We must not say no to ourselves
When there is a greater deed to do,
If it is not imperative that we should.
We must not say can’t
But we never should really believe that we can’t
Whenever it is for our necessity good.
We must not synchronize with anything less than art-wise
dignity,
It is either that we are natural-constructive-achievers
Or something less than the natural self.
The rendezvous time is here
I see a prophesy:
Across the thunder bridge of time
We rush with lightnin’ feet
To join hands with those,
THE FRIENDS OF SKILL,
Who truly say and truly do.
-Sun Ra
Away Games
by David Berman
So often it’s the unhappy little sounds
city-dwellers make when they’re waiting in line
that sends half of a mind into these
green and black mountain towns
where it’s always January inside the furniture
and even the life of a mushroom
can be classified as a performance
to the steady minds that train in frozen parlors
until they’re finally able to recall
each momentary phase of a candleflame
as a distinct historical object.
Unlike the larger urban areas,
where saxophone solos appear
as often and unexpectedly
as the devil in Polish fiction,
and where one’s upstairs neighbor
may in fact publish a private newsletter
headlined “Fighting to Get Started Tonight About 8 PM”,
these little towns have no bothersome folklore,
no special customs, and no traditional songs,
unless you count
the creak of adjoining matter.
These are places where people treat each other with respect.
No one pressures anyone else to dance,
offers unwanted magazine tips
on caring for the swamp-flower of materialism
or tries to say hello to you
through a mouthful of blood.
IV (from To Cross This Distance)
by Jamie Saenz
The immense malaise cast by shadows, the melancholic visions surging from the night,
everything terrifying, everything cruel, that without reason, that without name,
one has to take it, who knows why.
If you have nothing to eat but garbage, don’t say a word.
If the garbage makes you sick, don’t say a word.
If they cut off your feet, if they boil your hands, if your tongue rots, if your spine splits in two, if your soul fines down to nothing, don’t say a word.
If they poison you, don’t say a word, even if your bowels slide from your mouth and your hair stands straight up; even if your eyes well with blood, don’t say a word.
If you feel good, don’t feel good. If you fall behind, don’t fall behind. If you die,
don’t die. If you’re sad, don’t be sad. Don’t say a word.
Living is hard; it’s hard work not to say a word.
Putting up with people without saying a word is tough.
It’s very hard—inasmuch as they expect to be understood without saying a word—
to understand people without saying a word.
It’s terribly difficult yet very easy to be a decent person;
the truly difficult thing is not to say a word.
Remember
by Joy Harjo
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.
For Keeps
by Joy Harjo
Sun makes the day new.
Tiny green plants emerge from earth.
Birds are singing the sky into place.
There is nowhere else I want to be but here.
I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will take us.
We gallop into a warm, southern wind.
I link my legs to yours and we ride together,
Toward the ancient encampment of our relatives.
Where have you been? they ask.
And what has taken you so long?
That night after eating, singing, and dancing
We lay together under the stars.
We know ourselves to be part of mystery.
It is unspeakable.
It is everlasting.
It is for keeps.