Sherman Alexie, 'How to Write the Great American Indian Novel'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

How to Write the Great American Indian Novel

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. )

By Sherman Alexie

an odd request & a poem

[two-grey-rooms.livejournal.com]

man, i hope people still use this community...anyway, i have an odd request for anyone who is willing to help me. i am looking for poems about objects---any object (or objects), a notebook, a toilet, a pair of shoes. a meditation about a particular object. from any poet. i am sure these poems exist, but i'm drawing a blank.

and a poem for you:

Persephone in September
Peter S. Beagle

The leaves are at my feet. The grass is dead.
The air is bitter as a dragonbite.
I hear the thunder moaning overhead,
Like some great creature dying in the night.
The winter wraps my shoulders like a shawl,
And I can taste the still unfallen snow.
The darkness comes like footsteps in the hall.
The winds reclaim the world, and I must go.

I take a road beyond the sight of eyes
That runs beyond the minds of walking men,
And only this I leave---a song that cries,
"Oh, I will surely, surely come again!"
And, knowing this, I turn my eyes and mark
My iron lover, crouching in the dark.

Bolton Hall, 'The Monthly Rent'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Monthly Rent

They sheared the lamb twelve times a year,
To get some money to buy some beer;
The lamb thought this was extremely queer—
Poor little snow-white lamb! —OLD SONG.

“God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” said the deacon.
“I will shut the gate of the field so as to keep him warm,” said the philanthropist.
“If you give me the tags of wool,” said the charity clipper, “I’ll let the poor creature have half.”
“The lambs we have always with us,” said the wool broker.
“Lambs must always be shorn,” said the business man; “hand me the shears.”
“We should leave him enough wool to make him a coat,” said the profit sharer.
“His condition is improving,” said the land owner, “for his fleece will be longer next year.”
“We should prohibit cutting his flesh when we shear,” said the legislator.
“But I intend,” said the radical, “to stop this shearing.”
The others united to throw him out; then they divided the wool.

By Bolton Hall