greatpoetry | Entries tagged with joy harjo

ravengirl.livejournal.com

'An American Sunrise'

We were running out of breath, as we ran out to meet ourselves. We

were surfacing the edge of our ancestors’ fights, and ready to strike.

It was difficult to lose days in the Indian bar if you were straight.

Easy if you played pool and drank to remember to forget. We

made plans to be professional — and did. And some of us could sing

so we drummed a fire-lit pathway up to those starry stars. Sin

was invented by the Christians, as was the Devil, we sang. We

were the heathens, but needed to be saved from them — thin

chance. We knew we were all related in this story, a little gin

will clarify the dark and make us all feel like dancing. We

had something to do with the origins of blues and jazz

I argued with a Pueblo as I filled the jukebox with dimes in June,

forty years later and we still want justice. We are still America. We

know the rumors of our demise. We spit them out. They die

soon.

by Joy Harjo

duathir.livejournal.com

Deer Dancer

Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter except the
hardcore.
It was the coldest night of the year, every place shut down, but
not us.
Of course we noticed when she came in.
We were Indian ruins.
She
was the end of beauty.
No one knew her, the stranger whose tribe we
recognized, her family related to deer, if that's who she was, a people
accustomed to hearing songs in pine trees, and making them hearts.

The woman inside the woman who was to dance naked in the bar of misfits
blew deer magic.
Henry jack, who could not survive a sober day, thought she
was Buffalo Calf Woman come back, passed out, his head by the toilet.
All
night he dreamed a dream he could not say.
The next day he borrowed
money, went home, and sent back the money I lent.
Now that's a miracle.

( Some people see vision in a burned tortilla, some in the face of a woman. )

By Joy Harjo

duathir.livejournal.com

two-grey-rooms.livejournal.com

( poem cut for sexual assault triggers )

angelaprimavera.livejournal.com

Joy Harjo
She Had Some Horses

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with eyes of trains.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their
bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet
in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made
them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren't afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped
bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, "horse".
She had horses who called themselves, "spirit", and kept
their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who
carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any saviour.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her
bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses.

bitsofbeauty.livejournal.com

This morning when I looked out the roof window
before dawn and a few stars were still caught
in the fragile weft of ebony night
I was overwhelmed. I sang the song Louis taught me:
a song to call the deer in Creek, when hunting,
and I am certainly hunting something as magic as deer
in this city far from the hammock of my mother’s belly.
It works, of course, and deer came into this room
and wondered at finding themselves
in a house near downtown Denver.
Now the deer and I are trying to figure out a song
to get them back, to get all of us back,
because if it works I’m going with them.
And it’s too early to call Louis
and nearly too late to go home.

( Note: )

softlyforgotten.livejournal.com

Hi, guys. I've been asked to read at a baptism tomorrow, and I was looking for poetry that might be appropriate; it doesn't have to be particularly religious, just something to say to a little boy at the beginning of life. I'd really appreciate any suggestions, as I'm having trouble deciding upon something. (Hope this post is allowed!) Thank you in advance.

ex-stdymphna813.livejournal.com

here it is by Joy Harjo:

For Anna Mae Pictou Aquash
whose spirit is present here and in the dappled stars
(For we remember the story and must tell it again so we may all live)

Joy Harjo, Susan M. Williams & John L. Williams

Beneath a sky blurred with mist and wind,
I am amazed as I watch the violet
heads of crocuses erupt from the stiff earth
after dying for a season,
as I have watched my own dark head
appear each morning after entering
the next world
to come back to this one,
amazed.
It is the way in the natural world to understand the place
the ghost dancers named after the heart breaking destruction.
Anna Mae,
everything and nothing changes.
You are the shimmering young woman
who found her voice,
when you were warned to be silent, or have your body cut away
from you like an elegant weed.
You are the one whose spirit is present in the dappled stars.
(They prance and lope like colored horses who stay with us
through the streets of these steely cities. And I have seen them
nuzzling the frozen bodies of tattered drunks
on the corner.)

This morning when the last star is dimming
and the busses grind toward
the middle of the city, I know it is ten years since they buried you
the second time in Lakota, a language that could
free you.
I heard about it in Oklahoma, or New Mexico,
how the wind howled and pulled everything down
in righteous anger.
(It was the women who told me) and we understood wordlessly
the ripe meaning of your murder.
As I understand ten years later after the slow changing
of the seasons
that we have just begun to touch
the dazzling whirlwind of our anger,
we have just begun to perceive the amazed world the ghost dancers
entered
crazily, beautifully.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

starzindanite.livejournal.com

I know when the sun is in China
because the night shining other-light
crawls into my bed. She is moon.
Her eyes slit and yellow she is the last
one out of a dingy bar in Albuquerque -
Fourth Street, or from similar avenues
in Hong Kong. Where someone else has also
awakened, the night thrown back and asked,
"Where is the moon, my lover?"
And from here I always answer in my dreaming,
"the last time I saw her was in the arms
of another sky."

Current Music: José González - Remain

ex-peacock902.livejournal.com

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
Steadly 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.

arielblue.livejournal.com

This is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.

This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.

This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.

Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.

c Joy Harjo

From A Map to the Next World, W.W.Norton 2002 and Native Joy for Real, Mekko Records 2004 Available from iTunes. Send a song to your sweetie.

fireriven.livejournal.com

I don't believe in promises, but there you are,
balancing on a tightrope of sound.
You sneak into the world
inside a labyrinth of flame
break the walls beneath my ribs.
I yearn to sing; a certain note can spiral stars,
or knock the balance of the world askew.
Inside your horn lives a secret woman
who says she knows the power of the womb,
can transform massacres into gold, her own heartache
into a ruby stone.
Her anger is yours and when her teeth bite through
a string of glass
you awaken
and it is not another dream, but your arms
around a woman
who was once a dagger between your legs.
There are always ways to fall asleep,
but to be alive is to forsake
the fear of blood.
And dreams aren't excuses anymore. You are not behind
a smoking mirror,
but inside a ceremony of boulders that has survived
your many deaths.
It is not by accident you watch the sun
become your heart
sink into your belly, then reappear in a town
that magnetically
attracts you.
What attracts cannot naturally be separated.
A black hole reversed is a white hot star,
unravels this night
inside a song that is the same wailing cry as blue.
There are no words, only sounds
that lead us into the darkest nights,
where stars burn into ice
where the dead arise again
to walk in shoes of fire.

-"Bleed Through", Joy Harjo

manjeness.livejournal.com

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
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. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Chicago Soundtrack

ex-macsuibhn666.livejournal.com

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with eyes of trains.
She had horses with full brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mother's arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and
their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet
in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made
them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren't afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped
bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves "horse."
She had horses who called themselves "spirit",
and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence,
who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her,
who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

They were the same horses.

Joy Harjo

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I Eat Poetry

Entries tagged with joy harjo

Joy Harjo, An American Sunrise

Joy Harjo, 'Deer Dancer'

Joy Harjo, 'Deer Dancer'

"The Black Room," by Joy Harjo

She Had Some Horses-Joy Harjo

Song For the Deer and Myself to Return On by Joy Harjo

(no subject)

Anna Mae Aquash

Moonlight by Joy Harjo

Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo

Joy Harjo

"Bleed Through" by Joy Harjo

Remember by Joy Harjo