FAR NORTH BEAST GHOSTS THE CLEARING

 ....from the Swampy Cree


the truth is
i have mud on my hands
from digging roots

the truth is
i brought them to you

it is the truth
i worked to get them
and complained
while digging them up

the truth is
once i got back here
and saw your face
it didn't matter,

that work


           rendered by:  Howard Norman













...



                        

the dance is often complicated...no?

       Salomé                                                                    

I scissor the stem of the red carnation 
and set it in a bowl of water. 
It floats the way your head would, 
if I cut it off. 
But what if I tore you apart 
for those afternoons 
when I was fifteen 
and so like a bird of paradise 
slaughtered for its feathers. 
Even my name suggested wings, 
wicker cages, flight. 
Come, sit on my lap, you said. 
I felt as if I had flown there; 
I was weightless. 
You were forty and married. 
That she was my mother never mattered. 
She was a door that opened onto me. 
The three of us blended into a kind of somnolence 
and musk, the musk of Sundays. Sweat and sweetness. 
That dried plum and licorice taste 
always back of my tongue 
and your tongue against my teeth, 
then touching mine. How many times?- 
I counted, but could never remember. 
And when I thought we'd go on forever, 
that nothing could stop us 
as we fell endlessly from consciousness, 
orders came: War in the north. 
Your sword, the gold epaulets, 
the uniform so brightly colored, 
so unlike war, I thought. 
And your horse; how you rode out the gate. 
No, how that horse danced beneath you 
toward the sound of cannon fire. 
I could hear it, so many leagues away. 
I could see you fall, your face scarlet, 
the horse dancing on without you. 
And at the same moment, 
Mother sighed and turned clumsily in the hammock, 
the Madeira in the thin-stemmed glass 
spilled into the grass, 
and I felt myself hardening to a brandy-colored wood, 
my skin, a thousand strings drawn so taut 
that when I walked to the house 
I could hear music 
tumbling like a waterfall of China silk 
behind me. 
I took your letter from my bodice. 
Salome, I heard your voice, 
little bird, fly. But I did not. 
I untied the lilac ribbon at my breasts 
and lay down on your bed. 
After a while, I heard Mother's footsteps, 
watched her walk to the window. 
I closed my eyes 
and when I opened them 
the shadow of a sword passed through my throat 
and Mother, dressed like a grenadier, 
bent and kissed me on the lips



                                Ai   (+ 2010 )












.....

cultural fermentation

                                    Making New History



 Making new history 
Columbus bashing is passe 
Insider secret: we all grew up on bannock & baloney 
No shame here 
Uncle Tomahawk working hard
 to cut off those
 In between Indians
 Don’t fit the blood criteria 
But expect us
 to support your constitutional demands 
In limbo
 Out back your reserve
 Squatting On road allowance
 Those better‐than stares
Looking down on us 
We’re still homeless 
Ironic 
We all got screwed
Five hundred years later: 
a new Half‐breed rebellion 
Brewing




                Gregory Scofield




....

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

....