Amazon Indian tribe threatened

Tuesday, May 17, 2005 Posted: 0108 GMT (0908 HKT)

RIO DE JANEIRO, Brazil (AP) -- An Amazon Indian tribe isolated from
modern Brazil by hundreds of miles of rain forest faces annihilation by
loggers if nothing is done to protect them, an Indian rights group
warned Monday.

The Indian rights group Survival International said logging companies
were cutting down the forest in the Rio Pardo area, about 1,400 miles
northwest of Rio de Janeiro, despite repeated reports that there were
isolated Indians in the region.

"These people are on a knife's edge. If something isn't done really
urgently, they will be consigned to history," Fiona Watson, a campaign
coordinator for the Indian rights group Survival International, said by
telephone from London.

Anthropologists with Brazil's Federal Indian Bureau first detected the
tribe in 1998 in a densely jungled area of Mato Grosso state, near its
northern border with Amazonas state.

The bureau considers the Indians "uncontacted" because anthropologists
have not reached the tribe, although its members may have had some type
of contact -- perhaps violent -- with wildcat miners and loggers in the

In 2001, the bureau banned outsiders from entering 410,186 acres of the
rain forest to allow anthropologists to contact the tribe and demarcate
a reservation. But the protection efforts were curtailed this March when

a federal judge granted an appeal by the Sulmap Sul Amazonia logging
company that the decree protecting the area would cause the company
irreversible damages.

"The judge's order opened this area to development and forbids the
presence of the Federal Indian Bureau. This is like putting a gun in the

loggers' hands to kill Indians," said Sydney Possuelo, head of the
bureau's Isolated Indians unit.

Little is known about the Rio Pardo Indians except that they probably
are hunter-gathers and were forced to abandon their villages in a hurry.

"When we found the villages it looked like a tsunami had hit," said
Possuelo. "No Indians abandon their hammocks or their arrows unless they

are being harassed."

Possuelo said efforts to contact the Indians were complicated because
they appeared to have been the victims of attacks by loggers.

"If, on the one hand, we are trying to protect them, there are others
who are trying to make them run. They don't know who is who," Possuelo

About 700,000 Indians live in Brazil, mostly in the Amazon region. About

400,000 of them live on reservations where they try to maintain their
traditional culture, language and lifestyle.

Indians have been always pushed deeper into the jungle by settlers. The
bureau has said in the past that it has learned from other Indians of a
few uncontacted tribes in the western Amazon state, where the region's
jungle is thickest.

A Monk's Tale, Sam Hamill, by permission

TheVirginia Quarterly Review, Spring 2005

A Monk's Tale
Sam Hamill

We begin to die the day we are silent about things that matter.
--M. L. King, Jr.

When I extracted the envelope from my post office box that crisp, clear January morning, I knew immediately what it was. The cream-colored square envelope had gold capital letters in the upper left-hand corner: THE WHITE HOUSE. I knew Laura Bush had sponsored several evenings with writers in her promotion of literacy. Clearly, there was going to be a poetry event, and equally clearly, I had been placed on the list. There could be no other possibilities. I didn't open it. I put it with other mail and returned to Copper Canyon Press, where I was in the midst of printing a broadside on my platen press. I felt intense stress, not joy. There was no way I could accept an invitation to George Bush's White House. I felt a little nauseous as I realized the situation into which I had been thrust. I couldn't simply act on my own, by my own conscience, because my actions would reflect, like it or not, fair or not, on Copper Canyon Press. I was going to have to look deeply into my own conscience and the practices of a lifetime as a socially engaged poet.

The night before, I had been exploring "shock and awe" on the Internet, reading various stories about Bush's plans to devastate Iraq with an intense and intensifying missile barrage, a weak nation of beleaguered people who had no relationship to the al Qaeda attack on the U.S. When I completed my four-year enlistment in the Marine Corps, I exited as a Conscientious Objector. I was born during WW II, grew up during Korea and the McCarthy era, and came of age under Kennedy while serving for a couple of years in Japan. My first public poetry readings were under the auspices of Vietnam Veterans Against the War, Poets Against the War (in Vietnam), and part of my campaigning for Eugene McCarthy in 1968. I ran for California State Assembly that year as a socialist and devoted a lot of time to campaigning for McCarthy.

I had undergone infantry training at Camp Pendleton in Southern California, home of Camp Smedley D. Butler, named after the Marine Corps major general who won two Medals of Honor. This is what the good general had to say about serving his country: "I've spent 33 years being a high-class muscle man for big business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer for capitalism. . . . I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1909-12. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American Oil interests in 1914. I helped in the rape of half a dozen Central American Republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I was rewarded by honors, medals, promotions." And Henry Kissinger has a Nobel Peace Prize that sticks in the craw of every democratic Chilean.

For forty years I'd been a socially engaged antiwar poet. I was engaged in the civil rights campaigns of the sixties, supported feminist issues of the seventies, and had, in fact, been a devoted nonviolent revolutionary my entire adult life. And now I was being invited to the White House, where plans were well under way to sell our nation a pack of lies and fears, and an innocent nation-the very cradle of civilization-would be destroyed, our Constitution undermined, and all the worldwide sympathy and compassion extended toward us since the September 11 attack would evaporate. Several human rights organizations already claimed that a million Iraqis had died for lack of necessities under the embargo; hundreds of thousands more could die in an American shock-and-awe attack.

For an hour or so, I worked in the print room, mind reeling. But I couldn't focus. Finally, I opened the envelope. I was invited by Laura Bush to a symposium on "Poetry and the American Voice" (my emphasis). That "the" kind of caught my eye. There was no mention of which poets would be featured, only that the symposium would be held on February 12, 2003, three weeks away. I closed up shop and went home. I e-mailed the Copper Canyon Press board of directors. Most responded by prompting me to go. (Few of those people knew me at all well.) I knew in my heart that I could not in all conscience go play nice with people who sponsor murder-and firing missiles at cities is murder, period.

I felt my country was about to embark on a road to international disaster. I thought about poets I admired who'd found the courage to be Conscientious Objectors during World War II, people like Kenneth Rexroth, Bill Stafford, William Everson, Robert Lowell. How much venom they must have withstood for being true to their consciences. Mind still reeling, I went out to my library and pulled out Whitman-always, to my mind, "the most American poet." The Whitman who "contains multitudes." I kept thinking, oddly, about "the" American voice. I'd been saying for years that the multitudinous, broadly diverse voices of poetry in the U.S. had made this the richest time for poetry since the T'ang dynasty. Any poet who isn't in possession of a distinct voice isn't, frankly, much of a poet. There's not yet one American English language, but a tree of language with many beautiful branches-dialects, folk terminology, foreign words and phrases constantly enriching our tongue.

I've always admired Whitman's profound optimism. I don't share it, but I admire it. It served him well. But how far is our nation from the democratic vistas Whitman dreamed for us? We have the power to blow up the world many times over, and yet we are clearly incapable of running an election in which votes get properly counted. We are incapable of running an election that is not bought and paid for by corporate conglomerates that reduce grave issues to petulant sound bites, catch phrases, and outright lies. After writing some deeply moving poems in honor of the military, Whitman later wrote:

Well, we certainly have "Industry's campaigns," and armies of "Engineering" will doubtless prosper as they begin to rebuild a devastated country. We do not live in Whitman's Utopia. We live in a time in which the odor of halfburnt corpses cannot shame us, the blood of our missiles does not stain us, in which even the caskets of those who serve their country are concealed. The Gulf War was a television event far removed from most Americans. Our "hell unpent" takes up about three minutes of the evening news. We have exactly the triangulated marriage of military-corporation-and-state that Dwight Eisenhower saw as a greater threat to the U.S. than communism as he left office in 1960.

That evening my wife, Gray Foster, and I sat down with a bottle of wine, and we stewed. I revisited my path to engaged pacifism, from an angry, violent, self-destructive, and often homeless teenager, through the Marine Corps, and into college, and on through adulthood-my thirties, forties, fifties-turning ever more deeply to the teachings of Buddhism, the practice of Zen, and my convictions about poetry. I remembered my first Zen teacher, a tiny Okinawan monk, who told me, "You must live as though you were already dead." That became perhaps the central koan of my life. It certainly played an important role during the twenty-odd years I lived in poverty, building Copper Canyon Press with Tree Swenson and learning book typography, letterpress printing, and studying/translating Chinese and Japanese classics . . . and building my home with my own hands. Ahhh. Living beside a woodstove, studying Tu Fu by kerosene lamp. It's romantic for about a week, then it's a way of life. The poets I translated taught me how to live; they showed me the Way of Poetry. I had taken a bodhisattva vow to follow the practice of Zen and the Way of Poetry, and I had been true to that vow for more than thirty years.

I always liked Whitman for wanting us to read him in the bathtub, which is to say, naked. Naked is vulnerable. I liked him for asking us to touch him, to feel his pulse. And his vow to "never desert you" is really a vow to all humanity, not merely an expression of nationalism.

As much as I love my country-and I love it dearly-I've never been a conventional patriot. I do not cherish a flag, nor do I take pledges of allegiance that might one day conflict with my bodhisattva vow. Kannon (Kuan Yin in Chinese) is the Bodhisattva of Compassion, and her name means "Shewho-perceives-the-cries-of-the-world." I want to hear those voices and hear them clearly. I listen. When my love of country conflicts with the profound suffering and murder we impose on humanity, I must take my stand with suffering humanity. But I do especially love the U.S. Constitution and its roots of democracy that once flourished and now are imperiled by empire-builders and religious fanatics.

Ed Abby loved that poem! The Patriot Act is one of the most insidious documents in our history, and the congressional representatives who turned over to Bush their constitutional responsibilities to mandate for or against war should be impeached or shamed into resignation. Only Congress shall have the right to declare war. The 1st, 4th, and 14th Amendments were (and are) being undermined by bloodless corporate honchos like Dick Cheney and Condoleezza Rice, and we now have an attorney general who is an apologist for torture. We have become a corporate state.

Mussolini said that the perfection of fascism would be found in the marriage of the corporation and the state. Government by Halliburton? Oil companies writing environmental policy? "Clean Air" acts that contribute to the toxicity of our environment, and "clean water" policies that lead directly to rivers full of dead fish and ocean fish we cannot eat because of mercury levels? Mussolini would be proud of George W. Bush. Ninety percent of the mass media in the U.S. is in the hands of a handful of international conglomerates. The American media were following Bush's party line and repeating his lies unquestioningly. Tax cuts for the supremely wealthy and millions of children "left behind"-this is a corporate state. We are the only industrialized nation in the world without a national health-care system; we pay more and get less. Europeans look at a huge, wealthy nation that executes children and they wonder what's wrong with us. How can we be so uncivilized? The world looks at the havoc we cause abroad while we gaze admiringly at our own reflection in a mirror.

Gray and I talked for hours. We called our old friends Hayden Carruth and William Merwin. Hayden had declined an invitation to the Clinton White House, we knew, and we wondered what kind of fallout or flak he'd received. We discussed every conceivable way to deal with the problem, even including the idea of my going, just to listen to what fellow poets and Copper Canyon board members would suggest. But I knew, I just knew I could not go. I didn't even want to go picket. I just wanted to send them some poetry and make a statement against war. I believed then that this was the most dangerous administration in American history, and I believe that now.

My wife and I spent a mostly sleepless night. But I rose the next morning with a clear mind. This is the letter I wrote about 5 a.m.:

January 19, 2003

Dear Friends and Fellow Poets:

When I picked up my mail and saw the letter marked "The White House," I felt no joy. Rather I was overcome by a kind of nausea as I read the card enclosed:

Only the day before I had read a lengthy report on George Bush's proposed "Shock and Awe" attack on Iraq, calling for saturation bombing that would be like the firebombing of Dresden or Tokyo, killing countless innocent civilians. Nor has he ruled out nuclear weapons.

I believe the only legitimate response to such a morally bankrupt and unconscionable idea is to reconstitute a Poets Against the War movement like the one organized to speak out against the war in Vietnam.

I am asking every poet to speak up for the conscience of our country and lend his or her name to our petition against this war, and to make February 12 a day of Poetry Against the War. We will compile an anthology of protest to be presented to the White House on that afternoon.

Please submit your name and a poem or statement of conscience to:

On line by January 31. Send submissions between Jan. 31 and Feb. 10.

There is little time to organize and compile. I urge you to pass along this letter to any poets you know. Please join me in making February 12 a day when the White House can truly hear the voices of American poets.

Sam Hamill

I sent my letter to about forty poets. I did not alert media or anyone else other than the Copper Canyon Press staff and board of directors. We truly expected no more than a few hundred poems. Gray and our friend Nancy Giebink volunteered to download and format the poems as they came in. The initial letter gave Nancy's e-mail address for submissions. Within hours, she was utterly overwhelmed.

The next morning, I called Mrs. Bush's secretary to get details of the symposium and to let her know that I would not be attending but would send along a packet of poems representing a broad spectrum of American voices, plural. Alas, I got a recording announcing the symposium had been "postponed." (Two years later, the official White House position is: "postponed.") I learned only from fellow invited poets that the symposium would discuss Dickinson, Whitman, and Langston Hughes. This, frankly, offended me. For this White House to try to co-opt two, possibly three, homosexual poets, offended me; for them to try to use three of our most political poets offended me. The FBI and CIA followed Langston around for twenty years. Whitman would have despised these people, I am certain, because they are deeply, disturbingly undemocratic.

Whitman speaks of "the tushes of power" while sitting in contemplation like a Buddha. To take the way of poetry is to stake everything on the conviction that words are more powerful than weapons. The first task of the poet, for me at least, is to become a citizen of the world. The Arab poet is my sister, my brother, my grandmother I never knew. Those who must be shrouded by the burka, those who choose the burka, and those who reject the burka are my sisters. I believe each of them has something important to teach me. The path of poetry, the path of compassion, is dangerous at every turn. "Love thine enemy as thy self."

Had we behaved as Whitman's democracy after the September 11 attack, we would have expressed strong convictions about our faith in our Constitution rather than subverting it; we would have asked where such virulent antiAmerican sentiment was born and what fostered it-as if we did not know. The United States has bombed more than forty countries since the end of WW II. We have empowered tyrants (including Saddam Hussein) and dictators when we could profit from it. Pinochet was brought to power by Henry Kissinger (with aid from Bush Sr.); Noriega is a product of the CIA. How many years did the people of the Philippines suffer under a U.S.-backed Ferdinand Marcos? It's a long, ignoble list, about which most of my compatriots know far too little. Our Constitution was not written for application only in easy times, to be subverted every time a bunch of people are overcome with fear. Fear brought the Nazis to power. We should have stood firmly and strictly by our Constitution and hunted down the people responsible. And we should have addressed the disease that lies at the heart of religious fanaticism as well as the rage that is the result of our own imperial behavior.

The September 11 attack on the U.S. was not the disease; it was a severe outbreak of the symptom. The disease is Superpower Fever: the disease is a profound disconnection between the American people and the ordinary, real people of the rest of the world; a government that lies, a government that creates needless suffering at home and abroad, a government that instigates war in order to advance its own power and agenda. The disease is mass media repeating the propaganda of the power elite without exercising the courage to ask the hard questions that expose a mean agenda. It has often enough been said: we get the government (and the mass media) that we deserve. Unfortunately, our government and our corporations are responsible for creating misery around the world, from sweatshops in Indonesia to ecological disasters in Iceland. Whitman envisioned a far different country:

Whitman builds his great city on the shoulders of bards and orators, on the shoulders of poets. Whitman the oratorical optimist understands the cynicism of the politics of fear; he rejects the imposition of authority from "above," insisting that first there must be authority from within. He insists that it is not George W. Bush, but we, the people, who are responsible for more than 100,000 deaths and the decimation of a country that posed no serious threat to us. The citizen is the head, the ideal, and politicians merely our hirelings. The great city must arise from within us. The great and peaceful nation Whitman imagined is already there within us, if only we choose to imagine it and behave accordingly.

We were flooded with poems and letters of gratitude-and not a little hate mail. News broke about the "postponement" of the symposium, and we were flooded with news media. As we prepared for a national day of poetry readings and discussions opposing the war, we picked February 12, the day of Mrs. Bush's "postponed" event. We connected with a poets-against-the-war group in England, and another in Italy, and soon began developing an international network of poets opposing war. Poems continued to pour in that first week at one per minute: five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand . . . There was hate mail and a few death threats. There was a steady outpouring of gratitude from writers who felt silenced, exiled by this administration.

Our local internet provider called. Incoming mail was so heavy that it threatened to collapse the whole system. We called our old friend, Emily Warn, a Seattle poet who had worked at Microsoft. She connected us with Andy Himes at Project Alchemy, an organization that provides technical assistance for nonprofit organizations, and we formed a board of directors with Himes supervising creation of the Poets Against the War web site. His enthusiasm burned so brightly that he later went on to create Voices in Wartime, a companion web site to Poets Against the War. And his engagement there led to his production of the film, Voices in Wartime, an outstanding documentary on poets and war. Time and time again I was asked by media people, "Why can't you poets just leave the politics out of your poetry?" The answer: Because "politics" isn't thrown into a poem like a spoonful of curry into the pot. Poetry is a large house and has plenty of room for the overtly political, the covertly political, the personally political, even attempts to be apolitical, which is almost impossible. It has political traditions. Homer was political, The Iliad a great antiwar poem. Sappho evicted men from her community in part because she believed that "war-mongering is childish behavior." Anyone read Euripides or Sophocles? In Antigone, Haeman tells King Creon, "It is no polis that is ruled by one man." Who's more political than Dante? He wrote under a death sentence. Shakespeare? Lord Byron demanded a major overhaul of the English Parliament. Poetry is social speech in musical measure with traditions including the serious investigations of history and culture and language and the human condition. Don't start me on the Russians, the Spanish, the Chinese poets-in-exile past and present, the modern Greek poets . . .

I was attacked by a couple of former Nixon people on the op-ed pages of the (liberal?) New York Times and twice in the Wail Street Journal, all personal, ad hominem attacks, of course. The first Wall diatribe inspired one of my favorite moments during those hectic days. The phone rang. A voice said, "Hey, Hamill, you S.O.B.!" I assumed it was another threat and was about to hang up when the voice said, "This is Phil Levine. You've been savaged on the op-ed page of the Wall Street Journal and I'm fucking green with envy."

For the first time in modern history, poetry was being discussed and debated in newspapers and magazines-and on talk radio, of course. Another moment of delight: I was on the Michael Medved talk radio show. He is, I gather, a right-winger who spends a lot of time on "family values." I found him to be, unlike his fellow travelers, a civilized man in his conduct. No shouting, no name-calling, just earnest disagreement with my position. Then a call-in, "William from Hawaii on the phone." Medved asks, "Are you a poet, William?" The voice says he is, and I interrupt to explain that this is W. S. Merwin, and Medved yelps, "The W. S. Merwin? The great poet?" It was my only encounter with a right-wing media personality who had clearly read at least one more or less living American poet. The others were still asking, as though entering the 2Oth century rather than 21st, "How come it don't rhyme?" A hundred years ago, Whitman was largely dismissed, his poetry laughed at. While he was singing a truly "American" idiom, his contemporaries continued to imitate the forms and syntax of their English masters. "Poetry is news that stays news" (Ezra Pound). American mass media is populated with people who are poetry-illiterate.

On February 17, in the midst of "the storm of the century," with New York City all but shut down, nearly 3,000 people showed up at Lincoln Center for "Poems Not Fit for the White House," sponsored by the Not in Our Name organization. They cheered, stomped, roared, and applauded through more than two rambunctious hours of joyful and sometimes heartrending protest from across the spectrum of American voices. And a moment for Stanley Kunitz, WW II conscientious objector, and another for Arthur Miller, who thanked me for starting Poets Against the War, introducing himself almost shyly, "My name is Arthur . . ."

On March 5, 2003, in the company of W. S. Merwin, Terry Tempest Williams, and PAW board member Peter Lewis, I delivered to Congress 12,000 poems by 11,000 poets opposing the war. We were hosted by Ohio Representative Marcie Kaptur, with Dennis Kucinich, John Conyers, Jim McDermott, and (my hero) Maxine Waters joining us. It is the largest single-theme poetry anthology ever compiled; if the manuscript were printed out, it would stand about six feet high. Poems have been read into the Congressional Record regularly since then. It has been quoted in the governing halls of England, France, Italy, German, Spain, and Japan, and many of the poems have been translated into various languages. At a dinner for organizers and compatriots, Seattle's Representative McDermott gave a deeply moving speech about how grateful he was for Poets Against the War and about the power of poetry. And in talks with Dennis Kucinich and Maxine Waters, I was struck by how much of the poetry they had read.

Working with 25 inexhaustible volunteer editors, in one week Sally Anderson and I edited 12,000 poems, selecting fewer than two hundred as representative of the whole, and the print edition of Poets Against the War became a best seller for Nation Books.

On a plane to Italy in the fall of 2003, I picked up a copy of the New Yorker someone had left behind and was astonished to read Mark Strand reviewing a huge selected poems of Pablo Neruda. He basically dismissed all of Neruda's overtly political poetry, glibly saying, "Political poetry has no legs." Excuse me? Has our reviewer read Sappho or the Chinese Poetry Classic? Does he realize that Neruda's "United Fruit Company" has been translated into something like a hundred languages? Has he heard the Mikos Theodorakis operatic treatment of Canto General that was performed to celebrate the fall of the rule of the colonels in Greece? Is Paradise Lost not a political poem? Our national anthem is a poem; most are.

The Italian press asked far more insightful questions, and its reporters were far less likely to be rooted in ignorant assumptions. I talked about Dante and Catullus, about Nazim Hikmet, Akhmatova, and Seferis and reminded them that Zbigniew Herbert was a young Dadaist fooling with words until he found himself in a Soviet prison, where he redefined his notions of poetry. They listened, they asked, and the Italian people responded to news of Poets Against the War with overwhelming enthusiasm. I spent ten days in Piacenza at a great literary festival with sixty or so writers from Europe, Africa, South and Central America, and Cuba. It was in Piacenza that I was fortunate enough to meet and read with Salah al Hamdani, an Iraqi poet in exile who had endured years in Saddam's prisons and who now makes his home in Paris.

Baghdad, Mon Amour

by Salah al Hamdani (translated by Molly Deschenes)

You cannot be crucified

On the side of a page

Of a story that is not your own,

Nor to the rhythm of the deaths that brood your plagues

Because there will be no cry to relieve your grief.

You cannot be crucified on the banks of the streams

Your body bleeds,

When the Euphrates washes away the secret of its soul

At the birth of a new defeat.

I know this:

No wound deserves a war.

You cannot be crucified at nightfall,

When you did not close your prayers

On the body of palm trees

Because there is no honorable assassin.

You cannot be crucified for the cinders of calamities,

For the tombs of your gods,

Or for the belief of a dying humanity.

Baghdad mon amour,

Not son, nor father, nor God,

No prophet crowned by the church will save your soul,

Not that of Mecca,

Not that of those who refuse

To share the olive trees in Palestine.

This is my notebook of war,

The years of exiles folded in a suitcase

Too long abandoned to the dreams of the convicted.

This is my share of victims,

My share of moon,

My harvest of nothingness,

My share of dust, words and cries.

This is my misfortune

Like a comma locking a line of ink.

Baghdad my love,

I was crouched in the corner of the page

In the shelter of the arid days,

Far from the torrents of blood

That carry the name of those shot with the silence of man.

Baghdad, mon amour,

Sitting like a Bedouin in a mirage

Lying on my shores, I cherished my own shroud.

Far from the cross, Fatima's palm and the star of David

Far from their books, their wars

Wandering in the sand of the dunes,

From the steppe to the city

I drag my body from season to season,

I trail you along from the couch to the mirror, from my room to the street

Between my writing and my solitude

In the shelter of their cemeteries,

Their martyrs, their morgues.

Baghdad my love,

You cannot tremble at the threshold of these ruins of days,

A civilization trained to kill

Violated your virginity.

Baghdad, city forever rebellious against your torturer Saddam,

You cannot groan at the only revelation of this hegemony,

Those who rushed around your body at death's door,

These "liberators" are their accomplices.

Madinat-al Salam,

City of peace,

Love in the soul of writing.

Baghdad my wound,

My father the working man died without knowing joy,

My mother mislaid her youth in the mirror

And the only witness to my first grief on your breast

Is the breath of the sand,

The starry sky and God's gaze on the call to prayer.

I wished so much today that man had never discovered fire

And cursed it to advance so much in its own din.

This soil that gave birth to me, today put to death.

Oh mother! I want to return inside your flesh

To hear the beating of your heart,

To quench my thirst in the murmur of your breath.

Very dangerous man, this poet with a huge, gentle, aching heart. Would our reporters ask him to "just leave the politics out of it?" How would Laura Bush "just leave the politics out" of the good gray Whitman? Langston had one subject: the African-American experience. How does one "leave the politics out" of that? I sat on that stage in the crowded little town square in Piacenza, and as I listened to Salah's elegant, steady baritone, I wept for my country and for his. I promised him afterward that I would get at least this poem of his, given to me in French, translated for an American audience.

I met with a number of mayors and city councils and such and was received warmly everywhere. And I had wonderful conversations-and sometimes little debates-with hundreds of high school students in Pisa and San Giuliano, where the mayor presented me with a big Italian "pace" banner and a lovely etching of the old city hall. During my travels in Italy, I wrote a long poem, "A Pisan Canto," reflecting on Ezra Pound and his politics and his time in the "gorilla cage" at the end of WW II, meditating on the character of those who would lead us now and on "the role of poetry" as I have perceived and practiced it for forty years.

Last fall, I spent two weeks at a gathering of poets in Lithuania, mostly in Vilnius, where I visited old haunts of Czeslaw Milosz and reread many of his books. His notions of "poetry of witness" have had a profound influence on my practice. The Lithuanians were astonished to learn that Milosz was very popular with American poets and readers. I visited a memorial park near Druskininkai that served to remind us of recent Lithuanian history-the Nazis, the Soviets. I dubbed it Scoundrel Square but was far more deeply moved than that might sound. The ordinary faces and lives of people who sold out their neighbors, their country, their souls: I thought of my old friend Shirley Kaufman, who translated the poetry of Abba Kovner, a Jewish poet who grew up in Vilnius and led the United Partisan Organization against the extermination of the Vilna ghetto before settling in Israel in 1946. He called poetry "a way of asking forgiveness for the evil in human existence." Lithuania has risen from the ashes of evil; it has begun to glow like amber.

Most of the young poets I met were avoiding the political in their poetry except inasmuch as it is influenced by rap and other performance arts. But as that generation matures, it will find history resting squarely upon its shoulders. Perhaps poets like Adam Zagajewski will show them the way, if the "burden" of a Milosz or an Abba Kovner is too great. There, as in Italy, I had the opportunity to extend cooperation between international organizations of poets, and to help get some good poetry translated. To see the U.S. from an Eastern European perspective, say, or from an Icelandic perspective, is to see ourselves with fresh eyes, with the eyes of the world, as various as each of them may be. I dream of an American administration that listens as much as it talks. The voices from the ghettos have important news to tell us still, as do those who have risen from its shadows.

Returning from Vilnius, I was sick at heart over Copper Canyon Press; I had been agonizing for more than two years. During his brief tenure as publisher at Copper Canyon Press, Thatcher Bailey had undermined respect for me and for my position, telling staff and board that my thirty years with the press was "just history," that "anyone can be the editor," and that he intended to "revision the press." He demanded my resignation as he departed. His behavior divided the staff and board and poisoned the well. I lost several outstanding staff members. Bailey is now director of Centrum, host organization to Copper Canyon Press at Fort Worden. One of his first official acts there was to dismiss me (with "honors," of course) from my position as director of the Port Townsend Writers Conference, and to do it publicly just two weeks before the 2004 conference was to begin. I didn't get the support I needed from senior staff at the press and could not function properly without it. A sacred trust was betrayed. I had no choice but to go. I will continue to support the poets and the poetry, of course: they have been my world for thirty-two years.

There is important work to be done with Poets Against the War, including a lot of work in development and organization, and I am presently committed to that. For the first time in history, there is a growing worldwide network of poets devoted to the traditional values of poetry and social engagement. Working together, we can help enlighten people everywhere, each in our own community, working together to make poetry better understood and to speak on behalf of decency and human rights wherever oppression raises its Janus mask. We can promote literacy and cross-cultural pollination, enriching our own lives and works in the process. And if some poet feels obliged to speak for those whose voices have been silenced, we might benefit by listening, even as that means listening to the dead. And numbering and naming the dead. If we're going to annihilate masses of people "for the good of the world," we might take the time and trouble to learn their language and cultural values and even their poetry.

Peace is born only within each of us, and peace in the world will never be achieved through the imposition of war. Whitman (like a Buddha) reminds us: order begins from within. Embody peace. Peace in the world or peace in the home, it is achieved only by mutual agreement to stand by a few well-chosen words. True peace is achieved from within, one person at a time. Poetry clarifies the vision. If war were an effective means to peace, the last century would not have been the bloodiest in all of history. Poets are good at helping people look more closely at words and all of their implications. The poem is a little body of language and music and enlightenment. A poem can embody or ennoble or inspire a moment of peace. A poem can change a life.

No, I could not walk away from Poets Against the War. Far too many people all across this world stood beside me in support of peace and poetry when I asked for a company of poets. I found myself asking whether being an ambassador for poetry was "right work" or "right practice," and I decided that indeed it is. Grampa Walt says it is my duty to contain multitudes, to dream a better U.S., where being a citizen of the world is a vital part of what we are. Emily tells me I have wild nights to live and fresh perspectives to discover. Langston reminds me that I still have a lot of brothers and sisters in chains (both visible and invisible chains: poverty is a prison), and that the struggle itself has merit. Jazz was born in the hearts of those who endured this country's greatest shame. Art matters. Those most abused, those left illiterate and impoverished, those with the least vocabulary-they invented the indelibly rich poetry of the blues. Sometimes that poetry made life worth living and their tales worth telling. Old Walt and Charley Patton remind me that I have a right to dream and a right to sing. Martin Luther King, Jr., reminds me that with those rights come real responsibilities, and that opposing violence in America can be dangerous.

Poetry saved my life when I was a misbegotten, self-destructive kid, and the way of poetry has determined the course of my life. It has saved, can save, and will save many others. Whether traveling on behalf of poetry and social engagement, teaching a little, or starting another press; whether printing on a letterpress or editing for someone else, or simply waiting for the first signs of spring, I plan to continue the proper conduct of my life-a life of service in the temple of poetry.

Copyright University of Virginia Spring 2005

Tonight I wanted a drink; (draft)

I wanted to fly, to be brilliant and brave.
So I drank the full moon instead,
and all the stars around it,
In the black, black and black of the sky.
In went the shimmering winds,
And the scatter of white plumeria.
I swallowed it down, the whole of it,
even the neighbor’s nuisance dog.
I was desperate and sad with all that yearning
I couldn’t stop it, not even there.
I took it all in, every leaf, sigh and shiver.
There was nothing that could be done
For all that ragged churning.
It went down so easy, all of it,
I started thinking I wanted more.
But not even this had stopped the punch
Where the heart of my heart was leaking.
I was back where I started, at the end of it.
The moon laughed from the sky with the stars.
The winds scattered the white-faced plumeria,
And the neighbor’s dog barked even more.
I still wanted a drink so bad.
All my words gathered to meet me,
What I’d thought or done
Made a place for me by the water.
It was the longest night of the world.

For Pam Uschuk

c Joy Harjo June 21, 2005 Honolulu

Benediction, draft of a poem


When darkness appears everlasting
And we have set up camp beneath the stars
Moved into night like an animal hibernating for a season
When we’ve become a distant memory, like the migration north from southern fires
And before the ancient canoe journey by winds ands stars
When we’ve forgotten we are caught in the weave of myth:
And no longer see Rabbit leap between joy and sadness,
Or Eagle perch and watch,
And the canoe traveling between dusk and dawn is lost in the rough waters.
When enemies destroy us; and we give birth and grow nations
Beneath the dark mouth of the upper world
When raw loneliness besieges us with terrible hunger
And empty pots hang over the ashes
A compassionate being climbs down once again in the dark
Bearing new fire and light in their hands.
We are fed and can see everything new again.
This is the song of beginning.
And this is the benediction of the birds at 5 AM
Because the star returns to us again
To break the hungry dark.

C Joy Harjo June 22, 2005 Honolulu


A Take on the Peruvian Saga, and Racing

Every time I scanned my flight schedule for the whole of my South American trip there was always a glitch of energy, a paling of ink at the Aero Condor flight we were scheduled to take from Lima to Iquitos. I didn’t pay it too much attention as the perception was minor and I boarded the flight with the rest of the passengers. This was the first flight on which my traveling companion and I appeared to be the only non-local tourists. The eight boxes of roosters crowing in the airport, stacked next to a passenger checking in at the next counter might as well have been on our flight. The man with the roosters fit perfectly with the mix piling into the plane. Iquitos is a border town, which means it's a the uneasy edge between Indian country and white civilization and the passengers reflected the rough mix of adventurers, prospectors, and visitors deigning to see the rowdier elements of their families. We took off in the plane that most airlines would have grounded, or at least spent a little to tuck in the stuffing and cover the scrapes of wear with a little paint. I half-dozed as I’d been up since four a.m. for enough time to check out of the hotel in Miraflores and get across the coughing city of Lima to the airport and check in for the 6:45AM flight. But couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the Amazon and have anticipated this journey all of my life, since the third or fourth grade when I obsessed over the Amazon and did every assigned report on Amazonian animals. Even my recently deceased diva pet angel fish who grew from fingernail size to the size of a large hand in my ten-gallon aquarium was native to the Amazon. She was smart, perceptive (not always the same thing) and moody. She knew what carrying bags to the living room to pack meant. And she would sulk and not respond to me until I returned from my trip. Once a month she'd get moody and cranky, bump the glass walls of her home with fury. Usually the next day there'd be a white thread of eggs to show for it. She'd protect them until she ate them.
I wonder what captures each of us, for instance, how someone from Belgium will fixate on a tribe thousands of miles away, even while in diapers, and make it their life study, or another will work untiringly to understand a few years in history of a particular dynasty in Egypt, though they grew up in a small-town in Michigan. Our sources of information are often faulty or romanticized. Most education, I venture, is propaganda, culled from texts written by so-called conquerors or other translators of human events with narrow points of view that are usually both linear and hierarchical. (The linear and hierarchical are inherently constructed to topple.) Most knowing isn’t rote information, and most doesn’t necessarily come over literal wires of communication. Of course we need the literal as a time map in this world, and for structure, but the rest of it has been discounted. Sort of like the trinity held sacred in most Christian religions doesn't include a female component. How are you going to create anything? Doesn't work that way here. Just look at the natural world, just use common sense.
At a young age I was intrigued with the Amazon that flowed through the most immense garden in the world. There lived the world’s largest snakes, various kinds of monkeys, caiman who were related to alligators, and uncountable birds and insects. I knew that the area was populated mostly by native people as was Oklahoma (according to my point of view.). I didn’t know then that hunting Indians was still a sport there, or that when I would eventually make my way there, and that it would be over forty years later. The wise knowing part of myself that surfaced now and then like a caiman lurking along the edge of the waters, believed in the possibility of being able to get to the Amazon, though it was most likely an impossibility because I was barely coming up through the cracks in a breaking home. I lived in chaos. I was the oldest of four, and female and the pressure was already unbearable. I found refuge in the imagining of such a place as the Amazon. Everything I loved was contained there. Maybe this was when I first started trading jeans and boy’s shirts for dresses. You couldn’t walk around the Amazon like one of the girls whose only goal for their lives was to be a bride. It would never work.
It was a relief to ascend into the sky and be able to see the sky. Lima had no sky, only a low level belching atmosphere, a constant shade of ashy gray. Soon, the staggering vista of mountains turned to green, lush vistas. The cart made it around with Coke and Inca Kola, nd then the plane jerked , a noticeable strange lurch and we began descending. Something felt off. We banked then landed at a small airfield in a place called P_______, not Iquitos. Bright squares of laundry were laid out on the runway to dry. We touched down. We discerned through limited understanding of Spanish and body language that we had to disembark and wait until a mechanic was flown in to fix the engine.
I am still caught or transfixed by a couple and their daughter, passengers on that downed plane. They have become a metaphor of memory for me. I still see them there as we waited in that in that humid bare waiting room for a mechanic and problem that could take a few hours to fix or a day or even two--there was nothing we could do....so we resigned ourselves to it. The husband/father was tall, gawky and rough, the same kind of non-Indian who shows up in the farthest reaches of Indian country because they are on the run, are a criminal or have had some kind of scuffle with family or the law. (People wind up far from home for many reasons. We had people like him teaching at Indian school.) He could have been a missionary's child sent from Oklahoma.



Nothing like a summer rainy night in Honolulu. The chukking of a gecko. Earlier today I got to race in my first regatta with Hui Nalu Canoe Club, out in the beautiful waters of Nanakuli. We won in the senior masters women's division. What a high--
I was never that athletic as a child though I loved moving to music. Eventually my body connected with my head....It's all about rhythm. In a canoe race you match the rhythm of the boat moving through water, lean into it, go with it. Sort of like performing music.


John Burnside's new book of poetry, The Good Neighbor

John Burnside is one of the finest poets of our age. I met him at Riddu Riddu, a music festival held every year north of the Arctic Circle in Norway. He was on assignment from the BBC to do a piece on the festival and interviewed me. He promised me a book, The Light Trap arrived and I was entranced. Yesterday his new book, The Good Neighbor, Jonathan Cape, an imprint of Random House arrived at the bottom of three weeks of mail. I opened it first and stopped for poetry and was stopped. From "The Good Neighbor": "...and when he lays his book down, checks the hour/and fills a kettle, something hooded stops,/as cell by cell, a heartbeat at a time,/my one good neighbor sets himself aside,/and alters into someone I have known:/a passing stranger on the road to grief,/husband and father; rich man; poor man; thief."



Native Joy for Real was featured by Alan Cheuse today on NPR. You may also order the CD from WINGS PRESS at:
http://www.wingspress.com. While you're there check out Bryce Milligan's other titles. He runs a fine publishing house out of San Antonio.

ADVICE: Do not respond personally to negative press, blogs, to any attack in print or other media. To do so gives dignity to a maker of opinion.

REALITY: You will be tempted to respond especially when you are at your most human, that is, laden with frustration, exhaustion, struggling to find footing in the middle of your next creative project or otherwise battling doubt.

ADVICE: Don't.
from Buenos Aires journal:

When I travel through this world, in airports, on the streets of American cities, in the countryside, in stores and universities and hotels, on planes and in cities and small communities around the world, I keep my eyes open for those who shine, those who have opened to perception and knowing beyond the mundane perception of usual human reality. I usually detect it first in an attitude about the body. There’s integrity, cleanness of intention. It’s difficult to describe. It might be the compassion in a hand gesture; it might be the angle of a hat, the unassuming graceful step in a mad knot of commuters. The movements are ever humble, and those bearing this knowing do not ever call attention to themselves. I watch the dip and sway of energy, and attempt to adjust my vision beyond my own need to see what might not be there. I used to allow myself to be deceived because I naively wished to assume the best in everyone. Oddly, to be more discriminative means to open up the vision. This allows more light and perhaps more vulnerability. And paradoxically, there is this shine in everyone. For most it’s heavily protected, behind walls of religions, beliefs, rules and fears. For some it appears in a flash, with the opening of the soul in a laugh, or compassionate tear. Few walk about the earth in utter awareness and focus. They give off light and when you are near them you feel closer to the earth, closer to the sky, to yourself, all at once.
The final proof is in the eyes. They will tell you everything from the condition of the soul to the emotional weather of the moment. You can travel thousands of years in a mythic journey in which you are renewed or be stabbed in the back in a mere second by others. When you look into someone’s eyes you peer close to the soul. To do so holds sacredness. That’s why myAunt Lois Harjo warned me about photographs. They can hold a piece of the soul frozen until the paper and solution disintegrate.
(We are holographic in mind, body and spirit. This is the trinity, also called the Upper, Middle and Lower worlds.)
I rarely see this level of being. And cannot predict a sighting. They are beyond hierarchy and appear in every particularity of economic class, sex, nationality, and educational system. They don’t belong solely to hierarchies of time and place. As we walked Florida Street in Buenos Aires, still recovering from a grueling schedule in San Miguel de Tucuman, jet lag, and worn with maneuvering with a crippled Spanish I was concerned with ducking hawkers, watching tango dancers perform for the swarms of tourists, listening to street musicians who ranged from children forced to sit with accordions they couldn’t play (they were of the age and inclination of my grandchildren who were concerned with the tricycles and dolls) to genius and much lesser talents singing or playing for coins for rent or food, and a flood of tourists followed by beggars and pickpockets of all sorts, all in my search for family gifts, and for the perfect leather jacket. (The dollar is good here.)
In this midst of this human soup I found Martin, or his eyes found me. The shine was unmistakable. I did not have to look twice or even question what I saw there. No pretense, no walls, no distance between me and the creator of light.
We had been up since dawn, still confused between the sudden transition between summer and winter, north and south, the trade of one country for another. We had breakfast that morning in the generous buffet at the hotel and went out into the neighborhood to see the sights, including the cemetery, especially Eva Peron’s sepulcher. A controlling and angry spirit inhabited the northwest corner of the cemetery. We got out of his section quickly. I noted that each section had it’s own cat guardian. One was very friendly and accompanied us from border to border of its territory. The next cat watched alertly but did not follow us. Another watched from a distance…all the way through the cemetery.
We had lunch outside at an expensive tourist café across from the walled cemetery. The light was perfect. The noon sun cut the winter shadows of the morning. We ambled back, stopping for a dessert of ice cream, through a neighborhood that reminded me of St. Germaine de Prix in Paris and then crashed at the hotel, still exhausted from travel and performing. That night headed back to Florida Street . It was there I caught sight of Martin. His eyes shone and called me over. According to the society of money he had no reason to live, let alone shine. He was parked in his wheelchair, hunched and curled with cerebral palsy. To speak he had to use a stick in his mouth to point to letters and words written on a board. We spoke for awhile. Made jokes and laughed in the border between Spanish and English. What he gave was immense gift of joy. It immanated from his bright, black Indian eyes. They made a compelling humble light. When I eventually turned and joined the throngs I looked back and could no longer see him. But I do still see him there, now. I want to write that I will not forget him, but I may, because though I am committing this memory to paper, or virtual reality, writing doesn't always securely attach to the long distance memory of the heart. What does? I don't want to forget the way back.

Sandra Cisneros, the University of Iowa Crew and Me after the taping of the Garrison Keillor Literary Friendships Show in Minneapolis, May 15-2005


Sunday night in Alewa Heights

Sunday night. The neighbor's dog is barking incessantly at one of the other's neighbor's exccessively numerous cats. Another neighbor is harping her blooming preteen and teen daughters to change the station they are watching or turn the television off. I have been at Kailua Beach all day for a regatta, one race after another since 8AM, in relentless winds and blowing sand. I didn't get to race as punishment for being away for three weeks... Now two other dogs are answering the first dog's frustrating yap. What kind of network of meaning is this?

I remember dusk at Machu Picchu and the calling of a small bird who shared the ending of one world and the beginning of another with me. It was not of the grandeur of a condor, not brightly colored or flashy, just a small, humble bird with an honest voice, a good singer. It stood on the corner stone of the fabulous Inca architecture and sang out over a deep, sonorous valley. Another of his kind answered from somewhere on the other side of the mountain, and then another and another. And so they went until dark, making a lattice-work of song. Night came like that.

That's what stays deeply with me from my journey to San Miguel de Tucuman, Amaicha, Buenos Aires, Argentina; and Lima, Cusco, Machu Picchu, Iquitos and the Amazon, in Peru.

Also two other images: 1- from the train window heading to Machu Picchu from Cusco, a black pig running down a dirt road with a rope dragging behind him, and 2-5 A.M. in the Lima Airport domestic check-in area as I stand in line, half-asleep for a flight to Iquitos: eight cardboard cartons and two plastic totes of roosters, and the unmistakable sound of crowing in the airport.

Now suddenly quiet: no anxious parent quarreling with children, no barking, but the chuk chuk of a gecko and the tap tap of the computer keys.

The earth can teach us everything we need to know.


From the Faraona Hotel in Lima

Tomorrow it's to the Lima Airport for a plane to Iquitos at 4 AM. Tonight it's a mediocre keyboard-organ player in the restaurant of a tourist hotel here in Miraflores whose sound permeates the hotel. When Americans arrive he plays themes to American shows. The rooms are built around a courtyard about five stories up. At least he's a musician who has a job. That matters. Sound travels: a light motorbike revs up and disappears, couples walking the street, a bus load of Austrian tourists checks in. I arrived a few hours earlier from Cusco and the ever-presence of Inca architecture and spirit. There's more, much more and I will backtrack write as I can. All I know for now is that I didn't sleep much last night in the bare but warm-spirited Hotel Los Ninos in Cusco. The high altitude headache was partly responsible, and the pondering over the day's journey through the Sacred Valley. Nothing much changes at all.

More later.

Sleep now.