Fire in the belly of a one-man relief army
in Gatlinburg. Fire in the wounds of the locals
who fled the burning hills and hollers
of those Tennessee towns. Fire won’t ask you
who you voted for before it consumes
everything you knew.
Fire in the words of the digital
battleground. Civility and friendships charred
among the remains. Fire on the tongue
of a construction worker singing folk
songs in Detroit while nobody knew
but for the whole country of South Africa
and they turned him into an Anti-Apartheid
icon. Fire in the sheets of a bed-in
lasting two weeks. Fire in every syllable of a civil
rights savior—come to Memphis to stand
with the sanitation workers. Fire in the thin bones
of a liberator making his own salt from the sea,
in the restless hands of a nun in Calcutta, in the
fire dancer’s visions of co-mingling
cultures. Creating a world without collisions.
Fire in the feat of the marching protestors
on Fifth Avenue, building their tower
of song for the South Shore social
workers and teachers, singers and Salutatorians.
Marine Biologists too late to save
the washed up whale. Chants for the word
mavens telling it slant. Fire in the third chakra
on a yoga mat in Killington
channeling the chi, the life force—balancing
the breath into hope.
Joy Harjo (b 1951), Mvskoke (Creek) Poet, Musician, author and key player in the second wave of the Native Merican Renaissance (literary efflorescence)
“Because of the fear monster infecting this country, I have been asked for this poem, this song. Feel free to use it, record it, and share. Please give credit. This poem came when I absolutely needed it. I was young and nearly destroyed by fear. I almost didn’t make it to twenty-three. This poem was given to me to share.” —Joy Harjo
Fear Poem, or I Give You Back
I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.
You are not my blood anymore.
I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.
I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.
I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you
I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.
to be loved, to be loved, fear.
Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.
I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won’t hold you in my hands.
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart
But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.
“…With a double shot of heart, beauty, freedom, peace and grace that blends traditional Native rhythms and singing with jazz, rock, blues and hip-hip,
Harjo is right at the top of the best contemporary American poetry and music artists.”
—Thomas Rain Crow, The Bloomsbury Review
On her Facebook page, Joy invited us to share this work on our sites (thanks, Michael Dickel) and we’ve taken her up on it, a poem for our times. Let us all give back the fear.
What can he “resist” he’s just a feeble man
Who leers at all the ladies, big & small?
Tall or short, a scoundrel he likes them all.
—He quit smoking, but like a boomerang
He returns again and again because,
Because he enjoys each long pungent, kiss
The taste of cyanide burning his lips
That gamble of not pulling the short straws.
What can he “resist” he’s just a feeble man
Down the pub, necks as many as he can
He’s what many might call a journeyman,
Downloads his mug all over Instagram
Thinks he’s the bee’s knees from a bygone age.
A likeable chap some mothers might say
But won’t settle down, gone too far astray
His looks are fading, longings disengage.
What can he “resist”, on the homeless list?
Not those free soup kitchen meals, a blanket
Not those coins tossed aside on his jacket
Nor the knife at his throat, where men subsist.
What can he “resist” he’s just an ex-serviceman
Done his best for queen & country, one time!
—Now praying to survive the wintertime
Find a warm bed, quit smoking, drink his last Dram.
Even the regal oak,
the mightiest tree
in this forest,
can be felled
by a man,
if he has enough friends or
he’s resolute or arrogant enough
to keep hacking away
until the erstwhile acorn
cries out in its wrenching
death song and,
like its
autumn
leaf,
drops.
But the simple weed
bent by wind,
starved for food and water,
cut off at its knees,
pulled from its home,
even poisoned, still
manages to come back
to stand up to
he who can best
the majestic oak,
vexing Man until
he might drop
like the
autumn
leaf.
Be the weed.
A bit of verse that reminds us to always question authority, always stand up for your rights, always, as the Quakers say, speak truth to power. As individuals or group, we have more dominion and strength than you might think.
Hovering above
the aft balcony
flocks of seabirds
pillage leftovers
from buffets
of excess.
Bobbing in the
cruise ship’s wake,
brown against
the blue-green Aegean,
Greeks fish them out.
Out of hailing distance
out of time,
brown turns to purple
in the setting sun,
leaving a bruise
on the night sea.
Makes me wonder
how bad life
must have been
to risk life and limb,
and into the unknown,
flee.
Games turn into battles evils we mean to end wars Shell shocked children wonder what all the fighting’s for
Stressed out combatants suffering from PTSD can’t stop being afraid of every bend in the road potentially paved with IEDs.
Our tongue thick with violence subliminal conquest Imperialism far less vestigial than we care to admit Video games groom young minds with decimation just for the fun of it
Subjugation the flip side of liberation’s coin obliterated histories assimilated refugees cultures natural resources purloined
Change we manage to take to the World Bank bargain basement Real Estate at favorable interest rates Denial Willful Amnesia when propaganda and national interests conflate
Developing markets courtesy of munitions spent at the cost of lives populations displaced a global economy A worldwide disgrace.
This is not a lullaby,
a song to soothe you
when you can’t help
but cry.
This is a dirge,
background music
for when your worst nightmares
and reality merge.
This is the quickening
of your pulse
when you watch
all your dreams crumble
into dust.
Your bedrock fall beneath you,
ironclad agreements,
in time-lapse suddenness,
rust.
Because you put
your faith,
not in man,
but in the care of
the faithless,
a vulpine trickster
talking out of
both sides of his mouth,
bombastic claims
that are baseless.
Completely ignorant of
Chivalric code,
a Knight Errant
chasing windmills
in Berserker mode.
This is the answer
to the unasked question,
“WHY?”
Having no one
but yourself to blame,
don’t know,
don’t care.
This is not a Lullaby.
chopped and chewed and swallowed—
down we go
on eternity’s throat,
one bite of salty clay after another
to be recycled
and become the burnt sienna skies
of some obscure tomorrow.
fate chimes its’ eyelashes
like some odalisque its’ coin belt—
the boatman’s pockets are always full
with tradition’s eye seals.
we are but stairs
for humanity’s pretended
e-volution,
we circle meanings
like eagles circle unseen angels
up-above,
without ever touching them,
we live to ignore
and ignore to learn
the reason why history is repeating—
and talking tall
we show our real essence—
the spoiled mud flowing in our veins
keeps bringing bitter smiles
on god’s resigned mouth:
ever non-grown-ups, these earthlings…
As the planet rages we cry for peace
a river of tears falls from confused hearts
currents of longing swirl craving a past
when sureties ruled both Earth and Hearth.
Men rose slowly on merit and women bloomed
respect was the mantra of man and boy
noblesse oblige the refrain of the high
blessed by success, status among his peers,
he dreamed of helping those who suffered
sought peace in workplace or governance
spoke with discernment, sensitivity, insight
standing between Wisdom’s open hand.
As war rages, regimes rise and break
mirroring breakers crashing on shores
leaders rattle sabres of spleen or silence
or echo the calls of confused birds;
while the people follow the loudest call
they long for the leader who offers acumen
respect, care, judgement, in word and deed
a taste to the Earth of peace and serenity.
Where is the Arthur heading his brave table
or Minerva dispensing her wisdom wide
will they rise to rule and dry tears that drown
both the planet and peoples who suffer now?
i’ll have none of that, you see
none of the exclusivity of clubs
with their business of foundations,
divisions and the self-satisfied
whole-hearted embrace of conceits,
moth-eaten and self-righteous,
the mythopoeic and parabolic
spelled by men into stone and dogma,
the collision of sacred language with
parochialism and that left-over tribalism
exploding into disdain and violence . . . how is it that vision ends and lunacy begins?
lead me instead to that inchoate space,
between saint and sanctity, soul and spirit
bequeath me into the great yawning
where my mother thrives as Khoas unquelled
where my father shines dressed in anarchy and
my sister sips tears from the wan cheeks of sages, . . . . . let us begin again
The BeZine 