Heat Wave Sky c Joy Harjo July 2011

Misunderstanding

I have received a few notes since my last post by people who thought I was signing off the blog.

Not so, just won't be posting new and in process creative works, especially poetry.

BUT, I will be posting as I am able--

Thanks for writing--

I rarely get response on the blog. Always do on Facebook--so don't always post here. Facebook is more like an ongoing conversation--

Also thinking about resuming my Muscogee Nation News column.

Later....

Final draft...Spirit Walking in the Tundra

(This may be the last of the new poems I post...I've been advised by my editor that if I post my work here, no one will buy my books. I can post notes. JH)

for Anuqsraaq and Qituvituaq

I fly over the Bering Sea toward Nome.

In the breaking up ice are turquoise lakes

In which I can see the sky.

The cargo load so heavy with human need, it

Vibrates to my bones.

In pockets of marrow are nests of sea birds,

Mothers so protective they will dive humans.

I walk from the plane and am met by an old friend.

We drive to the launching place

And see walrus hunters set out toward the sea.

We swing to the summer camps where seal hangs on drying frames.

She takes me home.

This is what it feels like, says her son, as we walk up tundra,

Toward a herd of musk ox.

There is a shaking, and then you are in mystery.

Little purple flowers come up from the permafrost.

A newborn musk ox staggers around its mother’s legs.

I smell the approach of someone with clean thoughts.

She is wearing designs like flowers, and a fur of ice.

She carries a basket and digging implements.

Her smell is sweet like blossoms coming up through the snow.

The spirit of the tundra stands with us, and we collect sunlight together,

We are refreshed by small winds.

We do not need books of history to know who we are

Or where we come from, I tell him.

Up here, we are near the opening in the Earth’s head, the place where the spirit leaves and returns.

Up here, the edge between life and death is thinner than dried animal bladder.

c Joy Harjo Nome, Alaska 2011

The Los Alamos Fire, from the Sky, Yesterday July 5th--

Mural by Leslie Silko, outside Lucca, Italy 2011

Leslie created this mural as a gift to her/our translator Laura Coltelli. She is still doing a little touch up.

Notice the sunlight coming in on the Sun Person's head.

Solstice Paddle

We were there at the mouth of the windblown channel

Near the end of a paddle

The sky was opening up just as it was closing down

Kokohead stood in a warrior cape of mist above us

And below the boat rolled the blue kingdom of knowledge.

We paused there at the culmination of ten thousand paths:

Six travelers pulling together in that sacred outrigger.

As the day lay down behind the crater,

One year floated up behind another

And all the births, partings and deaths we carried with us

Grew wise, then lighter.

c Joy Harjo

Spirit Walking in Nome Tundra/Revision

for Qituvituaq

I fly over the Bering Sea toward Nome.

In the breaking ice are turquoise lakes in which

I can see the sky.

The cargo load, so heavy with human need,

vibrates to my bones.

I walk from the plane and am met by an old friend.

We drive to the launching place.

Walrus hunters set out toward the sea.

We swing to the summer camps where seal hangs on drying frames.

This is what it feels like, says her son, as we walk up tundra

toward a herd of musk oxen.

There is a shaking, and then you are in mystery.

Little purple flowers come up from the permafrost.

A newborn musk oxen staggers around its mother’s legs.

I smell the approach of someone with clean thoughts.

She is wearing designs like flowers and a fur of ice.

She carries a basket and digging implements.

Her smell is sweet like blossoms coming up through the snow.

She is the spirit of the tundra, she tells me without speaking.

We do not need words or the books of history to know who we are

or where we come from, I tell him.

Up here, we are near the opening in the Earth’s head, the place where the spirit leaves and returns.

Up here the edge between life and death is thinner than dried animal bladder.

Walk with the sky between your teeth.

c Joy Harjo Nome, Alaska 2011

Astral Projection or Spirit Walking (poem draft)

for Qituvituaq

I fly over the Bering Sea toward Nome.

The ice is breaking up. There are lakes in the ice in which

I can see my face. I am in my body, and then I am in a plane.

We are so heavy with human need.

The cargo load vibrates to my bones.

In pockets of marrow are nests of sea birds.

They are so protective they will dive us.

I walk from the plane and am met by an old friend.

She reminds me of where we have been—

we drive to the launching place

And see the walrus hunters set out toward the sea.

We swing to the summer camps where seal hangs on drying frames.

This is what it feels like, says her son, as we walk up tundra

toward a herd of musk oxen.

There is a shaking, and then you are in mystery.

I want to know it.

Little purple flowers come up from the permafrost.

There are yellow and magenta.

A newborn musk oxen staggers around its mother’s legs.

Our seeing flies out toward the iced sea.

Over gold miners, the homeless and the town of Nome.

The seeing leaves us for a while as it plays in the low rays of the sun.

I smell the approach of someone with clean thoughts.

She is wearing designs like flowers and a fur of ice.

She carries a basket and digging implements.

Her smell is sweet like blossoms coming up through the snow.

She is the spirit of the tundra, she tells me without speaking.

We do not need words or the books of history to know who we are

and where we come from, I tell him.

Up here, we are near the opening in the Earth’s head, the place where the spirit leaves and returns.

Up here the edge between life and death is thinner than dried animal bladder.

This is how it begins. You already know how.

c Joy Harjo Nome, Alaska 2011

Blood Lust

Like many others I too am disturbed by the blood lust celebrations over the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Yes, Bin Laden is responsible for the deaths of thousands--but killing is no cause for celebration. Instead, this should be a time of introspection, of searching within our collective soul to properly bury the dead within us--to forgive and be forgiven.

Joy on the Radio tomorrow at 9 am PST

March 11, 2011
8:30 am PST for 15 minutes

The Co-Creating Show with Cassie Steal

Listen Live or Listen to a Replay Later: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/cassiesteele/2011/03/11/cassie-premo-steeles-co-creating-show
Call in 347-205-9143