I Aspire To Be Song

Blogger: Joy Harjo

Joy Harjo's books of poetry include How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems (2002); A Map to the Next World: Poems (2000); The Woman Who Fell From the Sky (1994), which received the Oklahoma Book Arts Award; In Mad Love and War (1990), which received an American Book Award and the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Award; Secrets from the Center of the World (1989); She Had Some Horses (1983); and What Moon Drove Me to This? (1979). She lives in Hawaii.


Rain. This morning I carried mangoes into the house blessed by a sprinkling of rain. These fruits are evidence that someone loves us…or maybe not. Maybe this ebb and flow is not personal at all, maybe everything just is... For now, I will live in mango heaven for a season. And these are Piri mangoes, considered the best in texture and taste. They are similar to ripe, perfect peaches with a little more body, not as stiff as nectarines. Last night when I headed out the door to the stationary bike under the house, I found another mango near the steps, glistening from late afternoon rains. I breathed mango. When I breathe mango I breathe rain, sun, earth, birds and sex.

I wonder if anyone else out there is ever overwhelmed by multiplicity and depth? Within each raindrop are millions of possibilities, equations, the story of water, of flight, of storms, of the emotional tenor of a city, of plants, of humans, of a thousand years ago, of infinity, of now, of increments of now. Each word bears similar flyways or labyrinths. Each culture defines a slant. Each individual within a culture is yet another angle of memory, of perception. Where does the song start?

Any traces of procrastination I carry comes from an overwhelm of the dissolve into multiplicity. Where do I start?

Yesterday I followed along watching myself for several hours. What is stranger is watching yourself, watching yourself.

My friends Pam Uschuk and Bill Root returned this last week from Nepal. One village they visited the people live as they have always lived, without interference of the money-culture. They sing the sun up, they sing to the clouds, they sing to their animals, they sing to the plants. They move about the day singing and when they go to sleep they are singing. I aspire to be song, as they are.

The spirit of my voice, of my poetry has boundaries and rules. (This is the voice of poetry, lyrics, singing, saxophone-ing.) This voice sets me free yet freedom has strictures. It demands care and honor, even as it takes care. I am warned when I cross over and offend the gift. Yesterday when the barbs of the edge cut into my back, I had to stop and pay attention. A detractor has been attacking me in the comments section of my blog. I have control, can either post or delete the comments. Twice he’s written and each time my li’li’i (small, in Hawaiian) self has responded. Then I delete his nasty note and my response. I delete because I have been using words: the breath behind them, the spirit, in a wasteful manner. My breath, which carries life, essentially, is then being given over to someone who wants to only to hurt me. (And his breath is being given over to something that will conversely hurt him.) Yes, it’s important to speak up for oneself, for justice. The feminist edict of the seventies from Audre Lorde remains planted in my gut: “Your silence will not protect you.” No, it will not. Yet there’s more to this: you must use your words wisely, as a warrior, so they contain power. I wasn’t using my words wisely here, my spirit warned me. I was giving over my power to someone who has made a choice to harass. So I used the delete button, on the screen and within.

I wrestle with this: if all is God/Omnipresence/Breath, then that includes any opposition in this realm. I prefer to turn in the direction of compassion, no matter the arrows and keep moving however imperfectly I move.

My question: why would someone focus energy on destruction? There's too much to do here.

Is it a symptom of the age that words are casual? Do blogs imply casual intimacy?

Early on I was asked to review another native woman’s chapbook of poetry. I honestly reviewed the book, emphasized strengths, and did not labor the weaknesses. After the review came out, in a small magazine, I was attending a large, first-of-its kind gathering of “Third World” writers in California. A voice found me from the crowd at the reception:

"_______ wants to meet you.” There's no mistaking the wisdom of the stomach. It rocked and rolled. Then there she was, the poet, all six feet of her, a big woman, arms folded across her chest. "I wanted to kill you." I made quick note that I wouldn’t stand a chance in a free-for-all, instead, I maneuvered coffee in a nearby restaurant. She began calling me for advice, often the calls turned to accusation of crimes by others. Ten years after our meeting we attended a dinner of native and black women writers in a restaurant in Montreal. Audre and I sat across from each other. See, this is what we dreamed: Native and black women eating and speaking together. The poet kept drinking, then stood up and made a speech denouncing me. She said I wrote the only bad review ever of her writing. Then she kept going, against others. Recently I reread the review. I was surprised to note it was actually generous; there were no barbs. I have not seen the poet in years. She has a huge gift, and she is haunted.

I did begin to question the intent of many reviews, and why many aggressive reviewers feel that it is their place to protect the field from mediocrity with their astute and often nasty observations. I say, acknowledge that which moves and accomplishes. Don’t speak of anything that doesn’t. I don’t review. I am better at the saxophone than reviewing. Yet, we need reviewers. How many books of poetry were published last year? How many of those worthy of review were reviewed?

Aggressive and punitive reviewers play to an audience more than to the text. Many audiences get a hit off of vicious and sensationalistic behavior, in print or performance. Cheap thrills are easy, but not so cheap. I walked out of a Hunter S. Thompson performance. He was late and terribly drunk when he finally made it to the stage. The packed house of Midwestern college students grew rowdier as we waited. When he finally staggered on stage, crowd members taunted him for a reaction; he bit. It was ugly. I left.

I’ve always admired the poetry of Charles Bukowski. No, this isn’t a PC revelation. Bukowski was/is irreverent and his observations were often misogynistic. His work is uneven, tends to maudlin indulgence, yet through his intimate supplications, he knew absolutely that he depended on the power of women. I responded to his form of questioning God. And I tend to give slack more easily if a voice is genuine. Much poetry published these days is shining tight with technique, but rings empty. I never saw Bukowski perform, but have seen footage. The audience howled back and encouraged his drunken act.

Both Bukowski and Thompson were taken over by the alcohol spirit. That spirit is attractive, will dance with you, give you confidence, will help you fly. It is similar to being taken over by vision, by words, by the muse of poetry. We do not create on our own. And then what happens when the mask is off, when the sun comes up and all your companions have left? Poetry must stand on its own two feet, between worlds. It wasn’t Bukowski or Thompson starring in their performances, it was the alcohol spirit.

I’m reading everything the Maori writer, Patricia Grace has written. Here’s a passage from Tu, her novel about war:

“Off I ran, out of the iron gates and away to war.”

“And it was the thousand eyes that made the color of his skin a shame, that made him catch his breath before going into the greengrocers or getting on a bus, that made him unable to go into a shop without buying something. It was the thousand eyes and the thoughts that went behind him that halted him."

And from a short story in the collection, The Sky People:

“It was instinct that caused Earth to tuck these bright things away. Neither she nor Sky realised at the time that their children could become their enemies, or they themselves could be enslaved…But later they began to ask themselves where they’d gone wrong. Was it because of their separation that these children had become so grasping, so out of control? Had Sky been too distant? Had Earth been too over-compensating? What could they have done about it anyway? Was it all a question of light?”

And there’s more... She is an exquisite storyteller. The stories always depart and return to the intimacy of home, of family, though the characters, and space might travel the multiplicity of time.

We always return home, even if we are in constant motion away from home. I am in the middle of studying Mvskoke tribal music forms, the blues and jazz and trying to figure out a crossroads. I am, just as my people are, a crossroads of these forms. America is a crossroads of these forms. What makes a challenge in creating new songs is that in the Mvskoke traditional (non-Christian) song forms women don’t sing. So I remake the form so it’s mine. Isn’t this what Adrienne Rich did when she left the harbor of the patriarchy of form and rhyme? And I am indebted Danny Lopez, the Tohono O’odham writer who made his own song forms. The traditional ones come with their rules, for their own protection as well as for the protection of the listener.

Here’s a song, from the poem, “Morning Song” translated into Mvksoke, with the help of Ted Isham and Rosemary McCombs Maxey:

Morning Song

© Joy Harjo

Hvt-hv-yvt-kē
e-kv-nv em-mv-he-ri-ces

Hvt-hv-yvt-kē
e-kv-nv em-mv-he-ri-ces
v-ker-ric-kv e-to-kv-let.

Hvt-hv-yvt-kat te-lv-cet v-cum-kes.
He-ru-sat mvo e-to-ho-cet.

'Po-fvn-kv 'ra-fun' we-cah-lē sa-cum-kvt-os.
Ce-pen-kvh-le-kos
Ce-pen-kvh-le-kos

The red dawn is now is rearranging the earth
Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty

Each sunrise a link on the ladder

Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty

The ladder the backbone of shimmering deity
Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty

Child stirring in the web of your mother
Don’t be afraid
Old man turning to walk through the door

Don’t be afraid
Do not be afraid.

Hvt-hv-yvt-kē
e-kv-nv em-mv-he-ri-ces
v-ker-ric-kv e-to-kv-let.
E-to-go-let
He-ru-sat mvo e-to-ho-cet.

Hvt-hv-yvt-kat te-lv-cet
v-cum-ke

Joy Harjo June 6, 2007 Honolulu