More Joy Harjo

I love Joy Harjo’s work so much. Yesterday’s piece prompted me to read some more of her poems, and they are just exquisite. I decided to post this one today, but I heartily recommend you go look up more of her work on your own. Her work is clear-eyed and forthright and beautiful. Enjoy.

When the World As We Knew It Ended
by Joy Harjo

We were dreaming on an occupied island at the farthest edge
of a trembling nation when it went down

Two towers rose up from the east island of commerce and touched
the sky. Men walked on the moon. Oil was sucked dry
by two brothers. Then it went down. Swallowed
by a fire dragon, by oil and fear.
Eaten whole.

It was coming.

We had been watching since the eve of the missionaries in their
long and solemn clothes, to see what would happen.

We saw it
from the kitchen window over the sink
as we made coffee, cooked rice and
potatoes, enough for an army.

We saw it all, as we changed diapers and fed
the babies. We saw it,
through the branches
of the knowledgeable tree
through the snags of stars, through
the sun and storms from our knees
as we bathed and washed
the floors.

The conference of the birds warned us, as they flew over
destroyers in the harbor, parked there since the first takeover.
It was by their song and talk we knew when to rise
when to look out the window
to the commotion going on–
the magnetic field thrown off by grief.

We heard it.
The racket in every corner of the world. As
the hunger for war rose up in those who would steal to be president
to be king or emperor, to own the trees, stones, and everything
else that moved about the earth, inside the earth
and above it.

We knew it was coming, tasted the winds who gathered intelligence
from each leaf and flower, from every mountain, sea
and desert, from every prayer and song all over this tiny universe
floating in the skies of infinite
being.

And then it was over, this world we had grown to love
for its sweet grasses, for the many-colored horses
and fishes, for the shimmering possibilities
while dreaming.

But then there were the seeds to plant and the babies
who needed milk and comforting, and someone
picked up a guitar or ukulele from the rubble

and began to sing about the light flutter
the kick beneath the skin of the earth
we felt there, beneath us

a warm animal
a song being born between the legs of her,
a poem.

Morning Song

My favorite pre-Easter poem is “What the Thunder Said” from TS Eliot’s The Waste Land. The search for water in a barren place resonates with my understanding of the Savior and His impact in my life. Not everyone reads it that way, of course, but I do. Unfortunately, it’s far too long a piece for me to post here (though that it hasn’t stopped me before), so here is a post about something entirely different, not related to Easter at all.

Morning Song
by Joy Harjo

The red dawn now is rearranging the earth
Thought by thought
Beauty by beauty
Each sunrise a link in the ladder
The ladder the backbone
Of shimmering deity
Child stirring in the web of your mother
Do no be afraid
Old man turning to walk through the door
Do not be afraid