Sunday, February 19, 2006
Poetry exercise
I have always loved Japanese poetry, all forms, especially haiku. While I tend to write longer pieces, more from a storytelling tradition, I guess, I’ve admired the simplicity and the get to the point-ness of some of the more traditional poets, such as Matsuo Basso, Isha Kobayashi, Hoshi Saigyo, Chiyo-ni, and Lady Ishikawa, among many others. I admire how they are able to be succinct and bring nature and people together on the page. My attempts at a more free form style, incorporating the nature-humanity element, are exercises I work on to try and master a shorter poetic form. It’s not always easy and it doesn’t always come out right, but it’s a good exercise to try and work for the shorter form than the longer narrative pieces I’m used to doing. Here are some of those exercises in progress:
Standing,
time moves by
like so many petals
of long lost flowers.
stolen moments,
like fleeting kisses
upon
the wind.
_______________
Night.
Not even the possums
moving outside my window
limb to limb
wish to disturb
my ever fading
sleep.
________________
Midwinter chill
drifts above the ocean
breath upon clouds.
Even now,
dandelion leaves
taste like summer
in your mouth.
_________________
It’s not by any means haiku, but an attempt at stylistic metaphor that I’d like to incorporate in my own work. Besides, it’s fun trying something I’m not particularly good at!
Standing,
time moves by
like so many petals
of long lost flowers.
stolen moments,
like fleeting kisses
upon
the wind.
_______________
Night.
Not even the possums
moving outside my window
limb to limb
wish to disturb
my ever fading
sleep.
________________
Midwinter chill
drifts above the ocean
breath upon clouds.
Even now,
dandelion leaves
taste like summer
in your mouth.
_________________
It’s not by any means haiku, but an attempt at stylistic metaphor that I’d like to incorporate in my own work. Besides, it’s fun trying something I’m not particularly good at!
Call for submissions
Indigenous Americas:
Poetry by Indigenous Peoples of the Western HemisphereIn the spirit of sister nations, of brotherly alliance, in inclusiveness, in the shared principles of possibility and of sheltering relations during a time when our peoples to the south are still enduring odious onslaught of genocidal resource wars and to the north facing impending catastrophic change from global warming, in this time of uniting and reuniting, in the memory of the vast trade routes which thoroughly connected the intact Western Hemisphere pre-contact with European peoples, in the realization of roads that trail their existence even today, in the presence of resistance, reclamation, and renaissance, in the stories, the music, ceremonies, songs—language-- Aboriginal North, Central and South American and surrounding island poets are welcome to submit work to be included in this unique tribal representation of poetry of the Western Hemisphere. Inviting submissions of Native Peoples from the Inuit Village of Resolute Bay, Canada, to Mapuche Pueblo in Chile and everywhere in between.Click here for submission instructions.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, Huron and Cherokee author of Dog Road Woman, Rock, Ghost, Willow Deer; Off-Season City Pipe, and Blood Run, winner of the American Book Award, is the guest editor for this theme. Hedge Coke is a faculty member of the English Department and MFA program in writing at Northern Michigan University.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
AMERICA INDIGENA:POESIA DE AUTORES INDIGENAS DEL HEMISFERIO OCCIDENTALCon espíritu de fraternidad, alianza y acercamiento entre naciones hermanas, compartiendo principios de posibilidad y de unión en estos tiempos en los que nuestra gente, hacia el sur, es aun víctima de la guerra genocida por los recursos, y hacia el norte, se enfrenta a la catástrofe inminente del calentamiento global, en estos tiempos de unión y reencuentro, con la memoria viva de las grandes rutas de intercambio que conectaban el intacto hemisferio occidental precolombino, en la construcción de carreteras que aun hoy recuperan sus huellas, en presencia de la resistencia, la reclamación y el renacimiento, en las historias, la música, las ceremonias y el lenguaje-canción—se invita a poetas indígenas del norte, centro, sur e islas aledañas de América, a que envíen su trabajo y participen en esta representación única de poesía tribual en el hemisferio occidental. Se solicitan contribuciones desde el pueblo Inuit de Resolute Bay, Canadá, hasta el pueblo Mapuche en Chile incluyendo a todos los pueblos que se encuentren en el camino.Haga clic aquí para las instrucciones de envío.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke es una escritora Hurón y Cherokee. Autora de Dog Road Woman, Rock Ghost, Willow Deer, Off-Season City Pipe, y Blood Run, ganadora del premio American Book Award y editora invitada para este volumen. Hedge Coke hace parte del departamento de inglés y del programa de maestría para escritores de Northern Michigan University.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
POÉSIE PAR LES PEOPLES INDIGENESDU MONDE OCCIDENTALDans l’esprit de nations soeurs, d’alliance fraternelle, dans l’inclusivité, dans les principes partagés du possible et d’entraide, pendant une période quand nos frères et soeurs au sud subissent toujours des assauts odieux de guerres génocides et au nord font face au changement imminent catastrophique dû au rechauffement global, dans cette époque d’unité et de retrouvaille, en souvenir des réseaux de commerce qui liaient les peuples des Amériques avant la venue des Européens, dans la construction de chemins qui suivent les anciens sentiers, même de nos jours, dans la la présence de résistence, de renaissance, dans les histoires orales, la musique, les cérémonies, et les langages—poètes des Amériques et les îles avoisinantes, sont encouragés de soumettre leurs oeuvres afin d’être inclus dans ce recueil unique de poésie tribale. Nous solicitons des soumissions des Autochtones allant du Village Inuit de la baie Resolute, au Canada, jusqu’à Mapuche Pueblo, au Chili, et partout entre les deux. Cliquez ici pour les modalités de soumission.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke est auteure huronne et cherokee de Dog Road Woman, Rock, Ghost, Willow Deer; Off-Season City Pipe, et Blood Run. Elle est lauréate du American Book Award et la rédactrice invitée pour ce numéro. Hedge Coke est membre de la faculté du département d’anglais et du programme de création littéraire de Northern Michigan University.
Poetry by Indigenous Peoples of the Western HemisphereIn the spirit of sister nations, of brotherly alliance, in inclusiveness, in the shared principles of possibility and of sheltering relations during a time when our peoples to the south are still enduring odious onslaught of genocidal resource wars and to the north facing impending catastrophic change from global warming, in this time of uniting and reuniting, in the memory of the vast trade routes which thoroughly connected the intact Western Hemisphere pre-contact with European peoples, in the realization of roads that trail their existence even today, in the presence of resistance, reclamation, and renaissance, in the stories, the music, ceremonies, songs—language-- Aboriginal North, Central and South American and surrounding island poets are welcome to submit work to be included in this unique tribal representation of poetry of the Western Hemisphere. Inviting submissions of Native Peoples from the Inuit Village of Resolute Bay, Canada, to Mapuche Pueblo in Chile and everywhere in between.Click here for submission instructions.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, Huron and Cherokee author of Dog Road Woman, Rock, Ghost, Willow Deer; Off-Season City Pipe, and Blood Run, winner of the American Book Award, is the guest editor for this theme. Hedge Coke is a faculty member of the English Department and MFA program in writing at Northern Michigan University.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
AMERICA INDIGENA:POESIA DE AUTORES INDIGENAS DEL HEMISFERIO OCCIDENTALCon espíritu de fraternidad, alianza y acercamiento entre naciones hermanas, compartiendo principios de posibilidad y de unión en estos tiempos en los que nuestra gente, hacia el sur, es aun víctima de la guerra genocida por los recursos, y hacia el norte, se enfrenta a la catástrofe inminente del calentamiento global, en estos tiempos de unión y reencuentro, con la memoria viva de las grandes rutas de intercambio que conectaban el intacto hemisferio occidental precolombino, en la construcción de carreteras que aun hoy recuperan sus huellas, en presencia de la resistencia, la reclamación y el renacimiento, en las historias, la música, las ceremonias y el lenguaje-canción—se invita a poetas indígenas del norte, centro, sur e islas aledañas de América, a que envíen su trabajo y participen en esta representación única de poesía tribual en el hemisferio occidental. Se solicitan contribuciones desde el pueblo Inuit de Resolute Bay, Canadá, hasta el pueblo Mapuche en Chile incluyendo a todos los pueblos que se encuentren en el camino.Haga clic aquí para las instrucciones de envío.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke es una escritora Hurón y Cherokee. Autora de Dog Road Woman, Rock Ghost, Willow Deer, Off-Season City Pipe, y Blood Run, ganadora del premio American Book Award y editora invitada para este volumen. Hedge Coke hace parte del departamento de inglés y del programa de maestría para escritores de Northern Michigan University.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
POÉSIE PAR LES PEOPLES INDIGENESDU MONDE OCCIDENTALDans l’esprit de nations soeurs, d’alliance fraternelle, dans l’inclusivité, dans les principes partagés du possible et d’entraide, pendant une période quand nos frères et soeurs au sud subissent toujours des assauts odieux de guerres génocides et au nord font face au changement imminent catastrophique dû au rechauffement global, dans cette époque d’unité et de retrouvaille, en souvenir des réseaux de commerce qui liaient les peuples des Amériques avant la venue des Européens, dans la construction de chemins qui suivent les anciens sentiers, même de nos jours, dans la la présence de résistence, de renaissance, dans les histoires orales, la musique, les cérémonies, et les langages—poètes des Amériques et les îles avoisinantes, sont encouragés de soumettre leurs oeuvres afin d’être inclus dans ce recueil unique de poésie tribale. Nous solicitons des soumissions des Autochtones allant du Village Inuit de la baie Resolute, au Canada, jusqu’à Mapuche Pueblo, au Chili, et partout entre les deux. Cliquez ici pour les modalités de soumission.Allison Adelle Hedge Coke est auteure huronne et cherokee de Dog Road Woman, Rock, Ghost, Willow Deer; Off-Season City Pipe, et Blood Run. Elle est lauréate du American Book Award et la rédactrice invitée pour ce numéro. Hedge Coke est membre de la faculté du département d’anglais et du programme de création littéraire de Northern Michigan University.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
The River Bears a Son, Tiat
In May of 2005, a group calling itself Save Our State attacked the Danzas Indigenous monument at the Metrorail train station in Baldwin Park, California. The monument, designed and installed by the reknowned artist Judith F. Baca, became a point of controversy in which Judy Baca’s life was threatened as well as the lives of the mayor and city council of Baldwin Park. When we interviewed Judy and Mayor Manuel Lozano, KPFK and American Indian Airwaves also became targets of Save Our State members and their allied groups.
The monument itself is beautiful; a testament to the cultures that inhabit the basin. Especially moving is the tribute to Toypurina, the Tongva spiritual leader who led an uprising against the Spanish in California. A quote from a former Baldwin Park councilman is part of the monument, “It was better before they came.” This man was white, lamenting the “arrival” of Latinos and Chicanos in the San Gabriel Valley. Ahh, St. Gabriel the Archangel. The messenger of God, the angelic mouthpiece. “Who speaks for God.” He whome the Tongva inherited the name Gabrieleno, after the mission which raped and sodomized them, forced the songs from their mouths with lye and ash. Gabrieleno. Juaneno. Mission Boulevard. San Pedro. La Puebla de la Reina de los angeles. Our Lady, Queen of the Angels, hear this prayer. Our genocide is practiced in the words which celebrate this gloriously romantic Spanish fantasy past, the past that meant death and burnt offerings of native flesh to appease the priests whose names are now elevated to sainthood. They became saints by killing Indians. Our best revenge is surviving them.
Been reading and talking with my students about colonization and conquest. What does it mean to name a place? What are the political ramifications of the renaming, the taking aways, the erasure of history and language and place? We are reminded daily of the colonial encounter, the murders in the name of God, in the concrete channel of the Los Angeles River as the Army Corps of Engineers forced her meandering still all the way to the ocean. What does she think of all of this, of the trash and cars and dirt and silt and shopping carts and bicycles and car engines and everything else put in this false river, this ancient place of water than still runs through angels and stars and dust and ash?
Does she know the words we speak when standing on the bridge, dropping tobacco leaves and sage to her? Maybe the English, some Spanish. But can she recognize the Muskoke song that followed my grandparents here? Does she know the spirits that accompany me, echoing my breath on the shore after the rain I sang for?
_____________________________
It was better before they came.
In the world of water and life, there was no room for arrogance, for mastery. There is balance, there is hope. For thousands of years I have run the course of this land unbound, my desires unbroken, like the sparkling stones leave for me among various places I travel. The stones whisper to me of “a good harvest this year, Payit, I pray,” or “bless my children with rain, Payit,” and “may the acorns grown plentiful and unburdened, Payit,” or “may I see desire reflected in his eyes only for me, I implore, Payit…” I take their words and go on my way.
When the sparkling stones and words became few, I still heard their prayers, whispered upon a breath of smoke, a piece of grief. “May I stand the touch of the padre on my flesh, Payit, so my children won’t grow hungry another night…” or “may my songs be sung on the devil winds to reach the ears of the maker of breath, Payit,” and “may it all be worth the death of my father, Payit, to peel the flesh from their bones in remembrance of my home”, then I began to know their fear. I, however, did not fear. It is not within me to fear. I ran. I flowed. I called the rain and she heard me. Moving upon the landscape, we took over the shores, taking their horses, their cattle, dogs, their farms. Once, I took a Spanish child who wandered too far from home. I called him Tiat. He became brown from the sun and my love. I adored him too much to release him, so I gave him back to the people so he could ferry them across oceans and stars to bring rain, bring seeds, songs to the relatives across skies. Tiat knows he is my child. There is no memory of Francisco,the name the friars gave him. He knows he is Tiat, child of Payit, the river of life, bringer of rain and songs.
It was better before they came.
The sparkling stones became no longer plentiful and the tongue of the friars became prayers of rage to my ears. They were castaways, the ones nobody wanted, so they came to me, and I sheltered them in my arms. They would know my heart, my words, and they would follow me across deepening daylight skies and hollowed dreams of night, upon the breath of the ocean and stars to where I joined them, on the shore, singing.
The monument itself is beautiful; a testament to the cultures that inhabit the basin. Especially moving is the tribute to Toypurina, the Tongva spiritual leader who led an uprising against the Spanish in California. A quote from a former Baldwin Park councilman is part of the monument, “It was better before they came.” This man was white, lamenting the “arrival” of Latinos and Chicanos in the San Gabriel Valley. Ahh, St. Gabriel the Archangel. The messenger of God, the angelic mouthpiece. “Who speaks for God.” He whome the Tongva inherited the name Gabrieleno, after the mission which raped and sodomized them, forced the songs from their mouths with lye and ash. Gabrieleno. Juaneno. Mission Boulevard. San Pedro. La Puebla de la Reina de los angeles. Our Lady, Queen of the Angels, hear this prayer. Our genocide is practiced in the words which celebrate this gloriously romantic Spanish fantasy past, the past that meant death and burnt offerings of native flesh to appease the priests whose names are now elevated to sainthood. They became saints by killing Indians. Our best revenge is surviving them.
Been reading and talking with my students about colonization and conquest. What does it mean to name a place? What are the political ramifications of the renaming, the taking aways, the erasure of history and language and place? We are reminded daily of the colonial encounter, the murders in the name of God, in the concrete channel of the Los Angeles River as the Army Corps of Engineers forced her meandering still all the way to the ocean. What does she think of all of this, of the trash and cars and dirt and silt and shopping carts and bicycles and car engines and everything else put in this false river, this ancient place of water than still runs through angels and stars and dust and ash?
Does she know the words we speak when standing on the bridge, dropping tobacco leaves and sage to her? Maybe the English, some Spanish. But can she recognize the Muskoke song that followed my grandparents here? Does she know the spirits that accompany me, echoing my breath on the shore after the rain I sang for?
_____________________________
It was better before they came.
In the world of water and life, there was no room for arrogance, for mastery. There is balance, there is hope. For thousands of years I have run the course of this land unbound, my desires unbroken, like the sparkling stones leave for me among various places I travel. The stones whisper to me of “a good harvest this year, Payit, I pray,” or “bless my children with rain, Payit,” and “may the acorns grown plentiful and unburdened, Payit,” or “may I see desire reflected in his eyes only for me, I implore, Payit…” I take their words and go on my way.
When the sparkling stones and words became few, I still heard their prayers, whispered upon a breath of smoke, a piece of grief. “May I stand the touch of the padre on my flesh, Payit, so my children won’t grow hungry another night…” or “may my songs be sung on the devil winds to reach the ears of the maker of breath, Payit,” and “may it all be worth the death of my father, Payit, to peel the flesh from their bones in remembrance of my home”, then I began to know their fear. I, however, did not fear. It is not within me to fear. I ran. I flowed. I called the rain and she heard me. Moving upon the landscape, we took over the shores, taking their horses, their cattle, dogs, their farms. Once, I took a Spanish child who wandered too far from home. I called him Tiat. He became brown from the sun and my love. I adored him too much to release him, so I gave him back to the people so he could ferry them across oceans and stars to bring rain, bring seeds, songs to the relatives across skies. Tiat knows he is my child. There is no memory of Francisco,the name the friars gave him. He knows he is Tiat, child of Payit, the river of life, bringer of rain and songs.
It was better before they came.
The sparkling stones became no longer plentiful and the tongue of the friars became prayers of rage to my ears. They were castaways, the ones nobody wanted, so they came to me, and I sheltered them in my arms. They would know my heart, my words, and they would follow me across deepening daylight skies and hollowed dreams of night, upon the breath of the ocean and stars to where I joined them, on the shore, singing.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Commissioned Poem
made a new friend today--- he requested a poem. I obliged.
For Klee
Night time.
The birds sing for the new dawn
in the skies falling ash
like snow over from the
fires above
lost angels.
We can no longer
force the stars to speak
our names
so we will call upon
the fires in midwinter
to tell the stories
stolen from the mouths
of seven generations to come,
of the days when ash rained
like falling stars
and we were able
to sing them home
with our rage,
crying or dawn,
in a world in
which the sun
lives in a red sky,
a house made
of daylight stars
and
rain.
For Klee
Night time.
The birds sing for the new dawn
in the skies falling ash
like snow over from the
fires above
lost angels.
We can no longer
force the stars to speak
our names
so we will call upon
the fires in midwinter
to tell the stories
stolen from the mouths
of seven generations to come,
of the days when ash rained
like falling stars
and we were able
to sing them home
with our rage,
crying or dawn,
in a world in
which the sun
lives in a red sky,
a house made
of daylight stars
and
rain.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Hurricane Katrina: Response and Responsibilities
My work appears in this book, as well as many others including my colleagues Wendy Cheng and Michelle Commander; Andrew Jolivette, Wynton Marsalis, Manulani Aluli Meyer and the book's editor, the incredible sociologist/scholar John Brown Childs. many, many others. It's a wonderful resource. from the publisher, New Pacific Press, in Santa Cruz, California:
On August 29, 2005, the most destructive and costly natural disaster in the history of the United States struck the Gulf Coast, displacing over a million residents. Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath exposed deep problems in the social and political landscape of the United States. A clear divide was visible between those who were able to leave the city, and those who had to remain; between those who received quick and efficient aid, and those who languished; between black and white, rich and poor, old and young. In this book, scholars, writers, and activists take up the challenge of looking critically at the hurricane and the rifts in American society which it brought to light. They offer careful analysis of social inequalities, detailed criticism of the events following the hurricane, and possible ways of addressing the inequalities which it brought to light.
From the Foreword:
My intention in developing this book is to make available a wide range of accessible perspectives about the impact and significance of Hurricane Katrina. That disaster exposed and raised many difficult and core dilemmas facing New Orleans, the Gulf region, and the United States. So it is fitting that there be a variety of responses in this book that address the multifaceted question of responsibilities — not just about the causes, but also concerning that which we in the United States can do, indeed must do, to address underlying vulnerabilities stemming from deep-seated inequality in this country. With this intention, I invited a range of participants to contribute short essays that provide analysis and illumination about Katrina and its implications. These essays will help fill the space between the immediate journalism that emerged during the Katrina catastrophe and the more detailed writing that will undoubtedly appear in the next year or two. Because this book’s writers make reference to discussions from a diverse range of sources, this book also provides a useful roadmap to some important analyses that came out soon after Katrina.
— John Brown Childs
All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the People’s Hurricane Relief Fund, Vanguard Public Foundation.
182 + 12 pages 7" x 4.5" US $10 orderISBN: 0-9712546-2-1
On August 29, 2005, the most destructive and costly natural disaster in the history of the United States struck the Gulf Coast, displacing over a million residents. Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath exposed deep problems in the social and political landscape of the United States. A clear divide was visible between those who were able to leave the city, and those who had to remain; between those who received quick and efficient aid, and those who languished; between black and white, rich and poor, old and young. In this book, scholars, writers, and activists take up the challenge of looking critically at the hurricane and the rifts in American society which it brought to light. They offer careful analysis of social inequalities, detailed criticism of the events following the hurricane, and possible ways of addressing the inequalities which it brought to light.
From the Foreword:
My intention in developing this book is to make available a wide range of accessible perspectives about the impact and significance of Hurricane Katrina. That disaster exposed and raised many difficult and core dilemmas facing New Orleans, the Gulf region, and the United States. So it is fitting that there be a variety of responses in this book that address the multifaceted question of responsibilities — not just about the causes, but also concerning that which we in the United States can do, indeed must do, to address underlying vulnerabilities stemming from deep-seated inequality in this country. With this intention, I invited a range of participants to contribute short essays that provide analysis and illumination about Katrina and its implications. These essays will help fill the space between the immediate journalism that emerged during the Katrina catastrophe and the more detailed writing that will undoubtedly appear in the next year or two. Because this book’s writers make reference to discussions from a diverse range of sources, this book also provides a useful roadmap to some important analyses that came out soon after Katrina.
— John Brown Childs
All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the People’s Hurricane Relief Fund, Vanguard Public Foundation.
182 + 12 pages 7" x 4.5" US $10 orderISBN: 0-9712546-2-1
Rebuilding NOLA
This organization is interested in coalition building and protecting the interests of the poor in NOLA. I always ask myself how we are able to let this happen...AGAIN. The poor once again, displaced and homeless, are the victims while the guise of big business and profit is used for the rich to get even richer and the poor to become, once again, a diasporic people.
***
I've joined ColorOfChange.org's campaign to fight against the forced gentrification of New Orleans--and to push Congress for a better planwhich serves all New Orleanians. I wanted to let you know what they're doing, and urge you to get on board:http://colorofchange.org. The plans on the table require displaced residents to come back to NewOrleans and start the planning process for rebuilding, completely ontheir own. If too few are able to return, government (through acorporation set of for the purpose) can sell theirproperty to developers who will turn around and build new, higher-priced housing andmake huge profits, or turn the neighborhoods intopark land.It makes no sense. Katrina scattered working classand poor people across the country. Many of them want to return. But it's outrageous for politicians to expect them to come back to NewOrleans and rebuild their homes under these conditions--where there are no jobs, no opportunities, not even the electricity to power a drill!--without even the promise of help. It's a set-up, and it will push these people out of New Orleans forever. Things get clearer when you see who's behind the plans. At the federal level is Congressman Richard Baker.[2] You may remember him--he's the Republican from Baton Rouge who said this, after Hurricane Katrina: "Wefinally cleaned up public housing in New Orleans. Wecouldn't do it, but God did."[3] At the local level is Joseph Canizaro, a big-time realestate profiteer and a personal friend of Geroge Bush. Neither of these men hasbeen a friend to the poor or Black folks of theregion, and their plansreflect this.There are better ways to go about rebuilding NewOrleans. Instead of lining the pockets of development interests and already wealthy landowners, federal funds could be the fuel for bringing residents back, for providing job training, temporary housing, and jobs related to building and repairing their neighborhoods.At times like this, we expect Black and progressive members of Congress to fight for what's right. But they aren't. As it stands, there's no political price to pay for ignoring New Orleans' working class, black and poor residents. There's no public political support for those who want an inclusive, fair rebuild, either. Those in Congress who want to do the right thing need to know that we've got their backs (and that we'll hold them accountable if they don'tact). Those that wish to sell out New Orleans need to know that there will be a political price to pay. Please join ColorOfChange.org's campaign. It takes only a minute and can make all the difference in the world for hundreds of thousands of New Orleanians.
http://colorofchange.org
***
I've joined ColorOfChange.org's campaign to fight against the forced gentrification of New Orleans--and to push Congress for a better planwhich serves all New Orleanians. I wanted to let you know what they're doing, and urge you to get on board:http://colorofchange.org. The plans on the table require displaced residents to come back to NewOrleans and start the planning process for rebuilding, completely ontheir own. If too few are able to return, government (through acorporation set of for the purpose) can sell theirproperty to developers who will turn around and build new, higher-priced housing andmake huge profits, or turn the neighborhoods intopark land.It makes no sense. Katrina scattered working classand poor people across the country. Many of them want to return. But it's outrageous for politicians to expect them to come back to NewOrleans and rebuild their homes under these conditions--where there are no jobs, no opportunities, not even the electricity to power a drill!--without even the promise of help. It's a set-up, and it will push these people out of New Orleans forever. Things get clearer when you see who's behind the plans. At the federal level is Congressman Richard Baker.[2] You may remember him--he's the Republican from Baton Rouge who said this, after Hurricane Katrina: "Wefinally cleaned up public housing in New Orleans. Wecouldn't do it, but God did."[3] At the local level is Joseph Canizaro, a big-time realestate profiteer and a personal friend of Geroge Bush. Neither of these men hasbeen a friend to the poor or Black folks of theregion, and their plansreflect this.There are better ways to go about rebuilding NewOrleans. Instead of lining the pockets of development interests and already wealthy landowners, federal funds could be the fuel for bringing residents back, for providing job training, temporary housing, and jobs related to building and repairing their neighborhoods.At times like this, we expect Black and progressive members of Congress to fight for what's right. But they aren't. As it stands, there's no political price to pay for ignoring New Orleans' working class, black and poor residents. There's no public political support for those who want an inclusive, fair rebuild, either. Those in Congress who want to do the right thing need to know that we've got their backs (and that we'll hold them accountable if they don'tact). Those that wish to sell out New Orleans need to know that there will be a political price to pay. Please join ColorOfChange.org's campaign. It takes only a minute and can make all the difference in the world for hundreds of thousands of New Orleanians.
http://colorofchange.org
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Fighting Poverty
UNITED STATES: Native American anti-poverty agreement signed
February 8, 2006 Weekly Indigenous News
On January 31, the Lummi Nation of Washington, the Turtle Mountain Chippewa of North Dakota, and the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe of South Dakota signed long-term partnerships with the Northwest Area Foundation to fight poverty on their reservations. The Northwest Area Foundation agreed to give the tribes $25 million over the next 10 years. Sylvia Burgos-Toftness, the foundation’s communications officer, said that the process they used to select the tribes was "fairly extensive," as there were 76 tribes in the region vying for the funds. "We worked with each tribe for about two years prior to entering partnership," Burgos-Toftness told the Rapid City Journal. "To choose, we used numbers of criteria including noting what their poverty level is, the distinction among the tribes, and the potential impact of what our investment might be…after many months and iterations, we narrowed it down to a handful and then visited them on their reservations before making the final decision." The foundation plans to work closely with the tribes during the next 10 years to help the tribes achieve their ambitions of reducing poverty, creating jobs, and stimulating fiscal development. Each tribe has drafted a plan for how they will use their funds. A commonly cited goal among the tribes is to involve children and teenagers, especially those at risk of dropping out of school, in educational activities so that they will become positive role models. Other aims mentioned included opening an enterprise center and kindling business development on the reservation through loan programs for new enterprises. The initial payments are to be granted immediately.
Sources and Further Reading:
[Rapid City Journal] February 8, 2006
[The Forum] February 8, 2006
February 8, 2006 Weekly Indigenous News
On January 31, the Lummi Nation of Washington, the Turtle Mountain Chippewa of North Dakota, and the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe of South Dakota signed long-term partnerships with the Northwest Area Foundation to fight poverty on their reservations. The Northwest Area Foundation agreed to give the tribes $25 million over the next 10 years. Sylvia Burgos-Toftness, the foundation’s communications officer, said that the process they used to select the tribes was "fairly extensive," as there were 76 tribes in the region vying for the funds. "We worked with each tribe for about two years prior to entering partnership," Burgos-Toftness told the Rapid City Journal. "To choose, we used numbers of criteria including noting what their poverty level is, the distinction among the tribes, and the potential impact of what our investment might be…after many months and iterations, we narrowed it down to a handful and then visited them on their reservations before making the final decision." The foundation plans to work closely with the tribes during the next 10 years to help the tribes achieve their ambitions of reducing poverty, creating jobs, and stimulating fiscal development. Each tribe has drafted a plan for how they will use their funds. A commonly cited goal among the tribes is to involve children and teenagers, especially those at risk of dropping out of school, in educational activities so that they will become positive role models. Other aims mentioned included opening an enterprise center and kindling business development on the reservation through loan programs for new enterprises. The initial payments are to be granted immediately.
Sources and Further Reading:
[Rapid City Journal] February 8, 2006
[The Forum] February 8, 2006
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
the homecoming queen sails above los angeles on fire
we're still on fire tonight, still raining down ash in the middle of winter. who knew?
The lights of 1000 or more
sparkling shards and
pinpoint beams of light
sparkle in the darkness,
calling the sky to quiet
in the midstream haze of
dusk.
The blueprint plan of the
hand of man
races home to journeys
of homecooked fast food meals
set out in remembrance
of what has been lost.
The lights are tricks of
air
and water, fire almost
shell color under a river clear
and warm, years being
tumbled under and worn smooth.
she turns awhile, staring out
the polyurethane piece
that passes in for a window. Her
road is long,
like the ribbon between
death and dying.
Salmon would swim there,
but now under the lights not
even their bones remain,
like rocks worn down
to smooth edges and fading fast,
her heart cries out “moomat
moomat…
I’m coming home!”
And through the concrete
cracks appear. Jimson
drifts in the balm of night, pale
petals urging
her soflty on toward release.
Her winding is what remains,
not the bones,
no rocks to follow her,
she cries
and moomat,
like a lover calling her home,
courts her softly, wishing
the lights in the sky
would follow the map
to her heart.
The lights of 1000 or more
sparkling shards and
pinpoint beams of light
sparkle in the darkness,
calling the sky to quiet
in the midstream haze of
dusk.
The blueprint plan of the
hand of man
races home to journeys
of homecooked fast food meals
set out in remembrance
of what has been lost.
The lights are tricks of
air
and water, fire almost
shell color under a river clear
and warm, years being
tumbled under and worn smooth.
she turns awhile, staring out
the polyurethane piece
that passes in for a window. Her
road is long,
like the ribbon between
death and dying.
Salmon would swim there,
but now under the lights not
even their bones remain,
like rocks worn down
to smooth edges and fading fast,
her heart cries out “moomat
moomat…
I’m coming home!”
And through the concrete
cracks appear. Jimson
drifts in the balm of night, pale
petals urging
her soflty on toward release.
Her winding is what remains,
not the bones,
no rocks to follow her,
she cries
and moomat,
like a lover calling her home,
courts her softly, wishing
the lights in the sky
would follow the map
to her heart.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Fire Season
Had to stick close to home today--- I seem to have come down with the stomach flu/ headache thingie that’s been plaguing the family for awhile. No dance class, no school, no gym for me. On a short leash to the bathroom for this day.
I went out last night to the car to get my briefcase and it was hot; but when I went to the front porch to let Toby in after midnight the air in the porch was freezing. Sometine between ten and midnight the weather shifted; the protected air in the porch stayed cold when the rest of the world went dry. This morning, the sky took on a cast of red haze, signaling fire season. We really didn’t have a fire season last year or this; that time is reserved for the fall when the Chumash and Tongva storytellers talk about the devil winds that come down the mountains from the east, across canyons and blow the smoke to the ocean, where it hovers above Pimu (Catalina) and stays silent there. In the middle of winter, it seems, our fire season has made an appearance. The skies red, I knew there had to be a fire somewhere; and there was in the hills around Anaheim. The devil winds blew the smoke up north and west until it rained ash all along the coast. When I was young there were definite seasons in Southern California: the fire season in the fall, where the skies were always red and pink and brown with smoke fueled by wind and a summer-long drought that turned the chapparal brown. After the fire season came the rains, washing away debris and smoke and leaving new earth turned over. Spring was clear and beautiful; then summer we’s spend days soaked in fog on the coast and dry and hot inland until the devil winds (Santa Anas) came up again and the cycle would start once more. We can’t count on the seasons anymore. The world has become a different place than it was. What do our ceremonies tell us about it? Do they predict the way in which the earth reacts to the solar storms and devil winds that change the course of rivers and floods? Do they predict the reactions to wars fought upon fallacy as they predict tides and the pull of the moon and the sun and stars?
We cannot control the climate; we have always known that. It controls us. But what are we learning from what the earth is telling us?
I went out last night to the car to get my briefcase and it was hot; but when I went to the front porch to let Toby in after midnight the air in the porch was freezing. Sometine between ten and midnight the weather shifted; the protected air in the porch stayed cold when the rest of the world went dry. This morning, the sky took on a cast of red haze, signaling fire season. We really didn’t have a fire season last year or this; that time is reserved for the fall when the Chumash and Tongva storytellers talk about the devil winds that come down the mountains from the east, across canyons and blow the smoke to the ocean, where it hovers above Pimu (Catalina) and stays silent there. In the middle of winter, it seems, our fire season has made an appearance. The skies red, I knew there had to be a fire somewhere; and there was in the hills around Anaheim. The devil winds blew the smoke up north and west until it rained ash all along the coast. When I was young there were definite seasons in Southern California: the fire season in the fall, where the skies were always red and pink and brown with smoke fueled by wind and a summer-long drought that turned the chapparal brown. After the fire season came the rains, washing away debris and smoke and leaving new earth turned over. Spring was clear and beautiful; then summer we’s spend days soaked in fog on the coast and dry and hot inland until the devil winds (Santa Anas) came up again and the cycle would start once more. We can’t count on the seasons anymore. The world has become a different place than it was. What do our ceremonies tell us about it? Do they predict the way in which the earth reacts to the solar storms and devil winds that change the course of rivers and floods? Do they predict the reactions to wars fought upon fallacy as they predict tides and the pull of the moon and the sun and stars?
We cannot control the climate; we have always known that. It controls us. But what are we learning from what the earth is telling us?
Missing
Missing:
One soul.
Stolen
in the depths
of a dark night.
No stars were out,
blindfolded,
banded across
by dark fingers,
finding pulsepoints
and snuffing out
starlight.
I’m in a state of grieving,
of washing away
layers of silt
dust and
ash
and asking
why
when there’s no words
in either language
for it.
running
blindfolded
toward the daylight sky
one foot in front
of the other,
synching
to the rhythm
of stomp,
not speech
one day at a time,
one step at a time.
Shuffle shuffle
stomp.
Shuffle shuffle stomp stomp.
One step at a time,
dancing the way leather
sounds as it drags across
the floor.
The Indian Wars
are not over
yet.
One soul.
Stolen
in the depths
of a dark night.
No stars were out,
blindfolded,
banded across
by dark fingers,
finding pulsepoints
and snuffing out
starlight.
I’m in a state of grieving,
of washing away
layers of silt
dust and
ash
and asking
why
when there’s no words
in either language
for it.
running
blindfolded
toward the daylight sky
one foot in front
of the other,
synching
to the rhythm
of stomp,
not speech
one day at a time,
one step at a time.
Shuffle shuffle
stomp.
Shuffle shuffle stomp stomp.
One step at a time,
dancing the way leather
sounds as it drags across
the floor.
The Indian Wars
are not over
yet.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Love and hate...
Why do we fall in love? What is the over-riding connection that causes two people to emanate the energy it takes to create something beautiful, something magical, something that makes us into the image of God? The emotions that pull and attract to that person- when you know it in your soul- not just your body screaming for release or your hormones out of control but deep within the darkest part of knowing that you will love this person all of your life and no matter their faults, their idiosyncrasies, you are willing to plunge into that dark place and live there forever?
Why do we begin to hate? When the baggage you have carried your whole life gets left next to the bed, in the doorway, by the TV., in the kitchen sink, out on the street, in the car seat that needs to be moved so the baby can go to the park, in the office where your boss can trip over it, on the bookshelf with all the cluttered memories of lives past and wedding pictures and first communion memories and baptisms and sweats and in the red rock canyons where pipestone is formed and pushed aside where it can no longer grow free; outside of the church where you wore white and joy was palpable, and relief grew in hope; in the way of the rain that falls and creates little rivers of runoff and broken desire until it takes over the world in such clutter that all you can see is red suitcases, old overnight bags, duffle bags filled with old gym clothes needing to be washed, shoeboxes, plastic garbage bags, shopping carts, old torn blankets, briefcases, black leather purses, backpacks and cigarette lighters with which to start a wildfire that will burn down the house that love built…
Why do we begin to hate? When the baggage you have carried your whole life gets left next to the bed, in the doorway, by the TV., in the kitchen sink, out on the street, in the car seat that needs to be moved so the baby can go to the park, in the office where your boss can trip over it, on the bookshelf with all the cluttered memories of lives past and wedding pictures and first communion memories and baptisms and sweats and in the red rock canyons where pipestone is formed and pushed aside where it can no longer grow free; outside of the church where you wore white and joy was palpable, and relief grew in hope; in the way of the rain that falls and creates little rivers of runoff and broken desire until it takes over the world in such clutter that all you can see is red suitcases, old overnight bags, duffle bags filled with old gym clothes needing to be washed, shoeboxes, plastic garbage bags, shopping carts, old torn blankets, briefcases, black leather purses, backpacks and cigarette lighters with which to start a wildfire that will burn down the house that love built…
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Reflections of The Los Angeles River
Been a long time since I've worked on the blog, thought I'd better get back to it. It's mid winter in L.A., just got back a couple of weeks ago from Honolulu, don't have any travel plans until June for Mythic Journeys in Atlanta. That should give me plenty of time to study for quals...I should be studying, right??? But who can study when there's a gorgeous boy who needs to go to karate and two beautiful little girls who need to go to ballet class; play proposals to write, design layouts for new books to do and dance class for Mom to attend...life just keeps on keeping on!
We're looking to publish two full books of poetry this year, Lee Francis IV's One Decade Down in about to go to press; my own Echo Location is just about completed; and Kristy Orona's chapbook, Reclaimation Road, is in the proof stage. I'll keep everyone posted when the books will be out and ready to go...
Last year it rained so much we thought it would never stop. The river rose higher than she had in years, covering old mufflers, torn apart beds, moving homeless villages to seek higher ground. This year, it hasn't rained since after Christmas.
I always thought, growing up here, that the L.A. River was a fake river. Don't ask me why, but it just seemed weird that there would be a natural river in a concrete channel. It's hard to imagine this place as a flood plain, but it did and sometimes wants to happen again. I guess I just thought that the powers that be wanted to urbanize some flowing water so they could pretend there was reallya river here. That's what it's like here---we become so disconnected from the place as a landscape and think of it as an urban space, an urban sprawl, that we forget there is a breathing landscape underneath all those people and cars. Payit is a Tongva word for river.
----
Pahyit
It was winter when she came to me, walking down the mountain and into the desert plain, past abandoned shopping carts, metal bits and pieces of trash and plastic pieces traveling along the concrete washway of the swollen river. She moved along the river bank, following the narrows and traces of jimson, river oak and non-flowering alata, studying the wet earth as if studying a map, the old waterways a piece of concrete, of asphalt, steel and the new world. He was dying, and she knew it. She felt it in her bones, in the grinding of acorns and boiling sap and the passing of tule grass between her teeth, smoothing into a circle shape of diamond patterns and blood from her fingers as she wove her story into it. There was death all around and she could smell it on the fires that heralded fall to the dry land, stirring up dust and drama within households that had no idea what was in store for them when the devil winds came broiling down the desert sky and into the city. She sang a song and dropped tobacco in the concrete washway, and then the rains came.
She hadn’t been waiting for it, really, just breathing the twilight air and knowing her vision was strong. She watched from above the glittering city lights, harboring her resentment about her like her fur, but in the autumn, when the days were hot and the nights a little less, she liked to lay under the stars naked, laughing at how she could see them but they couldn’t look and see her. They just saw the haze of October and the hinted whispers of rain in the air that were blown away by the fires and wind, and looking down, saw the sparkles and stars in the sidewalk, not two black eyes peering from dusk.
She was the bringer of the rain, of stars, and tears. Tears had brought her to this place to begin with, and tears would call her home. There were no tears the day the magic called her, only rage. She would answer rage. She understood it, breathed it, welcomed it. It would keep her safe, keep her from their prying eyes and praying hands, and when she heard the voice wet with tears upon the river, she knew she would come and never leave.
What story can I tell you that would make you understand her a little more? What could I tell you, my girl that would make you know her, know her ways? But I think you know her, in your own way. It’s the small things, the small voices in the blood that cannot escape. No matter how they try to kill me, try to kill you, try to kill her, we will not die. We are the voice of the stars, of the wind, of the trees that burn and are reborn from the black earth. We are the people buried in the hills, in the pueblos, below concrete, glass, and asphalt; the voices that still sing above the din of traffic and cars and horns and exhaust. We are the people who run in the hills, who sing in the streets, who live in little houses along the freeways, on sacred places wherever our feet fall. We are the people death knells have been sung and bandied about, but we have lived to tell the tale and survived on bear grass, bottle glass, jimsonweed, wild alata, concrete, prayers, songs, and corn. We are the people still living in this land of death and glittering rebirth, the place where they come to be reborn and are ageless. And we, we cannot die.
The old ones called her in times of need, in times of pain and sorrow. It was her work, her duty, to remind us of where we came from, of where we were going. When the soldiers cut across the bush, looking for gold and paradise, they found us instead, and the medicine woman came to me, crying. She dropped tobacco and tears and I heard her, and knew from the hills, from the stars, Coyote Woman would come and keep us alive in her memory, like voices in dreams that gather in dust and are washed away in winter to be reborn in spring. During the dry season, I dry up and am small, insignificant, invisible. But my songs remain and those who love this land speak to me and I am reborn in the voices of stars and remembrance. Pahyit, the river. I know my name like I know this land, and am reborn in stories and songs and silences.
The soldiers came, and following them, the friars, and following them, the sickness of fire that spread through the people like devil winds. The people were ghosts of themselves, reluctant leavings whose voices are still held upon the wind. I wind along the narrows, the wasteland, the places of concrete and steel and brackish water and things that no one wants anymore. When the rain comes, I move along the concrete channel and sing the song of the western world and the only ones that can hear me come, dropping alata and songs in languages that most people think faded with their dream of a frontier. I am still here.
We're looking to publish two full books of poetry this year, Lee Francis IV's One Decade Down in about to go to press; my own Echo Location is just about completed; and Kristy Orona's chapbook, Reclaimation Road, is in the proof stage. I'll keep everyone posted when the books will be out and ready to go...
Last year it rained so much we thought it would never stop. The river rose higher than she had in years, covering old mufflers, torn apart beds, moving homeless villages to seek higher ground. This year, it hasn't rained since after Christmas.
I always thought, growing up here, that the L.A. River was a fake river. Don't ask me why, but it just seemed weird that there would be a natural river in a concrete channel. It's hard to imagine this place as a flood plain, but it did and sometimes wants to happen again. I guess I just thought that the powers that be wanted to urbanize some flowing water so they could pretend there was reallya river here. That's what it's like here---we become so disconnected from the place as a landscape and think of it as an urban space, an urban sprawl, that we forget there is a breathing landscape underneath all those people and cars. Payit is a Tongva word for river.
----
Pahyit
It was winter when she came to me, walking down the mountain and into the desert plain, past abandoned shopping carts, metal bits and pieces of trash and plastic pieces traveling along the concrete washway of the swollen river. She moved along the river bank, following the narrows and traces of jimson, river oak and non-flowering alata, studying the wet earth as if studying a map, the old waterways a piece of concrete, of asphalt, steel and the new world. He was dying, and she knew it. She felt it in her bones, in the grinding of acorns and boiling sap and the passing of tule grass between her teeth, smoothing into a circle shape of diamond patterns and blood from her fingers as she wove her story into it. There was death all around and she could smell it on the fires that heralded fall to the dry land, stirring up dust and drama within households that had no idea what was in store for them when the devil winds came broiling down the desert sky and into the city. She sang a song and dropped tobacco in the concrete washway, and then the rains came.
She hadn’t been waiting for it, really, just breathing the twilight air and knowing her vision was strong. She watched from above the glittering city lights, harboring her resentment about her like her fur, but in the autumn, when the days were hot and the nights a little less, she liked to lay under the stars naked, laughing at how she could see them but they couldn’t look and see her. They just saw the haze of October and the hinted whispers of rain in the air that were blown away by the fires and wind, and looking down, saw the sparkles and stars in the sidewalk, not two black eyes peering from dusk.
She was the bringer of the rain, of stars, and tears. Tears had brought her to this place to begin with, and tears would call her home. There were no tears the day the magic called her, only rage. She would answer rage. She understood it, breathed it, welcomed it. It would keep her safe, keep her from their prying eyes and praying hands, and when she heard the voice wet with tears upon the river, she knew she would come and never leave.
What story can I tell you that would make you understand her a little more? What could I tell you, my girl that would make you know her, know her ways? But I think you know her, in your own way. It’s the small things, the small voices in the blood that cannot escape. No matter how they try to kill me, try to kill you, try to kill her, we will not die. We are the voice of the stars, of the wind, of the trees that burn and are reborn from the black earth. We are the people buried in the hills, in the pueblos, below concrete, glass, and asphalt; the voices that still sing above the din of traffic and cars and horns and exhaust. We are the people who run in the hills, who sing in the streets, who live in little houses along the freeways, on sacred places wherever our feet fall. We are the people death knells have been sung and bandied about, but we have lived to tell the tale and survived on bear grass, bottle glass, jimsonweed, wild alata, concrete, prayers, songs, and corn. We are the people still living in this land of death and glittering rebirth, the place where they come to be reborn and are ageless. And we, we cannot die.
The old ones called her in times of need, in times of pain and sorrow. It was her work, her duty, to remind us of where we came from, of where we were going. When the soldiers cut across the bush, looking for gold and paradise, they found us instead, and the medicine woman came to me, crying. She dropped tobacco and tears and I heard her, and knew from the hills, from the stars, Coyote Woman would come and keep us alive in her memory, like voices in dreams that gather in dust and are washed away in winter to be reborn in spring. During the dry season, I dry up and am small, insignificant, invisible. But my songs remain and those who love this land speak to me and I am reborn in the voices of stars and remembrance. Pahyit, the river. I know my name like I know this land, and am reborn in stories and songs and silences.
The soldiers came, and following them, the friars, and following them, the sickness of fire that spread through the people like devil winds. The people were ghosts of themselves, reluctant leavings whose voices are still held upon the wind. I wind along the narrows, the wasteland, the places of concrete and steel and brackish water and things that no one wants anymore. When the rain comes, I move along the concrete channel and sing the song of the western world and the only ones that can hear me come, dropping alata and songs in languages that most people think faded with their dream of a frontier. I am still here.
