greatpoetry | Entries tagged with sherman alexie

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

ninasafiri.livejournal.com

Here’s a fact: Some people want to live more
Than others do. Some can withstand any horror

While others will easily surrender
To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.

In Utah, one man carried another
Man on his back like a conjoined brother

And crossed twenty-five miles of desert
To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?

Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.

moireach.livejournal.com

At the Trial of Hamlet, Chicago, 1994
Sherman Alexie

Did Hamlet mean to kill Polonius? Diane and I sit at a table
with the rich, who have the luxury to discuss such things
over a veal dinner. The vegetables are beautiful! I am here
because I wrote a book which nobody here has read, a book
that Diane reads because she loves me. My book has nothing
to do with Hamlet. My book is filled with reservation Indians.
Maybe my book has everything to do with Hamlet. The millionaire
next to me sets down one of his many forks to shake my hand.
He tells me the poor need the rich more than the rich need the poor.
Abigail Van Buren eats corn at the next table. I read this morning
she has always believed homosexuality is genetic. Finally. Dear Abby
can have all the corn she wants! I'll pay. She wears a polka dot dress
and is laughing loudly at something I know is not funny.
Did Hamlet really see his father's ghost? Was there a ghost? Was
Hamlet insane or merely angry when he thrust his sword through
that curtain and killed Polonius? The millionaire tells me
taxi cab drivers, shoeshine men, waiters, and waitresses exist
only because the rich, wearing shiny shoes, often need to be driven
to nice restaurants. A character actor walks by with a glass of wine.
I recognize him because I'm the type of guy who always recognizes
character actors. He knows that I recognize him but I cannot tell
if he wants me to recognize him. Perhaps he is afraid that I am
confusing him with another character actor who is more or less
famous. He might be worried that I will shout his name incorrectly
and loudly, transposing first and last names, randomly inserting
wild syllables that have nothing to do with his name. Did Hamlet
want to have sex with his mother Gertrude? Was Hamlet mad with jealousy
because Claudius got to have sex with Gertrude? When is a king
more than a king? When is a king less than a king? Diane is gorgeous.
She wears red lipstick which contrasts nicely with her brown skin.
( We are the only Indians in Chicago! No, we are the only Indians )

bellvampress.livejournal.com

The white woman across the aisle from me says, “Look,

look at all the history, that house

on the hill there is over two hundred years old,”

as she points out the window past me

into what she has been taught. I have learned

little more about American history during my few days

back East than what I expected and far less

of what we should all know of the tribal stories

whose architecture is 15,000 years older

than the corners of the house that sits

museumed on the hill. “Walden Pond,”

the woman on the train asks, “Did you see Walden Pond?”

and I don’t have a cruel enough heart to break

her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds

on my little reservation out West

and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane,

the city I pretend to call my home. “Listen,”

I could have told her. “I don’t give a shit

about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories

around that pond before Walden’s grandparents were born

and before his grandparents’ grandparents were born.

I’m tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too,

because that’s redundant. If Don Henley’s brothers and sisters

and mothers and fathers hadn’t come here in the first place

then nothing would need to be saved.”

But I didn’t say a word to the woman about Walden

Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted

that I thought to bring her an orange juice

back from the food car. I respect elders

of every color. All I really did was eat

my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi

and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out

another little piece of her country’s history

while I, as all Indians have done

since this war began, made plans

for what I would do and say the next time

somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.

-- Sherman Alexie "On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City"

othergoose.livejournal.com

Crow Testament
Sherman Alexie

1.
Cain lifts Crow, that heavy black bird
and strikes down Abel.

Damn, says Crow, I guess
this is just the beginning.

2.
The white man, disguised
as a falcon, swoops in
and yet again steals a salmon
from Crow's talons.

Damn, says Crow, if I could swim
I would have fled this country years ago.

3.
The Crow God as depicted
in all of the reliable Crow bibles
looks exactly like a Crow.

Damn, says Crow, this makes it
so much easier to worship myself.

4.
Among the ashes of Jericho,
Crow sacrifices his firstborn son.

Damn, says Crow, a million nests
are soaked with blood.

( 5. When Crows fight crows the sky fills with beaks and talons )

Current Music: WFUV 90.7 FM New York's public radio blend of singer-songwriters, rock, blues, C

unwinding.livejournal.com

Eugene Boyd Don't Drink Here Anymore
by Sherman Alexie

The Stranger walks into the bar, orders a beer, and asks me where the hell Eugene Boyd is, and I tell him, he got shot last year in the parking lot of the Gold Coin, man, he's dead. The Stranger looks me in the eyes, looks the whole bar straight in the eyes, and drinks his beer in one drink. Who the hell did it, the Stranger asks me, and I tell him that everyone knows but the police ain't going to do anything about it because when one Indian kills another Indian, that's considered natural selection. He holds that empty glass tight and looks in the mirror behind the bar where all our faces are reflected. All us stoic Indians rehearsing for parts as extras in some eternal black and white western. Shit, used to be only whites expected Skins to have monosyllabic faces, but now, we even expect it of each other. But the Stranger looks in the mirror and he starts crying. Crying for the dead, not looking forward to the gifts he'll get from the deceased, not looking forward to the wake, he's crying for the dead. I used to figure strength was all a matter of being waterproof, like our houses could never be. So the Stranger throws his glass at the mirror, shattering us all into pieces, and in the silence after that the Professor, at the end of the bar, tips his beer and says, "that was some serious fucking dualism."

moireach.livejournal.com

AT THE TRIAL OF HAMLET, CHICAGO, 1994
by Sherman Alexie

Did Hamlet mean to kill Polonius? Diane and I sit at a table
with the rich, who have the luxury to discuss such things
over a veal dinner. The vegetables are beautiful! I am here
because I wrote a book which nobody here has read, a book
that Diane reads because she loves me. My book has nothing
to do with Hamlet. My book is filled with reservation Indians.
Maybe my book has everything to do with Hamlet. The millionaire
next to me sets down one of his many forks to shake my hand.
He tells me the poor need the rich more than the rich need the poor.
Abigail Van Buren eats corn at the next table. I read this morning
she has always believed homosexuality is genetic. Finally. Dear Abby
can have all the corn she wants! I'll pay. She wears a polka dot dress
and is laughing loudly at something I know is not funny.
Did Hamlet really see his father's ghost? Was there a ghost? Was
Hamlet insane or merely angry when he thrust his sword through
that curtain and killed Polonius? The millionaire tells me
taxi cab drivers, shoeshine men, waiters, and waitresses exist
only because the rich, wearing shiny shoes, often need to be driven
to nice restaurants. A character actor walks by with a glass of wine.
I recognize him because I'm the type of guy who always recognizes
character actors. He knows that I recognize him but I cannot tell
if he wants me to recognize him. Perhaps he is afraid that I am
confusing him with another character actor who is more or less
famous. He might be worried that I will shout his name incorrectly
and loudly, transposing first and last names, randomly inserting
wild syllables that have nothing to do with his name. Did Hamlet
want to have sex with his mother Gertrude? Was Hamlet mad with jealousy
because Claudius got to have sex with Gertrude? When is a king
more than a king? When is a king less than a king? Diane is gorgeous.
She wears red lipstick which contrasts nicely with her brown skin.
We are the only Indians in Chicago! No, we are the only Indians
at the Trial of Hamlet. I hold her hand under the table, holding it
tightly until, of course, we have to separate so we can eat our food.
We need two hands to cut our veal. Yet, Diane will not eat veal.
She only eats the beautiful vegetables. I eat the veal and feel guilty.
The millionaire tells me the rich would love a flat tax rate. He talks
about interest rates and capital gains, loss on investments
and trickle-down economics. He thinks he is smarter than me. He is
probably smarter than me, so I insecurely tell him I wrote a book
which I know he will never read, a book that has nothing to do
with Polonius. My book is filled with reservation Indians. Maybe
it has everything to do with Polonius. A Supreme Court justice
sits at the head table. He decides my life! He eats rapidly. I want
to know how he feels about treaty rights. I want to know if he feels
guilty about eating the veal. There is no doubt in my mind
the Supreme Court justice recognizes the beauty of our vegetables.
Was Hamlet a man without logical alternatives? Did he resort
to a mindless, senseless violence? Were his actions those of a tired
and hateful man? Or those of a righteous son? The millionaire introduces
his wife, but she barely acknowledges our presence. Diane is more
gorgeous, even though she grew up on reservations and once
sat in a tree for hours, wishing she had lighter skin. Diane wears
a scarf she bought for three dollars. I would ask her to marry me right
now, again, in this city where I asked her to marry me for the first time.
But she already agreed to marry me then and has, in fact, married me.
Marriage causes us to do crazy things. She reads my books. I eat veal.
Was Hamlet guilty or not by reason of insanity for the murder of Polonius?
The millionaire tells me how happy he is to meet me. He wishes me
luck. He wants to know what I think of Hamlet's case. He tells me Hamlet
is responsible for what he did, insane or not. There is always something
beautiful in the world at any given moment. When I was poor I loved
the five dollar bills I would unexpectedly find in coat pockets. When I feel
tired now, it can be the moon hanging over the old hotels of Chicago.
Diane and I walk out into the cold November air. We hail a taxi.
The driver is friendly, asks for our names, and Diane says, I'm Hamlet
and this is Hamlet, my husband. The driver wants to know where
we're from and which way we want to go. Home, we say, home.