Ten Thousand Thousand Bones from long away from i hear Grandmother she is frightened alone crying cold we wait for you Grandmother the deer are stamping circles the branches of the trees the river moans the wings of hawks answered only by your rattling Grandmother do not forgive taken you from fools fools we wait for you Grandmother the deer are scratching circles the branches of the trees the river moans the wings of hawks answered only by your rattling Grandmother do not forgive The Caretaker at the ancient indian burial grounds journey of a modern half breed and Born Red raised Red, for a time... Iyeska, mixed blood, breed. Too White for everyone except the White's I guess.
The Modern Warrior His bow is his mind, The hand print on his pony is replaced While he wears a shirt and tie, He does not seek out the battles, As with the warriors of old, the reasons for war Principles and values, honor and dignity will The mighty warrior remains proud at heart. I Give You Back I release you, my beautiful and terrible You are not my blood anymore.
I give you back to the white soldiers I release you, fear, because you hold I release you, fear, so you can no longer I release you I am not afraid to be angry. to be loved, to be loved, fear. Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash. I take myself back, fear. But come here, fear I stand on a stage and read poems, I tell of old chiefs swindled of their daughters, I recite old stories, I read into the microphone, At the end of the reading they thank me; I stand on a stage and read poems, The grandparents among young warriors I Cry My Grandmothers walked the Trail Tsalagi Woman Strong, Brave, you walk with head held high; The Blanket Around Her
by Joy Harjo
maybe it is her birth which she holds close to herself Sometimes Last week in Gallup, My turn and I fumble She's friendly too quick and I am uneasy. My change is dropped in front of me Merle Norman offers a free make-up job For 15 minutes, I wait for a saleslady I wait some more while the salesladies So I just leave, shortly is too long, I guess I can do without a new look my mother, red-haired, I wrap the shawl around my shoulders, After Listening to a Reading of His name Pay Up Or Else Vincent Watchman was shot While he lay dead, Meanwhile, Thriftway officials in Farmington There is no way that such an action while we realized our lives weren't worth a dollar Second World Short Stories | Second World Quotes | My Second World Works
by Della Frank
This feeling is around, above, and below me...
I am the Beauty Way stories
From long ago...when skies and land were clear
Before "misinterpretations" disrupted our ways, thoughts, and
Lives as T'áá Diné: the Navajo People . . .
And I: Being of Female Origin, and He: Being of Male Origin . . .
Tenderly rise inside this round earth home: Nihimá Bighan . . .
We put upon our feet: the moccasins.
And enclose in our hands, and with reverence
We hold to you: the corn pollen . . .
We have risen at early dawn to greet Father Sun
Warm, comforted and cuddled by rays of Gentle Spirits
Silently, slowly, constantly and gently turning
We have welcomed the all-loving Mother Earth . . .
We sing songs: of despair, fear, and uncertainties . . .
And throw these sensations to the stars . . .
In its place we welcome: inspiration, love and strength
To carry us through as T'áá Diné: the Navajo People . . .
We pray
To Dawn of Summer Rain
Reds of sunset
And Whites of Corn Pollen
With garments made by Holy Beings
We ask Dark Swirling Clouds
To hear our humble voices
Ringing out in valleys, hills, and along canyon walls . . .
With renewed strength
We stand before you
In fine sash belts, silky shirts, and silver jewelry . . .
We pray
To the east:
We ask that we reevaluate ourselves,
Our values, and our belief systems . . .
To the south:
We ask that we live long happy lives,
Perceiving aspects of "right" and "not right" decisions
and the consequences that await us with each decision . . .
To the west:
We ask that we remember our connections
To every other being by acknowledging our Clan Structure . . .
May we be humble to "Walk Around" and to "Mexican Water" clans . . .
May we remember to set goals, according to our needs, wants, and wishes . . .
To the north:
We ask that we continue to have hope,
Respect, and perseverance: Of and about Nature . . .
We ask that we remain humble every day, toward one another . . .
May we always ask one another, "What are some ways . . .
To solve our daily problems as T'áá Diné?"
T'áá Diné:And may we through this process
Feel assured of our capabilities . . .
With a profound respect for every other entity around us
With these thoughts in mind
Oh Great Spirit
We make our final turn
And again: Face the west
And therupon re-enter our Hooghan . . .
And rest . . .
I am that which is: A Navajo Person . . .
T'áá Diné Nishi
by Mark Turcotte
behind museum doors from
darkly dusty rooms
rattling she rattles
among ten thousand thousand bones
i hear Grandmother
rattling she rattles
among ten thousand thousand bones
taken from warm belly earth
hot heart of earth
that was her resting home
shaking on the shelf alone
rattling
among ten thousand thousand bones.
here in the wood
where you belong
scratching at the ground
leaning their ears
to listen for your song
but you are gone
all ache for you
with their roots below
that once cradled you
bending reaching
to hear your song
but you are gone
your missing voice
the grass and stone
are silent as they mourn
and listen listen
call out your name
and wonder wonder
where you've gone
from where you shiver
cold alone
among ten thousand thousand bones
them they know
what they have done
sacred circle light
and left you
in their tomb
among all those other bones
they refuse to hear
the anguish in the earth
the cry of fox and pheasant
in your home
they refuse to fear
the angry step of spirit horse
whose hoof
shall make a rattling
in their own living bones
here in the wood
where it's been so long
stamping at the ground
leaning their ears
to listen for your song
all ache for you
with their roots below
that once cradled you
reaching bending
to hear your song
your missing voice
the grass and stone
are silent
as they mourn
and listen listen
call out your name
and wonder wonder
where you've gone
from where you shiver
cold alone
among ten thousand thousand bones
them they know
what they have done.
by Robert J. Conley
ghoulish would-be archaeologists
from nearby university dig
for artifacts - - and bones.
(label a people "primitive"
and it's legal to rob their graves.)
but when the sun goes down
a slight, grey-haired old man slips out
(has indian blood in his veins)
& darkly makes his nightly rounds
moves their markers, re-ties strings
and puts dirt back in the holes they dug.
it doesn't stop them,
but it slows them down.
not ethnic enough
by Randy Whitewolf
Sent to the suburbs for a "better life"
Public Shooling:
"Conform or you will never fit in. You ask too many questions. Just
learn the lesson and stop being so difficult."
Private Worship:
"Excuse me Father. I do not understand this."
"To Question is a Sin"
Playing with other boys:
"Hey Randy Redskin, let's play Cowboys and Indians!"
cowboys and indians...
white hats, black hats, and no hats
John Wayne and Cochise
"Only good Injun is a dead Injun"
cowboys and indians....
"You don't look like no real Injun to me!"
"Randy, don't talk about your relatives, the people here don't
understand and won't believe you anyway. It will only lead to
problems now and later."
Not conforming, not fitting in.
Feet in two worlds, belonging to neither.
Turmoil. Anger. Self destruction.
Drugs. Alcohol. Violence. Loneliness.
But wait... Why fight?
Pale enough to get by.
Brown hair and blue eyes can get you a pretty good life in this
World.
Adult life:
Conform. Play the Game.
Money. Success. Debt. Doubt.
Feeling hollow. Soulless. Wasichu.
More blood than many, less than some.
More understanding than some, less than many.
Red Heart beating Red Blood to White Brain.
Spirit wanting to soar but cannot...
wings crippled in childhood.
Can't stay here, can't go home.
Home does not exist anymore, maybe it never did.
Feet in two worlds, belonging to neither.
Do not ask me what it is to be "Native".
I do not know.
Have my hands full just trying to be me.
Not such a bad thing really.
Not quite dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed enough.
Picture this child in east coast New York and west coast California
suburbs in the 60's and 70's.
Not quite white enough.
Picture this teenager working for the people.
Not quite dedicated enough.
Picture this young adult working to feed his family in a culture he
doesn't quite understand.
Not quite greedy enough.
Picture him living in areas of town which are predominately poor.
Not quite Latin/African/Asian enough.
Picture him gaining success through education and experience.
Not quite white enough.
Picture him succeeding despite cultural "handicaps" and wishing to
re-establish cultural "roots".
Not quite "rooted" enough.
Picture him try to find his way home.
Not quite ... what?
Wa ya Di tli hi
by Dr. Robert Baize
His arrows are his skills,
His quiver is full.
The story of his face paint is replaced by the
stories in his heart.
by the hand prints left on the lives he has touched.
he is still a warrior none the less.
the battles find him
His foes curse his name.
Injustice is the battle field.
remain the same,
Someone must protect the child,
the elder,
the weak.
forever be the spoils.
He walks the gauntlet of indifference, and apathy.
He marks coup each time the suffering
rejoices with equality.
The quiet warrior,
the spirit warrior,
the modern warrior.
by Joy Harjo
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don't know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my daughters.
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.
keep me naked and frozen in the winter,
or smothered under blankets in tehe summer.
I release you
I release you
I release you
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afriad to be loved.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.
You held my mother down and raped her,
but I gave you the heated thing.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won't hold you in my hands.
You can't live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.
Reading Poems in Public
by Maurice Kenny
poems of boys broken on the road;
the audience tosses questions.
young braves robbed of painted shields,
Medicine Man hitting the bottle;
I chant old songs in their language
of the Spirit in wind and water . . .
they ask if Indians shave.
calendar epics of victory battles,
and cavalry dawn massacres on wintered plains,
villages where war ponies are tethered to snow . . .
and they want to know
how many Indians commit suicide.
I read into the camera,
I read into the printed page,
I read into the ear . . .
and they say what a pretty ring you wear.
The tape winds, the camera reels,
the newspaper spins
and the headlines read:
Ruffian, the race horse, dies in surgery.
go for hamburgers at McDonalds
and pick up a six-pack to suck
as they watch the death
of Geronimo on the late show.
and read poems, and read . . .
To The People United by Cankpi Opi
by Duane Niatum
remember the story of Big Foot
and his people, how mothers kept children
alive like the grass today, hiding
them in the beetle's earthen bowl.
The legends of Paha Sapa grass are simple:
by noon, the wind digs into the plains
like coyote. Nothing leaves these black hills
but worms burrowing songs into tomorrow.
The keens of Minneconjou and Hunkpapa
return each day like the sun. Under twilight's
wing their offspring takes generations to find
the way down the long, steep path of ancestors.
The steps burn new colors into their
smallest vein; found ancestors call them
to dance until the dawn gives them breath.
First light peels away memory's curse,
the story of the Seventh Cavalry.
The women stop weeping for the trail of tears,
the long march, and bury their hearts
in the red earth. Elders take back their scars
and the young, running out despair
and the nightmare of the conquered,
kneel to offer sweet pollen at the graves
of eagle, hawks and warrior dreamers.
by Wahya Digadoli
The Trail Where They Cried
The Trail of Tears;
Now I walk my own Trail
The Trail where I cry
Cry for my lost heritage;
My Soul cries
For the knowledge that is lost to me
My feet struggle
To find the path toward my people
The Aniyvwiyah;
To the knowledge
That will set my caged soul free
To soar with the souls of my Grandmothers;
My Grandmothers walked the Trail of Tears
I walk the Trail
Of lost knowledge, lost heritage;
My feet yearn for the White Path
My soul yearns for the stories of my Grandmothers;
I Cry
by Wahya Digadoli
Honorable, you give honor to all creatures;
Loving, you teach your children to love;
Despite the the tragedies you have suffered;
Respectful, you walk the earth our mother,
with respect and humility;
I honor you
or her death
which is just as inseparable
and the white wind that encircles her
is a part just as the blue sky
hanging in turqouise from her neck
OH WOMAN
remember who you are woman
it is the whole earth
Hard to Take
by Luci Tapahonso
this middle of the road business
is hard to take.
I was in line at Foodway
one checkstand open and
a long line of Navajos waiting
money and foodstamps in hand
waiting to buy food and pop.
dropping the change
Sorry, I say, sorry
The cashier looks up smiling
first smile in 20 minutes of Navajo customers
Oh--that's okay. Are you Navajo?
I swear, you don't have an accent at all!
I say to the people behind me
Ha' 'at'ii sha'ni?
Why is she saying that to me?
We laugh a little under our breaths
and with that
I am another Navajo
she doesn't greet or thank.
and we are not surprised by that.
just the thing for a new look
I say to myself and stop in
for an appointment.
then I ask for an appointment outright.
Just a moment, she says,
someone will be with you shortly.
talk about a great hairdresser,
General Hospital and Liz Taylor.
seeing as I'm the only customer in the place.
but this kind of business
sure gets hard to take.
At the Powwow
by Cheryl Savageau
who lived with my father
forty years,
who buried my grandparents,
whose skin was brown, she said,
from age,
watches the feathered dancers
and says, so that's
what real Indians look like.
and join the circle.
Romantic Poems About Columbus:
One More Thought
by Cheryl Savageau
was my grandmother's
favorite curse word.
by Luci Tapahonso
in the head February 12
because he owed 97c at
a Thriftway gas station.
the anglo gas boy said
I only meant to shoot out
his car tires and scare him.
He fired 2 poor shots -- one in the head,
one in the rear window and
the police cited him for
shooting a firearm within city limits.
expressed shock
It's not company policy, after all,
to shoot Navajo customers who run
overflows in the self-serve pumps.
This man will definitely be fired.
can be justified, the official said
and a 24-year-old Ganado man never used
the $3 worth of gas he paid for.
Return to my fire
