Might as well include the final version of the Reality Show lyrics. Another new song on the forthcoming CD.
REALITY SHOW c Joy Harjo
Nizhoniigo no hey nay
Nizhoniigo no hey wa ney
Nizhoniigo no hey nay
Nizhoniigo no hey wa ney
Chorus:
How do we get out of here?
Smoke hole crowded with too much thinking
Too many seers
And prophets of prosperity
We call it real
What are we doing in this mess of forgetfulness?
Ruled by sharp things, baby girls in stiletto heels
Beloved ones doing street time
We call it real
What are we doing napping, through war?
We've lost our place of in the order of kindness
Children are killing children
We call it real.
Chorus
What are we doing forgetting love?
Under mountains of trash, a river on fire
We can't be bought, forced or destroyed.
Just what is real?
Chorus
Nizhoniigo no hey nay
Nizhoniigo no hey wa ney
Nizhoniigo no hey nay
Nizhoniigo no hey wa ney
Nizhoniigo: Navajo (or Dineh) which means movement of beautiful within and without
4/30/04
The Last World of Fire and Trash/Final lyrics
Here is the final draft of the lyrics of one of the ten tunes of the new CD. This was the first song I wrote using Band-in-the-Box and the versatile Garage Band program from Apple. Both are useful programs for songwriters.
Also note there was an earlier version of this lyric. It has been through several revisions. Most of my creative work goes through revision, some more extensive than others. This is why I have shied away from blogging...I prefer to let the work develop in private, perfect it, then let it free.
THE LAST WORLD OF FIRE AND TRASH
c Joy Harjo/Katcv Publishing ASCAP
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
I’m Indian in a strange pastiche of hurt and rain
smells like curry and sweat
from a sunset rock and roll restaurant.
A familiar demon groaning with fear
has stalked me here, ruins poetry, then
his swollen pride commandeers.
Chorus:
So long, goodbye, oh fearful one.
My desires had turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
that I packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Beneath the moon rocking above Los Angeles
or outside the stomp dance fire of memory,
I told him, you can choose to hate me
for going too far, or for being a nothing
next to a pretty nothing like you.
I can’t get betrayal out of my mind,
out of my heart
in this hotel room where I’m packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring
in the blur of a glass of wine
after the crashed dance,
the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Chorus
The most dangerous demons spring from fire
and a broken heart, warning of bittersweet aftershave
and the musk of a thousand angels.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage
to an enemy, who thinks he wants what I have.
The last council of peace was disrupted by this fearful beast,
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of truth
and erupted from the spirit world to this gambling place--
And I send prayers skyward
on smoke.
Release this suffering.
Let the pretty beast and all the world know peace.
I refuse to sum it up anymore; it’s not possible.
I give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket
in the last world of fire and trash.
Also note there was an earlier version of this lyric. It has been through several revisions. Most of my creative work goes through revision, some more extensive than others. This is why I have shied away from blogging...I prefer to let the work develop in private, perfect it, then let it free.
THE LAST WORLD OF FIRE AND TRASH
c Joy Harjo/Katcv Publishing ASCAP
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
I’m Indian in a strange pastiche of hurt and rain
smells like curry and sweat
from a sunset rock and roll restaurant.
A familiar demon groaning with fear
has stalked me here, ruins poetry, then
his swollen pride commandeers.
Chorus:
So long, goodbye, oh fearful one.
My desires had turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
that I packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Beneath the moon rocking above Los Angeles
or outside the stomp dance fire of memory,
I told him, you can choose to hate me
for going too far, or for being a nothing
next to a pretty nothing like you.
I can’t get betrayal out of my mind,
out of my heart
in this hotel room where I’m packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring
in the blur of a glass of wine
after the crashed dance,
the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Chorus
The most dangerous demons spring from fire
and a broken heart, warning of bittersweet aftershave
and the musk of a thousand angels.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage
to an enemy, who thinks he wants what I have.
The last council of peace was disrupted by this fearful beast,
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of truth
and erupted from the spirit world to this gambling place--
And I send prayers skyward
on smoke.
Release this suffering.
Let the pretty beast and all the world know peace.
I refuse to sum it up anymore; it’s not possible.
I give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket
in the last world of fire and trash.
4/29/04
On the road again
Performed last night at Edmonds Community College to a warm and exciting audience including many many local native peoples. Didn't know that Seattle was the relocation city for the Blackfeet back in the fifties, which was why I was greeted by so many Blackfeet there near the water. Read poems, sang, played some of the new tunes. There's a powwow there this weekend, the 18th Annual Powwow hosted by the American Indian Student Association at the Seaview Gymnasium in Lynnewood, WA. Also a powwow this weekend at UCLA. Will see you there if I am out of the studio in time.
Please note too the new publication, first issue of the UCLA native student law journal: Indigenous People's Journal of Law, Culture and Resistance. It's an impressive effort, includes articles by Abby Abinanti, Duane Champagne, Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, Michele Companion, and R. Hokulei Lindsay, poetry by Sara Littlecrow-Russell, Mehealani Kamauu, and Cecilia Vicuña, and artwork by Nadema Agard and Elizabeth Whipple. You can order your very own copy for $20 (second class postage) by writing: IPJLCR Business Manager, UCLA School of Law, Box 951476, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1476.
The Nisqually poet Duane Niatum showed up too, much later after a late start from Tacoma. He's still writing and is looking for the perfect teaching position.
He was responsible for the first publications of many known native poets.
Will put a new song up on the site in the next week for your listening pleasure. Stay tuned.
Please note too the new publication, first issue of the UCLA native student law journal: Indigenous People's Journal of Law, Culture and Resistance. It's an impressive effort, includes articles by Abby Abinanti, Duane Champagne, Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, Michele Companion, and R. Hokulei Lindsay, poetry by Sara Littlecrow-Russell, Mehealani Kamauu, and Cecilia Vicuña, and artwork by Nadema Agard and Elizabeth Whipple. You can order your very own copy for $20 (second class postage) by writing: IPJLCR Business Manager, UCLA School of Law, Box 951476, Los Angeles, CA 90095-1476.
The Nisqually poet Duane Niatum showed up too, much later after a late start from Tacoma. He's still writing and is looking for the perfect teaching position.
He was responsible for the first publications of many known native poets.
Will put a new song up on the site in the next week for your listening pleasure. Stay tuned.
4/24/04
In the studio, on the road
It's an seasonably hot early evening in Los Angeles. Working in the studio on the new tracks here in Los Feliz. The Oneida funny man Charlie Hill was in yesterday jamming on a funky new Round Dance song. Carolyn Dunn, Mvskoke, of the Mankillers added her gorgeous voice to the vocals. (See the photo in our photo album.) We were all part of the entertainment Thursday night for the California Indian Education Conference at the Westin, along with Arigon Starr, Floyd Westerman and others. (If I had the names of the "and others" I'd include them here. I never liked being listed as "and others", but am and was always grateful for a place to be.) Right now we're editing, "The Last World of Fire and Trash", one of my favorite new tunes. Features Jay Bellerose on drums, Jennifer Condos on bass and Harry Orlove on guitar. Look for the preview of Native Joy for Real in mid to late May.
1/24/04
The Vagina Monologues at Hawaii Theatre
I will be appearing with several other Hawai'i performers in the Honolulu offering of the show THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES, one performance only at the historic Hawaii Theatre on Sunday, February 15th, 2004 at 8:00 PM. Other performers include: Lois-Ann Yamanaka, Nora Okja Keller, Brenda Kwon, Tanisha, Cocoa Chandelier, Grace Alvaro Caligtan, Amelia Borofsky, Selah Geissler, Kasi Nunes, Jaquie Yang, Luciana Tarantino and DJ Primmitiv. Directed by Kathryn Xian and Steve Kealoha Wong. Tickets are on sale at www.hawaiitheatre.com. Can also charge by phone: 808/528-0506. Box office purchase: 1130 Bethel. Reception party to follow at the W Hotel. 90% of proceeds of the show benefit local domestic violence prevention, 10% donated to V-Day Juarez, Mexico campaign.
1/23/04
How Do We Get Out of Here, or Reality Show, Lyrics
HOW DO WE GET OUT OF HERE, OR, REALITY SHOW
What are we doing in this mess of forgetfulness
Ruled by sharp things
Baby girls in stiletto heels
We call it real.
What are we doing napping through war
We’ve lost our place in the order of kindness
Children are killing children
We call it real.
How do we get out of here
Smoke hole crowded with too much thinking
Too many seers and prophets
of prosperity
We call it real.
c Joy Harjo, Mekko Productions Inc.
What are we doing in this mess of forgetfulness
Ruled by sharp things
Baby girls in stiletto heels
We call it real.
What are we doing napping through war
We’ve lost our place in the order of kindness
Children are killing children
We call it real.
How do we get out of here
Smoke hole crowded with too much thinking
Too many seers and prophets
of prosperity
We call it real.
c Joy Harjo, Mekko Productions Inc.
The Last World of Fire and Trash, Lyrics
This is the near final copy of the lyrics of a song I'll be putting down in the next few months for the new Native Joy CD.
Others will follow.
Enjoy.
Strange world. Where lying is the predominant virus.
THE LAST WORLD OF FIRE AND TRASH
Open:
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
Verse:
I’m Indian in a strange pastiche of hurt and rain
smells like curry and sweat
from a sunset rock and roll restaurant.
A familiar demon groaning with fear
has stalked me here, ruins poetry, then
I let his swollen pride commandeer.
Chorus:
Here is is, oh fearful one.
My desires have turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Verse:
Beneath the moon rocking above Los Angeles
or outside the stomp dance fire of memory,
I told him, you can choose to hate me
for going too far, or for being a nothing
next to a pretty nothing like you.
Verse:
I can’t get betrayal out of my mind,
out of my heart
in this hotel room where I’m packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring
in the blur of a glass of wine
after the crashed dance,
the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Chorus:
Here is is, oh fearful one.
My desires have turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Verse:
The most dangerous demons spring from fire
and a broken heart, warning of bittersweet aftershave
and the musk of a thousand angels.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage
to an enemy, who thinks he wants what I have.
Verse:
The last council of peace was disrupted by this fearful beast
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of truth
as most humans do when erupting from the spirit world to this gambling place--
Bridge:
And I send prayers on tobacco skyward
on smoke.
Release the suffering.
(Repeat in Mvskoke language.)
Coda:
I refuse to sum it up anymore; it’s not possible.
I give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket
in the last world of fire and trash.
October 2003/January 2004 West Hollywood copyright Joy Harjo
Others will follow.
Enjoy.
Strange world. Where lying is the predominant virus.
THE LAST WORLD OF FIRE AND TRASH
Open:
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
Verse:
I’m Indian in a strange pastiche of hurt and rain
smells like curry and sweat
from a sunset rock and roll restaurant.
A familiar demon groaning with fear
has stalked me here, ruins poetry, then
I let his swollen pride commandeer.
Chorus:
Here is is, oh fearful one.
My desires have turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Verse:
Beneath the moon rocking above Los Angeles
or outside the stomp dance fire of memory,
I told him, you can choose to hate me
for going too far, or for being a nothing
next to a pretty nothing like you.
Verse:
I can’t get betrayal out of my mind,
out of my heart
in this hotel room where I’m packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring
in the blur of a glass of wine
after the crashed dance,
the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Chorus:
Here is is, oh fearful one.
My desires have turned into a small mountain.
Of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
Verse:
The most dangerous demons spring from fire
and a broken heart, warning of bittersweet aftershave
and the musk of a thousand angels.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage
to an enemy, who thinks he wants what I have.
Verse:
The last council of peace was disrupted by this fearful beast
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of truth
as most humans do when erupting from the spirit world to this gambling place--
Bridge:
And I send prayers on tobacco skyward
on smoke.
Release the suffering.
(Repeat in Mvskoke language.)
Coda:
I refuse to sum it up anymore; it’s not possible.
I give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket
in the last world of fire and trash.
October 2003/January 2004 West Hollywood copyright Joy Harjo
1/5/04
Happy New Year and all that
"The Last World of Fire and Trash" (with many rewrites, always rewrites) is now a song and will be included in my new CD project Native Joy. It is a solo project. I will be going into the studio in February. Look for it by my birthday, May 9th of this year!
Also start back at UCLA next week. Will be teaching a poetry workshop every Tuesday afternoon.
And in rehearsals to appear in The Vagina Monologues along with Lois-Ann Yamanaka and Nora Okja Keller at the Honolulu Theatre on February 15th. Come and see us.
It's a new year. (Though every day, every hour, every minute is a new year.) Let's celebrate.
Also start back at UCLA next week. Will be teaching a poetry workshop every Tuesday afternoon.
And in rehearsals to appear in The Vagina Monologues along with Lois-Ann Yamanaka and Nora Okja Keller at the Honolulu Theatre on February 15th. Come and see us.
It's a new year. (Though every day, every hour, every minute is a new year.) Let's celebrate.
10/26/03
The Last World of Fire and Trash/New Poem/Song copyright Joy Harjo
THE LAST WORLD OF FIRE AND TRASH
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
I’m a misplaced Mvskoke in a strange pastiche
smells like curry and sweat
from Toi’s rock and roll restaurant
where a native woman drunk on fear
ruins her meal with a sour tirade, then
pushes back for a cigarette
with her pretty man commandeered.
I can’t get her face out of my mind,
in this hotel room where we’re packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring in the blur
of a whiskey glass
after the crashed dance, the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Beneath the moon rocking above
to a cricket round dance song
She punched me then for being brown,
she punched me for being white,
for going too far,
for being a nothing next to a nothing like her.
This thought too will pass, I remind myself for the thousandth
time before I drown in the aftermath.
And think about lighting a cigarette
though I now have tobacco just for prayers.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage to a drunk demon
each filthy cell of the beast
fed by doctored thoughts of an enemy
who thinks he wants what I have.
Here it is, oh fearful one:
my desires have turned into a small mountain
of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes, tossed underwear and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
I consider then how the last council of peace was disrupted by bombs
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country,
and see again the stumble of the woman who could not
find peace anywhere as she headed out the door
for her next fix of cigarette.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of blood, like birth
as most humans do when erupting from the spirit world to this gambling place--
to enter the story
of the giant breaking down the door to kill or save us
My companion on this dangerous journey
you know too much already.
I've brought more than my share of bags
on this travel.
Don't worry. I see you through the haze of pain.
You are a bear hunkering over a salmon.
No, you’ve grown out of the myth and
you’ve resorted to sorting clothes
instead of luring sailors
to their death.
I refuse to sum it up anymore;
it’s not possible.
I want to give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket.
For years I have been making a thought like the dignity of an eagle
who can lead us into the next place with thunder and grace.
What is it we must do alone in this world, yet only with each other
I haven't got the riddle straight, yet.
October 2003 West Hollywood copyright Joy Harjo
I don’t know anything anymore
or if that cricket is still singing
in a country where crickets are banned.
I’m a misplaced Mvskoke in a strange pastiche
smells like curry and sweat
from Toi’s rock and roll restaurant
where a native woman drunk on fear
ruins her meal with a sour tirade, then
pushes back for a cigarette
with her pretty man commandeered.
I can’t get her face out of my mind,
in this hotel room where we’re packing for home.
I’ve seen that same face whirring in the blur
of a whiskey glass
after the crashed dance, the goodbye song
in the last world of fire and trash.
Beneath the moon rocking above
to a cricket round dance song
She punched me then for being brown,
she punched me for being white,
for going too far,
for being a nothing next to a nothing like her.
This thought too will pass, I remind myself for the thousandth
time before I drown in the aftermath.
And think about lighting a cigarette
though I now have tobacco just for prayers.
And then I let that thought go running away
because I refuse to stay in bondage to a drunk demon
each filthy cell of the beast
fed by doctored thoughts of an enemy
who thinks he wants what I have.
Here it is, oh fearful one:
my desires have turned into a small mountain
of dirty clothes, sax gig bag, guitar
books, shoes, tossed underwear and grief
to be packed and carried
from one raw wound to another.
I consider then how the last council of peace was disrupted by bombs
as I fled from the house of my mother
through this severed country,
and see again the stumble of the woman who could not
find peace anywhere as she headed out the door
for her next fix of cigarette.
I turned my cheek as my head parted through a curtain of blood, like birth
as most humans do when erupting from the spirit world to this gambling place--
to enter the story
of the giant breaking down the door to kill or save us
My companion on this dangerous journey
you know too much already.
I've brought more than my share of bags
on this travel.
Don't worry. I see you through the haze of pain.
You are a bear hunkering over a salmon.
No, you’ve grown out of the myth and
you’ve resorted to sorting clothes
instead of luring sailors
to their death.
I refuse to sum it up anymore;
it’s not possible.
I want to give it up
to the battering of songs against the light,
to the singing of the earnest cricket.
For years I have been making a thought like the dignity of an eagle
who can lead us into the next place with thunder and grace.
What is it we must do alone in this world, yet only with each other
I haven't got the riddle straight, yet.
October 2003 West Hollywood copyright Joy Harjo
Reading by first half of my 313 poetry Workshop
YOU ARE INVITED TO A READING BY HARJO’S 313 POETRY WORKSHOP
SOME OF THE BEST UP-AND-COMING POETS
ON THE ISLAND
WHERE: KUYKENDALL 410
WHEN: MONDAY, OCTOBER 27TH, 2003
4:30 PM
WHO:
The class includes:
CHAE BAE
JENSEN CHANG
AGNES CHUN
FANUA
SABRINA FAVORS
LESLIE GOO
HYEN KOBAYASHI
MARIA MEHR
MIRIAM NEUMAN
KAIPO PATTERSON
JANNA PLANT
LEN SHIGEMOTO
JERI TATEISHI
LIANNE UESATO
TIFFANY YORITA
and JOY HARJO
WE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU THERE
FOR MORE INFO PLEASE CALL: 781-6558
SOME OF THE BEST UP-AND-COMING POETS
ON THE ISLAND
WHERE: KUYKENDALL 410
WHEN: MONDAY, OCTOBER 27TH, 2003
4:30 PM
WHO:
The class includes:
CHAE BAE
JENSEN CHANG
AGNES CHUN
FANUA
SABRINA FAVORS
LESLIE GOO
HYEN KOBAYASHI
MARIA MEHR
MIRIAM NEUMAN
KAIPO PATTERSON
JANNA PLANT
LEN SHIGEMOTO
JERI TATEISHI
LIANNE UESATO
TIFFANY YORITA
and JOY HARJO
WE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU THERE
FOR MORE INFO PLEASE CALL: 781-6558
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