Friday, January 30, 2015

Sherman Alexie

Sherman Alexie is one of my favorite Native American writers. He has a youthful boisterousness and this allows him to write from the perspective of young Indians on the res. He is primarily known as a novelist and writer of short stories. Two of his great novels are Indian Killer, a suspenseful mystery, and Reservations Blues. I adore his collection of stories, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight in Heaven. In it he includes a story called, "The Only Traffic Signal on the Reservation Doesn't Flash Red Anymore." He writes about the power of memory and story telling. He exposes reality: "It's hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on a table here, people don't wonder if it's half filled or half empty. They just hope it's a good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it's almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It's the small things that hurt the most. The white waitress who wouldn't take an order, Tonto, the Washington Redskins. And just like everybody else, Indians need heroes to help them learn how to survive. But what happens when our heroes don't even know how to pay their bills?"

The story then goes on to talking about how the boys are longing for a hero, and how they marvel at how a sixth grade girl named, Lucy, with scarred knees and wearing her Daddy's shirt, is the best basketball player they have ever seen. It's a reinvention of the warrior motif; Lucy is a new hero, a new hope. A great story!!

Alexie is also a poet, as is the case with many strong writers of fiction. I love the poem below where he mocks his own trade of writing "the great American Indian novel." He satirizes the stereotypes of Indians, from white and Indian cultures, and turns them on their head in a witty tongue-in-cheek fashion.



How to Write the Great American Indian Novel
by Sherman Alexie, 2006

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Simon Ortiz- "Busted Boy"

In class today we were talking about Civil Disobedience, discussing the importance of speaking out when you disagree with something. It is important not to sit idly by.  You have a voice and it is your moral imperative to use it. Indeed, poets are often "rabble rousers," dissidents who speak out against the ills they see in society. They use their voices, the power of their words, to expose wrong and to demand change.

I'm going to share with you another Native American poem by a writer named Simon Ortiz, from the Acomo Pueblo tribe in New Mexico. Like many modern Indian poets, he demands that we shine a light on the cycle of poverty, welfare, crime, alcoholism and drug addiction, and lack of education that are prevalent on most reservations. The poem below, "Busted Boy," relates to many young men of color (not just Indian) who are arrested, locked up and thrown away simply for the color of their skin. This poem is not Civil Disobedience- Ortiz is not breaking any laws. In fact, he's exercising his freedom of speech. However, he is urging us not to sweep these injustices under the rug or to think that these wrongs shouldn't matter to ALL people.

For Ortiz, this poem is a journalistic snapshot of a moment in time, a plaintive cry against our unfair social system, and a call to action for the boys who did nothing wrong but being black.

By Simon J. Ortiz b. 1941 Simon J. Ortiz
He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old,
likely even fifteen. Skinny black teenager, loose sweater.
When I got on Bus #6 at Prince and 1st Avenue,
he got on too and took a seat across from me.
A kid I didn’t notice too much because two older guys,
street pros reeking with wine, started talking to me.
They were going to California, get their welfare checks,
then come back to Arizona in time for food stamps.

When the bus pulled into Ronstadt Transit Center,
the kid was the last to get off the bus right behind me.
I started to cross the street to wait for Bus #8
when two burly men, one in a neat leather jacket
and the other in a sweat shirt, both cool yet stern,
smoothly grabbed the kid and backed him against
a streetlight pole and quickly cuffed him to the pole.

Plastic handcuffs. Practiced manner. Efficiently done.
Along with another Indian, I watch what’s happening.
Nobody seems to notice or they don’t really want to see.
Everything is quiet and normal, nothing’s disturbed.
The other Indian and I exchange glances, nod, turn away.
Busted boy. Busted Indians. Busted lives. Busted again.

I look around for the street guys going to California.
But they’re already gone, headed for the railroad tracks.
I’m new in Tucson but I’m not a stranger to this scene.
Waiting for the bus, I don’t look around for plainclothes.
I know they’re there, in this America, waiting. There; here.
Waiting for busted boys, busted Indians, busted lives.


Simon Ortiz, “Busted Boy” from Out There Somewhere. Copyright © 2002 by Simon Ortiz. Reprinted by permission of University of Arizona Press.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Joy Harjo- "A Poem to Get Rid of Fear"

Joy Harjo is one of my favorite poets. I discovered her in a class about Native American Literature that totally blew my mind. She is a poet and a musician, as you will discern when you listen to her recite her poems. She lapses into a singing voice duirng her poems and this gives her words a more resonant quality. She is what many people would call a Spoken Word Poet. My favorite poem is one called "A Poem to Get Rid of Fear."

She begins: "I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear. I release you. You are my beloved and hated twin but now I don’t know you as myself."

She writes, "I am not afraid to be angry. I am not afraid to rejoice. I am not afraid to be hungry
I am not afraid to be full. I am not afraid to be black. I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hated. I am not afraid to be loved, To be loved, To be loved..." When she repeats the last phrase it sounds like a heartbeat.

She goes on to dismiss her fear, pushing it into its corner and taking charge. She is a feminist in all the positive meanings of the word.

I hope you'll watch this clip of her reading the poem at Def Poetry Jam.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAYCf2Gdycc

If you are interested, check out her website www.joyharjo.com
She is a vocalist and saxophonist in her own band, Joy Harjo and Poetic Justice. (Can I be her?!!?)



Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Give All to Love (a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

So I told you guys that when you have Transcendentalism on the brain, you'll see how everything connects to it. The universe is in collusion, sending messages about slowing down, smelling the proverbial roses, and appreciating the life you have. Indeed the universe must know what is happening in our little classroom, because in my inbox this morning, I found a link to my favorite poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson. In the first stanza, he writes about joyously seizing every opportunity that life presents. He exhorts each one of us to follow our heart "utterly" since it "knows its own path." I love how he talks about how it takes courage to love and that you sometimes need to make sacrifices and take risks for love.

So what kind of love does he mean? Is it love in the romantic sense? Yes! Is it love in terms of the passion of one's life work?  Yes. Is it love in terms of depth of spirituality? Yes.

It's all of those things. Follow whatever makes your heart swell with elation.

What do you think of the ideas in the last stanza? ("When the half-gods go, the gods arrive") What are the half-gods and gods? I'm eager to hear your thoughts in the comments.

This poem is just the right amount of schmaltz. ;-)

Give All to Love
By Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803–1882 Ralph Waldo Emerson
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,—
Nothing refuse.

’T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope:
High and more high
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent:
But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean;
It requireth courage stout.
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending,
It will reward,—
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,—
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise
Flits across her bosom young,
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,   
The gods arrive.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

The Winter Solstice

In beginning our unit on Transcendentalism, I always feel centered and more connected to nature.  I see the snow silently falling around me like a coccoon; the sun shining through the dirty windowpane; the ladybug valiantly crawling across the windowsill, finding shelter from the chill. Winter is when nature is dormant but the seeds of life are burgeoning in the ground. We hibernate, fatten for the winter, and imagine a time when we will feel the sun.

I enjoy this poem by Hilda Morley about this chilled time of winter.  The winter solstice occurs on the darkest day of the year, so it represents the birth of the sun. What does the sun represent?- light, warmth, possibility. This poem is simply a description of the darkest day of the year and the path the moon takes when it's the furthest distance from the sun. Extrapolating, we can believe it to be the start of a new life, new hope. That's what Transcendentalism is all about.

By Hilda Morley 1916–1998 Hilda Morley
 
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears
very large, very
round now       extending
far as the moon does
                                        It is from
the moon this cold travels
                                        It is
the light of the moon that causes
this night reflecting distance in its own
light so coldly
                                          (from one side of
the earth to the other)
                                        It is the length of this coldness
It is the long distance
between two points which are
not in a line        now
                                       not a
straightness       (however
straight) but a curve only,
silver that is a rock reflecting
                                                      not metal
but a rock accepting
distance
                     (a scream in silence
where between the two
points what touches
is a curve around the world
                                                      (the dance unmoving).
new york, 1969
 
  

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Mark Strand

Have you ever read a book that you DEVOURED? You ATE up the words and SAVORED their flavor? You wanted it to never end and INDULGED in its pleasure? I sure have. (As you know, Gatsby is a book that I have GOBBLED UP in one bite!) This language of feasting and the decadent consumption of words is featured in a fabulous poem by former US Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner, Mark Strand. His ingestion of poetry has given him an animalistic joy. The librarian, someone who seemingly lives in a world of words, does not understand this visceral love of poetry. He has taken the words into his body and loves them on a far deeper level.

 Eating Poetry

By Mark Strand 1934–2014 Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
 
Mark Strand, “Eating Poetry” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1979, 1980 by Mark Strand. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

Also check out these other poems by Mark Strand:

"Coming to This"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179131

"Keeping Things Whole"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177001

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Dylan Thomas

So this blog, thus far at least, has been a survey of major American poets. But... I want to share with you the work of Dylan Thomas, a poet from Wales who wrote in the early part of the 20th century. He lived, wrote and struggled in NYC so we'll count him as an honorary American.

Dylan Thomas is best known for his poem, "Do not go gentle into that good night." I was thinking of this beautiful, haunting poem because I just started our unit in Transcendentalism. The spirit of Thoreauvian "sucking out the marrow of life," living each life to the fullest, is apparent in this bold rant against death. He urges us to live every moment and "rage against the dying of the light." He embraces the imagery of light as life that Thoreau invokes when he says that "the sun is but a morning star."

In this poem, called a villanelle (a nineteen line poem with two rhymes throughout), Thomas addresses his dying father and encourages him to fight the cold hand of death. It's a son's rejection of his father's mortality and the insistence of using your strength and embracing life even when things seem hopeless. It's a poem that those of us who have lost loved ones can relate to, and it speaks to the broader human desire to retain youthful vitality and put off death for as long as possible.

You may remember this poem from the movie, "Dead Poets' Society," a masterpiece featuring Robin Williams as Mr. Keating, the inspiring English teacher at a boys' boarding school. He invokes Dylan Thomas, as well as Thoreau and Emerson, to encourage the boys to live a life of purpose and meaning. If you haven't watched this movie, YOU MUST. It's mandatory viewing.

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

 
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.