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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Jun 19, 2019 13:41:31 GMT
Eagle Poem
by Joy Harjo
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear,
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty
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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Jun 21, 2019 0:21:38 GMT
spiderwort staggerstag wickedkittiesmomRemember by Joy Harjo Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star's stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundown and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother's, and hers. Remember your father. He is your life, also. Remember the earth whose skin you are: red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems. Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember language comes from this. Remember the dance language is, that life is. Remember.
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Post by staggerstag on Jun 21, 2019 0:27:19 GMT
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Post by hi224 on Jun 21, 2019 22:54:56 GMT
Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear, Can't know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty nice.
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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Jun 26, 2019 1:44:46 GMT
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Post by staggerstag on Jun 26, 2019 2:08:33 GMT
Just read the first paragraph (online sample of House...) and the eight or ten lines are most descriptive of the opening landscape. Enjoy. nutsberryfarm π
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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Jun 27, 2019 17:41:29 GMT
I've read and love this novel. Highly recommend it. He's a wonderful writer. Another of his that I also love - maybe even more - is "The Way to Rainy Mountain," about his life as a Kiowa Indian growing up in Oklahoma. It's a slim volume, filled with poetry, folklore, and, as I said personal memories about his life and ancestors.
sounds great! thanks.
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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Sept 2, 2019 13:18:49 GMT
nutsberryfarm π π , staggerstag , wickedkittiesmom , hi224All the Tired Horses in the Sun Joy Harjo from βMama and Papa Have the Going Home Shiprock Bluesβ Forever. And ever. And ever. Thereβs my cousin. Auntie. Uncle. Another cousin. Ever. And ever. And ever. Vending machines and pop. Chips, candy, and not enough clean water. And ever, ever, ever. Waiting and tired. Tired of waiting. Forever. And ever. And ever. Go water the horses.
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Post by amyghost on Sept 2, 2019 15:43:10 GMT
Mediocrity seems to be the keynote for receiving the US version of the Poet Laureate gig.
This hasn't always been the case, but in latter years, perhaps unsurprisingly, it's become far more the norm than otherwise. Identity politics and the politicizing of ideas seem to have usurped content, but I suppose that's become true of virtually every field in arts and literature over the past couple of decades.
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Post by nutsberryfarm π on Mar 17, 2020 15:11:28 GMT
For Keeps Joy Harjo
Sun makes the day new. Tiny green plants emerge from earth. Birds are singing the sky into place. There is nowhere else I want to be but here. I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will take us. We gallop into a warm, southern wind. I link my legs to yours and we ride together, Toward the ancient encampment of our relatives. Where have you been? they ask. And what has taken you so long? That night after eating, singing, and dancing We lay together under the stars. We know ourselves to be part of mystery. It is unspeakable. It is everlasting. It is for keeps.
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