Monday, October 10, 2016

Columbus Truths: Poetry Encore Blog & NDN Pride #IndigenousPeoplesDay




An encore blog of AntiColunbus Day poetry, but first, the grace that is Joy Harjo to Celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day. 
#IPD 
This is My Heart
This is my heart. It is a good heart. 
Bones and a membrane of mist and fire
are the woven cover.
When we make love in the flower world
my heart is close enough to sing
to yours in a language that has no use
for clumsy human words.

My head, is a good head, but it is a hard head
and it wirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of this singing, it asks
and if there is a source why can’t I see it
right here, right now
as real as these hands hammering
the world together
with nails and sinew?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, “come here forgetful one.”
And we sit together with a lilt of small winds
who rattle the scrub oak.
We cook a little something
to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey
then a sip of something sweet
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, says my heart.
Put your head here.
It is a good thing, says my soul.


Columbus' Footprints







Footprints
look the same
in the light
of bright
1000 year old
ponts of white
in the darkening womb
of the universe.
Here on the sand,
in ocean wooded
streams of
pale worn
ghostly mirrored
oceans of darkness
I see the impressiom
upon the landscape
of five toes
a heel
and the detailed
lines of skin
drawn taught 
across sinew
bones
and chips
of bright
red
blood.
Like a depression
lines are drawn
in the space
between
hand 
and
flesh.
Between 
foot and
fetish.
I touch the place
his hand rested.
The smooth
brown
well worn
places
my lover's hand
aches to own.
Places his fingertips
in the imbedded lines
of feet
in the sand.
Water rises
like lace spread
across in delicate
breath
and
fragile.
Its beauty
remains briefly.
It covers the 
remnant of a 
man's foot
fills up quickly
its white, clear
like glass movements
fade and take with
it
the memory
of the foot
like my body
remembers
his touch
like the crackling
electric sparkles
and water
across my back
the footsteps
trail embedded
in my mind.
This grandmother---
this land---
remembers his touch
and those thereafter.
And the ocean
is that of her
tears
cried on this trail.
We were the first,
I remind him,
my voice fades 
into the soft 
white part
of his hands.
I touch the imprint
and in my memory
where I hold it in my body,
the footprints 
across the 
Trail of Tears
look the same
as the imprint tonight
500 years later.
The landscape does not forget.
The bruises fade
but the body
knows every inch,
every line
of pain
covered with lace, velvet, wood
and glass
This is the Box Columbus Brought
For Our Indigenous Brothers and Sisters #IPD











Like a Pandora for the Americas
Where sea meets land arriving
Each foot fall tattooing yakni
With genocide and genetic memory.

This is the box Columbus brought
Rape of our Mothers, sisters, daughters
Slavery of fathers, brothers, sons.
Crosses erected in white sands of
Guanahani throwing shadows
From Port au Prince to Machu Picchu,
Nanih Waiya to Denali.

This is the box Columbus brought
Christian’s Romanus Pontifex rippling
Across centuries becoming Manifest Destiny,
Doctrine of Discovery, carrying gun and sword
Bring Mystic and Appalachee Massacres,
Natchez Revolt, Sand Creek and Dakota 38,  
Removal, Termination and Relocation.

In this box Columbus brought
“Kill the Indian Save the Man”
Tongues cut out tripping over
Flat square words—generations
Reaching for torn languages.
Bonju ḉa y na? Halito chim achukma?

In this box Columbus brought
Settler indoctrinating diseases of
Mind and body infecting spirit and blood
Creating diabetes, autoimmune, and HIV—
Factionalism, BQ, rez vs urban, light vs dark,
And borders that were never there.

Boxes and borders death and bodies broken
And what thanks are we given for
Aspirin, Kafi, Syringes, Methane torches/
Natural Gas harvesting, Chaos Theory,
Freeze Drying, Endless Food supplies, and
The mother fucking number Zero—

A Holiday for a Rapist and ½ off Linens.

Since 1977 at the United Nations
To 2015 in our own back yards
From Minneapolis, Seattle, Portland,
Lawrence Kansas, South Dakota,
St. Paul, to Albuquerque

We call for Reconciliation,
Sustainability, and celebration.
Red River to Wichita’s, Tulsa to OKC
This is our land we are Okla Humma.

I am the land and
We are the rock
That broke the myth
Inside the box

That Columbus brought.

It's October 12th Somewhere
Kim Shuck © 2015
Poem link~ on Author's Facebook 









Some people die and some
Become a day a 
Street a
Church festival some people become a
Day a
Definition a punishment a
Curse that can define half of a 
Planet become a measure of time a
Measure of gold extracted from 
Melted gods or
Skimmed from the surface of 
Vivisected cultures and 
Painted onto 
Cathedrals binding 
Wrists and fingers some
People become a measure of terrible and 
Some worship at their shrines on their
Feast days for the contact high the
Proximity of a greed so wild and
Overwhelming that other people are
Wealth some
People die and 
Other people die and some cultures are peeled to 
Find the magic the 
Chairs for speaking to the dead the
Singing note that ripples the 
Sacred lake the secret of 
Eternal life the
Gold of transformation some 
People become a prayer to theft become the
God of theft
Become a mark of time a 
Change that cannot be unwoven for 
Some people it's always 
October 12th somewhere


Our Ancient World

Juanita Pahdopony © 2015


















Columbus arrives in our Ancient World
Releasing a “cataclysm of contact
Colonizing, enslaving, destroying
Calling it a ‘New World.’
Columbus, appointed hero in a whitewashed history
Petri dish for missing Native women
Modern day mascots, and issues of tribal identity.

Indigenous World, restore ecosystems
Unpollute rivers and detoxify streams
Re-present and sanctify our oral histories
Dance us back to transformational wellbeing
Celebrate our cultural ceremonies
Return our tribal languages
Indigenous World! Return us to cultural magnificence.

‘cataclysm of contact’ – David W. Penny (2004) 


Sometimes in the Fall of the Year
    Linda Rodriguez ©2015















Sometimes in the fall of the year,

men hit landfall

accidentally, men
who might as well be 
ravening beasts
for they do more ravening 
than any natural animals 
who would be ashamed
to make welcoming people into slaves,
rape women and girls before killing,
set war dogs on naked unarmed 
prisoners just for fun,
for the vicious excitement,
the sense of power.


Power, it’s always all about
power—and gold and sex and land
and power. Slavery
in the name of Catholic Christ
and empire. Land, millions of miles,
because no one else discovered
it, not even the millions living on it.
With a wave of a papal pen,
negate lives of nations, 
make them resources like beaver,
buffalo, bear.
Solve inconvenient death 
rates by ravaging
a different continent. 
Looting Africa means no more
use for rebellious Natives.
Wipe them out.
Clear the continent
from sea to shining
and years later
celebrate
with sales and parades.


Sometimes in the fall of the year,

I grow so tired

of anger and tears,
the bitter stink of history.



La Malinche 
Carmen Tafolla ©1978 Canto al Pueblo: Anthology of Experiences by Texas



























Yo soy la Malinche.

My people called me Malintzín Tenepal

the Spaniards called me Doña Marina


I came to be known as Malinche

and Malinche came to mean traitor.


they called me—chingada

Chingada.

(Ha— ¡Chingada! ¡Screwed!)

Of noble ancestry, for whatever that means,

I was sold into slavery by MY ROYAL FAMILY—so

that my brother could get my inheritance.

. . . And then the omens began—a god, a new civilization,

the downfall of our empire.

And you came.
My dear Hernán Cortés, to share your “civilization”
—to play a god, ... and I began to dream . . . 
I saw
and I acted.


I saw our world

And I saw yours

And I saw—
another.


And yes—I helped you—against Emperor Moctezuma

Xocoyotzín himself.

I became Interpreter, Advisor, and lover.
They could not imagine me dealing on a level
with you—so they said I was raped, used,
chingada
¡Chingada!


But I saw our world

and your world

and another.

No one else could see

Beyond one world, none existed.

And you yourself cried the night
the city burned
and burned at your orders.
The most beautiful city on earth
in flames.
You cried broken tears the night you saw
your destruction.


My homeland ached within me

(but I saw another).


Mother world

a world yet to be born.

And our child was born ...
and I was immortalized Chingada!


Years later, you took away my child (my sweet

mestizo new world child)

to raise him in your world
You still didn’t see.
You still didn’t see. 
And history would call me
Chingada.


But Chingada I was not.

Not tricked, not screwed, not traitor.

For I was not traitor to myself—
I saw a dream
and I reached it. 
Another world………
la raza.
La raaaaa-zaaaaa . . .

Colonization Reflection
John D. Berry ©2015 

Bonita Andulasia, Sadly home, Of Cristóbal Colón, Bringer of 500 years of, Grief and tears, Colón describes you, Pretty well, Slaver, Exploiter, Discoverer of, The known. See the Cathedrals, In Spain, And you know, Whose blood covered gold, Adorns those altars, Whose silver candlesticks, Light their savior, Who certainly, Never, Saved any of us, From ‘The Conquest’, Or ‘The Discovery’. Do not speak, Of Civilization, To us, We had cities, When you still, Painted yourselves blue, And ran howling, From Rome, They had more mercy, On you and your church, Than they should have, Conquistadores. Your boats, Were never the first, If we practiced, Your ‘right of discovery’, You would speak, Some other language, And have, Different hearts, Perhaps even, Native ones, If we even let you, Keep them. Instead, You called California, Nueva España, As though, No one was here, Your Missions, Used our bones, In the Walls; And your Savior, Must be deaf, To not hear our cries, Or burn you in Hell. You have, Much penance, To perform yet, Before your God, Who hangs, On Rome’s cross, Symbol of, The Four directions, Old before, You ever showed us, Civilization. John D. Berry, Berkeley CA


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