離 騷
li sao
Future in the Past
離 騷 li sao |
Lady Sun is soon to rise as from her bath
refreshed she comes to greet her grandson Hiro
and Dai Nihon, great land of her ascension.
Her mirror hides behind the fine silk curtain
in the Naiku, her inner shrine at Ise,
raised on twenty-eight naked cypress piles,
under a row of ten round smooth roof timbers,
encircled by four fences, laid out in squares
and entered through twin torii, sacred gateways
to the divine within, for the pure of heart.
The pathway leading to Amaterasu
Omikami’s house is flanked on either side
by huge cryptomerias whose branches point
beyond Uji bridge that crosses the Isuzu,
beckoning in after hands wash and mouths rinse.
The purest architecture of Yamato
rebuilt with ancient care every twenty years;
the present moving through the old Mikado.
Hiro comes, near the close of the year of horse,
in dim predawn light, full of unspoken doubts,
to commune before the goddess’ bronze mirror.
He stands in awe: the temple precinct shimmers
with centuries of unseen ghosts of worship,
of careful custody by his ancestors—
the virgin daughters of emperors long past 25
in white silk kimonos preserving the way
of the divine in union with the fleeting.
The scene evokes remotest antiquity,
of a time when the granary was divine,
a time when harvest and hearth were vocations
not of time, but of union with the timeless.
Times that Hiro had but little time for now,
his island country at war with the world—
and worse, with America, the mighty land
of western freedom. One long, full year ago,
right at the end of the year of the serpent,
his generals had air-bombed Pearl Harbor,
launching a war he wasn’t sure they could win.
And now, his whole people kill themselves for him
whom they take for a god, the son of a god,
head of a nation destined to rule all
by virtue of its divine descent. But he
was sure he was but human, all-too-human,
unable to control his own counselors,
ministers, secretaries and officers—
decisions were not his but in appearance.
Hadn’t he urged Tojo many months ago
to lose no opportunity to make peace,
and not to prolong a war without purpose
that would only make the people suffer more? 50
And the losses kept piling up, all year long—
the Marshall and Gilbert Island reprisals,
the air-raid of Tokyo in early springtime,
the summer losses at Midway, the battles
of the Solomon Islands all through the fall.
How long could his armies hold back the nearing
tsunami of global force out of the east?
If he was divine, why were his fervent prayers
for peace to Amaterasu still ignored?
In his mind he tumbled through the legacies
back and down the byways of his dynasty
seeking in the legends and the stories, as
he prayed the goddess intervene to save them,
for the key to averting sheer destruction.
His father Taisho, dead at his accession,
whose father Meiji led Japan to greatness
after emperor Komei’s failure to break
the Tokagawa shoguns’ hold in Edo. . .
then back, before the southern barbarians
had beached and brought the miracle of muskets,
he thought of Go-Daigo and the great schism
between Jimyoin and Daikakuji factions—
Go-Saga favored his son Kameyama
over his older son Go-Fukakusa,
and so the imperial family branched 75
into rival seats of power; however,
Kameyama repulsed a huge Mongol horde,
then his son, Go-Uda, did so once again
when Kublai Khan’s armada was destroyed by
kamikaze, a typhoon of wind divine—
then back through centuries more of court romance
playing the incessant game of sovereignty
dying for the royal jewel and the sword
by turns, of intrigue and of abdication,
plottings and revenge by puppeteers of boys,
when emperors retired young to practice
power behind the scenes as Zen Buddhist priests.
The long preeminent Fujiwara clan
kept the graceful court in subtle refinement
as Chinese ways were forged into Nihongo
in Heian and, before that, in great Nara
where the glow of T’ang was felt in arts and ways,
from script and taxes to Buddha and K’ung Fu.
Then quickly back through the dark prehistory
into the realm of culture heroes and war gods,
giants, saviors from plague, and founders of rites,
when finally he reached the founder Jimmu
who marched along the shore from far Kyushu
and pacified the heartland of Yamato
some twenty-six hundred and two years ago; 100
and still his tomb is seen near Mt. Unebi.
And his ancestor, Ninigi, the goddess’
grandson, received the sacred regalia,
one of which, the mirror, is interred right here.
This contemplation of genealogy,
whereby Hiro confirmed his deep foundation,
eased his mind a bit; even if his status
as a god could not be counted on, he still
felt rooted in a durable tradition. . .
just maybe his great race would prevail again.
Hiro bows in awe, calm-hearted.
Now the day
comes up, a chrysanthemum upon the eyes
of morning.
Out at sea, fire in the sky,
is its omen hopeful or of dread?
Who knows?
The stars have fled before the goddess’ rising.
On board the warship U.S.S. Augusta,
westward transantlantic bound for Washington,
President Truman was finishing his lunch
when an officer approached with a dispatch.
Truman reads it and his face beams with delight,
for all his terror dissolved into the light
of full triumph. All his gambles had paid off.
Exalted he sits, contemplating his fate,
recalling his shrewd designs pulled off of late.
Seated round a table round, world leaders— 125
lately made supreme by suicide of that
foul genocidal imp who, in the name of
racial purity, befouled all Europe’s folk
with reeking memory of Auschwitz, Bergen-
Belsen, Dachau, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen,
Kulmhof, Sobibor, Belzec, and Treblinka,
six million faces vanished into gas clouds
as though no one would notice ghosted ghettos—
hold high council in Potsdam’s polluted air.
Outside, the rubble of Allied air raids lies
awaiting resurrection. Axis powers-
that-were hand their guns to powers-now-to-be.
Here the Big Three have swarmed to parcel the globe
amongst themselves, over teas, wines, and dinners,
while armies frozen on the borders hungry
wither away their youth awaiting orders
to march, to fire, to bathe new lands in blood.
At center-table, three kid-size flags trisect
the table: the stars and stripes in red, white, blue,
the Union Jack, his Majesty’s grand ensign,
and hammer and sickle fixed on red background.
Two ministers and aides sit at either hand
of each of the leaders, fifteen men in all;
smoke and murmurs fill the room, clearing of throats,
and the creak of chairs; scribbled scripts and ashtrays 150
lie at hand, word weapons, out on the table.
After a day of tough negotiations,
in which the Polish delegates were rebuffed
and told their border would be settled later,
the chairman of the conference Harry Truman—
once a pig farmer back in Independence,
Missouri, who once served the local big boss
of the Democratic Party in Jackson
County, whose backing guaranteed the ballots,
he now stood face to face with world titans
engineering the chance to drop the big one
that would prove, once and for all, he was a man—
adjusts his spectacles and ends the session.
As planned, he rises and approaches Stalin
with nonchalance, without his interpreter,
and casually tells him “we have a new
weapon of unusual destructive force.”
Uncle Joe, Generalissimo Stalin—
the Georgian-born abrek (dark Tariel’s land,
Medea’s Colchis, rack of Prometheus),
the son of a drunken cobbler of Gori,
abused and hungry, ground down by poverty,
love beaten out of him, forged into hatred
incarnate in his disfigured left elbow,
inciter of riots, face of pseudonyms, 175
Koba, David, Soso, ‘Leopard’, or Stalin,
a man whose heart had frozen in the Arctic
wasteland of Siberia, whose initials
had checked by now the names of tens of thousands
of traitors on deathlists signed over breakfast—
heard the President through his interpreter
and did not flinch, he held his smile and said:
“Tell him, I’m glad to hear it, and that I hope
they will make good use of it against the Japs.”
Truman, giddy with the bluff, then goes outside
to tell the waiting Prime Minister the ruse.
“How did it go?” pudgy Churchill inquired
as he puffed on a six-inch Cuban cigar,
a man whose hours in power were numbered
(such fickle forces are fortune and favor)
but who was still eager for dinner and drinks—
Churchill wanted nothing more than for Russia
to never get a hold on the atomic
weapon by which he and the United States
would rebuild Britain’s ruined world power,
and so he had rambled, as an old man will,
at every session about each touchy point,
Italy, Germany’s navy, Poland’s place,
embittering his peers against each other—
a cold whisky would be nice right now, he thought. 200
“He never asked a question,” Truman replied.
So ended the Big Three’s week of vital talks.
Little did they know what Stalin knew by now
about the atomic bomb, since a crafty
fox had been snatching hens from Los Alamos
and handing them off to Russia free of charge,
so great was Klaus Fuchs’ devotion to the cause
of sharing modern science with the Party.
So all were satisfied with this poker game.
Truman could claim he was an honest ally:
he had indeed told Stalin about the bomb.
He and Churchill believed they had deceived him.
Klaus Fuchs had helped Stalin hoodwink both of them.
Churchill had divided Truman and Stalin.
So the Cold War nuclear arms race began.
Japan’s pleas for surrender would be ignored.
“Lull them to sleep,” Stalin said. Truman agreed.
The Potsdam Declaration sealed their fate.
Mokusatsu was difficult to translate.
But it made no difference anyway because
the bomb was signed and sealed, ready to drop
before the declaration; the money spent
on Trinity insured its revelation.
Let’s just say, August sixth, nineteen forty five
loosed the sixth seal of the Apocalypse, 225
the universal hush and fear of falling
Thermonuclear Holocaust, the horror
of the Twentieth Century of our Lord.
The view from ground zero was a goddamn hell.
Just the thought of versifying this foul scene
makes the teller feel dirty, sick, obscene.
Clouds of vaporized human flesh, the shadows
of former life etched by the fire on the walls—
who could, or possibly want, to tell it all?
Even the most war-hardened of officers,
inured to grisly death by endless trench days,
would double over and vomit through his tears
or, hearing the miserable screams unceasing
and seeing the chars of living death they flew from,
try to tear his ears off, rip his blurred eyes out
in vain.
In vain the bomb was a huge success,
in vain had Truman leveled Hiroshima:
the pacifist still wanted peace, bomb or no
bomb, the warmongers still clambered after war.
Three days later they leveled Nagasaki.
The ‘Fat Man’ had a heart of plutonium,
a volatile embodiment of pure rage.
The sad fact of exegesis we must face
is that the bomb did not even end the war.
The Japanese were trying to surrender 250
before Enola Gay took to the skyways.
It also sparked off the nuclear arms race,
the frigid, Sisypheanly cold Cold War
that gave its children feverish nightmare chills.
(But hush, my soul, and go on with the story.)
In Hiroshima dawn’s rose was brilliant blue.
It’s August, when the lotus blooms on pools
float like Shinto hearts pure and bright with kami,
spirits numinous whose awe stills every place.
The war effort had ravaged social order.
School children gathered rusty nails, tiles,
and wood shingles from the rubble of air raids.
Many townsfolk had evacuated town,
and fire lanes were torn through paper houses.
But, for all that, morning came as usual.
Mother’s fed their babies, fathers bid goodbye
to family and set out to factories
of harakiri. An early raid siren
had given way to the ‘All Clear’ in response.
At eight-sixteen a.m. a star exploded
eighteen-hundred feet above a hospital
in downtown Hiroshima. A flash of light,
half as hot as the boiling solar surface,
evaporated everything in its wake,
and in a millisecond, quicker than thought, 275
a raging fireball killed tens of thousands
of souls, then smoke, a massive mushroom pillar
shot up the sky, fiery white at the core,
liquidating the hopes and dreams of thousands,
liquefying sand on Ota’s river banks,
rippling earth like water in a spheric wake,
rolling thunder through the fiber of faces,
and all went black, insensate, blacker than night.
The fires raged, and dazed survivors straggled
to their senses, tried to make sense of the pain,
tried to feel their limbs, struggled to choke down
gulps of air, felt their skin slough off like peels.
Brains numb in agony gagged on the real—
this must be some Buddhist hell, some scathing dream—
but no, no dream could scream so loud to wake up,
got to get water, cool down, find a drink.
So they swarm the river, but not to cross it,
for there is no yonder shore beyond the flames,
but cower in boats as bodies float around
clogging the waterway, and the fallout fell,
a dusty black rain of nuclear ruin—
fallout that killed up to two hundred thousand
by the end of that long year of the rooster.
Bodies of ash, with spirits turned to shadow,
walk the red streets of the city of the dead, 300
hair in cinders, blood baked creatures, all is burned;
families tally up their tolls of pity.
They had no clue, Tokyo had not a clue—
they didn’t confirm the horrible reports
until evening on the eighth. By then Bock’s Car
was being armed with the plutonium bomb
that would gut Nagasaki the next morning.
By then Russia had already declared war
and rushed into Manchuria, Korea,
Sakhalin, and south into the Kuriles.
Stalin couldn’t let the U.S. get the best
of the Asian spoils. He had to act fast,
before peace talks could plunder his last excuse.
In days to come, maidens of Hiroshima
would peak into mirrors and see foul monsters;
their fair skin, their beautiful pride and joy, torn
and gnarled by fire, scarred like old tree bark.
So horrified, many could not face themselves.
In years to come, Dr. Tanimoto cared
for orphans and maidens disfigured by burns.
He campaigned to get them plastic surgery,
and finally Jewish and Quaker sources
funded his dream. Twenty-five women received
operations that transformed their appearance,
grafting their hearts with hope to renew their lives. 325
When General Douglas MacArthur arrived,
Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers,
the voice of the crane had already sounded,
the Divine Emperor had told his people
the depth of their defeat, of their surrender,
and papers had been signed aboard Missouri.
Hirohito, broken by pain and anguish,
requested an audience with MacArthur.
They sat down in front of an open fire
and Hiro took full responsibility
for his people, for their conduct in the war.
Some time later, Hiro visited Ise
to inform Amaterasu of defeat,
to praise Omikami for new peaceful days.
On New Year’s Day, Hirohito spoke again
and told his people that he was not a god,
but a human symbol of their unity,
that in their will resides true sovereign power.
Their new constitution bore this fair flower:
“Aspiring sincerely to world peace
based on justice and order, the Japanese
people forever renounce war as a right
of the nation, and the threat of or use of
force in settling international disputes.”
Hiroshima today, a risen phoenix, 350
stands as a shrine to the hope for world peace.
The rusty, bombed-out shell of the dome remains
a stark reminder on the city’s skyline.
But one name of the many hapless victims
has come to stand for all her murdered children.
Sadako Sasaki was two when the bomb
threw her from the breakfast table. Her mother
fled with her and her brother to the Ota
where they sat on a boat while the fallout rained.
She seemed fine as she grew, but when she was twelve,
the fastest runner in her class, she fainted
in the schoolyard. She was rushed to Red Cross.
She fell sick, with symptoms of leukemia.
As she lay dying in her hospital bed
she held high her hopes by folding paper cranes,
fabled to live for a thousand years, and if
one folded a thousand cranes the feat would cure
any disease. Sadako made nine hundred
and sixty four cranes before she died.
The rest
her classmates folded and laid in her coffin.
Inspired by her memory, her classmates
campaigned to have a monument built for her.
Sadako now, for traveler and pilgrim,
stands with upraised arms atop Horaiyama,
Japan’s mythical mountain of paradise, 375
holding above her a golden paper crane
forever, in Hiroshima’s Park of Peace.
And children everywhere now fold paper cranes
and string them in long chains as offerings here;
Mount Horai fills with children’s fragile wishes
for health and happiness and worlds of peace.
The visitor on August sixth will feel
the tenuous existence of a culture,
how cataclysm can transform tradition
irreversibly.
And you will see the dome,
skeletal now, that once housed industrial
exhibitions—a cold symbol of this still.
You’ll see the cenotaph arch, below which lies
the names of all who have perished from the bomb.
You’ll see the mound that houses the unknown dead,
mere ashes awaiting names. And you will see
Sadako on Mt. Horai holding her crane.
The plaque on the Peace Park cenotaph reads:
REST IN PEACE. THE FAULT WILL NOT BE REPEATED.
The Children’s Monument to Sadako pleads:
THIS IS OUR CRY, OUR PRAYER: PEACE IN THE WORLD!
Today the sun shines bright on Hiroshima,
as though her fury had not been unleashed here.
You would think the human race might shine on too.
You would think there’s history after the bomb. 400
The Japanese still share their northern islands
with the Ainu people, native hunter tribes
with thick black curly hair and long shaggy beards,
whose women used to tattoo on moustaches
(a custom that has, like others, died out now).
Driven, over centuries, to Hokkaido,
the Ainu have been displaced by Russia too,
and now number around twenty-five thousand,
though in the past they were a greater nation.
Among them mountain black bears are deities
who come down from the hills to visit mortals
because they find our world so delightful.
Once in a village two brothers shared a house.
The men, skilled seal hunters, went on a hunt,
leaving their wife alone, digging up tubers
on the slopes of a solitary mountain.
As she dug up roots, a fine young man appeared
out of the forest. He had a fine black beard.
He asked for her pipe, “I will give you a smoke,”
he said. But she, her heart was pounding, dared not
take his tobacco. But she smoked from her own
and he joined her. They finished. He asked again,
again she refused, then he reached out his hand,
took her pipe and stuffed his own tobacco in.
He lit it and compelled her to take a puff. 425
Suddenly her shyness fled and he kissed her.
He helped her gather up tubers and quickly
she had a full basket. He asked her to be
his wife, and she agreed. Then they were married.
She returned to her house and her husbands came
home with a catch of seals. She was cooking
and let her sister hang the men’s wet boots up.
They feasted on seal that night with neighbors
and she refused to sleep with either husband.
Next day the men went fishing. She went out back
with a bowl of food in hand, and her husband
appeared again, beyond the eastern Nusa
whereon are hung bear skulls and willow shavings.
She gave him food. He ate and then slapped her
and she became a she-bear. He slapped himself
and turned into a he-bear. They both went off
up into the mountain.
At dusk the men came
home with a fish catch. Her sister told them all
just as she had seen it. The younger brother
fell into a rage. He set out quick in search,
with a band of men. For two, three months they searched,
until their food ran out and they disbanded.
The brother went on, hungry for six full days,
until he came to a bear’s den. There, inside,
his wife, his brother’s wife, had had two children. 450
He saw the bear-man there, lying on his back.
Enraged he cried, “Come out and fight me, bear-man!”
But the bear-man growled, “Take this box and be gone!
I give a gift in return. But if we fight,
you will die forever. Even if I die,
I will live again, quickly come back to life.
Take this box for your brother too, and be gone!”
At this the man swooned and fell into a dream
wherein the bear-man spoke and told him, “Arise,
return to the seashore, where you’ll find bear cubs.
Take them home and raise them among you as kids.
And bounty in bears and seals and salmon
will come to you in your life course unto death.
You shall wife, and your brother shall wife as well,
and you shall both have children, boys and girls,
and they will hunt and fish and have good fortune.”
So spoke the chieftain, seated round the fire,
telling the story to, about, the bear cub,
before they led him out of his holding cage.
The cub had been captured two winters ago
and brought up in the village. He has suckled
at the breast of the chieftain’s wife, his mother,
and now, midwinter, they are ready to send
the young god back to his parents in the hills.
Cold crisp air and snow thick in the willow trees 475
where the bear’s kin have come together to dance,
celebrate his sojourn, in the bear’s disguise,
back to Kamui Moshir, home of the gods.
Round the little bear’s cage the folk now gather;
the women and children sing and dance in time
to entertain his spirit, stir his ramat,
as the head Ekashi intones a yukar:
“O precious little high one, we salute you.
Listen! We nourished and raised you with great care.
Now you are grown, we send you to your parents.
When you come to them, speak well of us and tell
how kind we have been to you. Come back again,
and we will feast you again and send you off.”
They lead the god, rope-harnessed, out of his lodge,
parade him round the circle of the people
clapping excited, shooting short blunt arrows
to arouse and animate the little guest
until, quite provoked, to the delight of all,
they grab him and clamp his neck between two logs,
a man shoots a swift sharp arrow to the heart
spilling the blood, careful to catch it in cups,
and the little bear cub, their god guest, is gone.
They pass around the blood, the elders drink it
warm, smearing it into their beards, not a drop
must touch the ground. His head and hide are cut off, 500
carried into the house through the god’s east door,
and laid before the fire, Kamui Fuchi,
grandmother fire, beyond all opposites.
They place before him fish and millet dumplings,
and fine inao, prayer sticks of whittled willow,
then a portion of soup, stewed from his own flesh,
as the chieftain prays: “Divine one, take these gifts
to your parents and say, ‘an Ainu father
and mother have kept me safe, and now I’ve grown,
I come bearing dumplings, inao and dried fish.
Let’s rejoice!’ Tell them this and they will be glad.”
A reverent hush attends the god’s self-feast,
until the priest calls: “The little divine one
has finished his meal. Come friends, let us eat
and worship with him.”
He takes a cup, filled full,
offers drops to the fire, passes it round.
Then the corpse is carved and portioned out for feast,
as saké flows and song and dance soon follow.
This reveling feast goes on for three full days
until the god is gone.
Then his skull is placed
on a pole outside the house’s east window
along with prayer sticks, whittled offering trees,
and past bear skulls, mediators to the gods.
Big Raven (once told by Kamchatka shamans)
had captured a whale but could not send her 525
back to her brothers and sisters in the sea;
he didn’t know how. He asks Tenanto’mwan
for help and he tells him to go to the sea
and find some plants with white stalks and spotted hats.
Eat these, the spirits’ bodies, they will help you.
So Raven goes and finds some little fungi,
which had grown up from Tenanto’mwan’s spittle.
He eats some. They make him happy, make him dance,
then he sits and sees the whale swimming home
to its brothers and sisters. Big Raven says,
“This plant shall stay on earth, Tenanto’mwan.
Let all my children see what it will show them.”
The Eskimo tribes, across the Bering Strait,
tell similar tales about their Raven
and about whales.
Raven was on the beach
where he saw a whale-cow swimming too close.
When the whale came up, Raven donned his clothes,
pulled on his mask and snatched up his fire sticks
and flew out over sea. The whale opened
wide her jaws and Raven flew straight down her throat.
The shocked whale-cow snapped her jaws and sounded.
Raven, in the whale’s belly, found himself
at the entrance of a fabulous chamber.
At the further end a lamp was burning with
a beautiful woman seated there below. 550
The whale’s spine ran along the roof above,
her ribs curved round the walls. From the spine, a tube
dripped sleek oil slowly down into the lamp.
The woman saw him and cried: “How did you come
here? You are the first man to enter this place.”
Raven told her, and she had him take a seat
opposite her. She was the whale’s inua,
the whale’s soul. She served him a meal of
berries and oil, berries she had gathered
the year before. He stayed there four days with her,
all the while wondering what was that tube
along the spine. Each time she left the room, she
forbade him to touch it. But one time, she left
and he approached it, stretched out his claw and caught
a big oil drop. He licked it with his tongue.
Sweet, so sweet, he caught another, another,
too slow, so, in greed, he reached up, grabbed the tube,
broke a piece off and ate it.
A gush of oil
flooded the room, put out the light. The chamber
rolled and rocked and tossed Raven round for four days.
Finally, near death, Raven felt the storm stop.
Raven had broken an artery and killed
the whale-cow. Her inua never returned.
Raven was a prisoner in the beached whale.
As he wondered, “what should I do?” he heard men 575
talking, up on the back of the whale-cow
and presently a throng, come from a village.
They cut a hole in the top of the whale
and when they had all taken meat up to shore
Raven climbed up unnoticed out of the hole.
But once he was out he noticed he forgot
his fire sticks inside the whale’s belly.
So he dons the shape of a little dark man,
appears to the people and offers his help.
He helped them gut the whale until one found
his fire sticks in her belly. He tells them:
“That’s no good at all. My daughter once told me
that fire sticks in a whale’s belly means
many people will die. I suggest we run.”
So Raven takes off running and they follow,
but then he doubled back, so that he could have
the whole feast of the whale all to himself.
Having feasted to his greedy heart’s content
Raven flew south, out over the blue gulf, when
suddenly it began to grow very dark,
so he searched out a spot to land. An island
appeared below him, Haida Gwaii they call it.
Raven set down to see why it was so dark.
It was because a man, who lived on the banks
of a river in a house with his daughter, 600
had a box, with a box inside it, with a
smaller box in that box, down until the last
box was so small all it held was all the light
the universe contains. That’s why it was dark.
The man refused to let any light shine forth.
Raven thought at once, “I will steal the light.”
He had to find some way to get inside there.
The house’s walls were sealed; where were its doors?
The man and his daughter, he heard them come out
but found no entry. He heard her footsteps, soft,
crunching snow. Perhaps she’s beautiful, he thought.
This gave him an idea. When the girl
came to the river to gather some water
he changed himself into a hemlock needle
and floated down river just in time to get
caught in the scoop of the young woman’s basket.
Then he made her so thirsty that she drank him
down in a deep gulp. He nestled down inside
and found a soft, warm spot to transform himself
once more, into a little human being.
He slept there a long time, until the girl
realized some strange new thing was happening,
which she kept quiet, until one day a boy
emerged. Now the girl’s father took notice
of a new presence, he heard its angry cries, 625
its ravenlike calls, its burps and bubbly laughs.
He grew to love the child and played with him
to keep him happy. Meanwhile the child
crawled around the house in search of where the light
was hidden. He found the box and the father
harshly scolded him for touching his treasure.
So Raven knew where the light was. He pleaded,
he begged and whined, he crooned persuasively, “Please,
grampa, let me have just the outermost box.”
Grandpa just couldn’t say no. He took the box
off of the others and gave the boy his box.
It contented him for a while, but soon
he cried for the next box, he begged for the next,
cajoling boxes out of his grandfather
until a strange radiant glow filled the room
casting vague shapes and dim shadows on the walls.
The child instantly insisted to be
allowed to hold the light, for just a moment.
“No!” said the man. But, in time, he yielded.
He lifted the light, a beautiful white ball,
out of the last box and tossed it to the boy.
But as the ball traveled toward the boy, he changed
into a huge black shadow with outspread wings
and Raven caught the light in his waiting beak
and shot up through the smoke hole in the ceiling. 650
The dark world was transformed. It glowed with light
and brilliant color on the hills and valleys,
white foam flecked the scintillating ocean waves
and everywhere creatures stirred to vibrant life.
Light filled the Eagle’s sharp eyes for the first time
who spied the Raven flying and pursued him.
In fright and panic Raven dropped half the light
which fell and shattered to pieces on the rocks
then bounced back to heaven and scattered to shine
as the moon and stars. Then Eagle chased Raven
east beyond the world’s bounds until, at last,
he dropped the last piece of light which settled down
on a cloud rising over eastern hilltops.
The man, bewildered by the sudden dazzle
of light, at last looked up and saw his daughter
whom he had feared was ugly as a sea slug,
and saw that she was beautiful as the fronds
of a hemlock tree, lit by a spring sunrise.
His box of light was gone, but now he had eyes.
Tribes, pursuing game, have circled the North Pole.
Their lives are based on hunting and gathering,
unlike the planting cultures of the tropics.
But tribes will wander and their lives can alter.
Navajo and Apache of the Southwest
speak languages related to Alaskan 675
native languages, arguing migration
out of cold arctic hunting grounds to warmer
southern zones, of maize and adobe pueblos.
A thousand years ago or so, the Diné
left their first world in the north and headed
south, following the sun rising on their south
horizon, climbing, as they see it, up out
of the cold dark worlds, closer to the light.
A people’s myths are more than timeless tales
of gods and heroes, of tricksters and trespass.
Conflict and compromise, struggles to adapt
to changing nature and changing social times
crystallize in talk a people’s long hard walk.
When the Diné arrived in the Pueblo lands
they settled down, picked up maize agriculture,
and later, after the Spaniards came, they drove
herds and sheep flocks along the red rock mesas.
Their beautiful and complex mythic cycle
reflects their northern shamanic ancestry
suppressed by matrifocal social changes
and new communal priestly institutions
in counterpoint with new pastoral pursuits.
Their tales are a treasure in the world.
When Raven had escaped the Eagle’s clutches
he flew southwest, beyond great plains of bison, 700
over rocky mountains and down great basins.
Up to no good, and greedy as usual,
he corralled all the buffalo underground,
so that people went hungry though he feasted.
Coyote was wandering over hill and plain
hunting food for his hungry children, when he
noticed Raven’s camp showed signs of good eating
though nowhere could he see any animals.
Coyote changed himself into a puppy dog
and entered the camp to see what he could see.
When Raven saw the puppy come he wondered
if it might be a faithful watchdog for him,
so that he might safely leave his hoarding cave.
He waved a fire stick before the dog’s eyes
and it didn’t blink nor flinch. He passed the test.
He let the puppy stay. Coyote watched close
the way Raven opened and closed the cavern
that held the herds. One night Raven went flying,
leaving Coyote to guard his hidden cave.
Having heard the prayers that moved the big rock door
Coyote repeated them and it rolled open.
He went down to the pasture underground where
buffalo and deer and antelope and goats
were grazing on wide plains. Coyote took his bow
and shot four arrows, stirring herds to frenzy 725
and they ran up out of the underground cave
and scattered wide in fields and hills above.
Just as Coyote was running off with the herds
Raven returned. Coyote howled in laughter
and ever since, Raven, and his brother Crow,
have been forced to scavenge for mere entrails
left after people take their own fair portions.
Coyote ran off, dancing, playing his flute—
in which he’d hid and thereby weathered the flood—
along the plateaus fringing peopled pueblos;
where he roams a cloud of butterflies follows.
Down in a hollow he sees two beautiful
maidens threading their looms along the river,
aspens and cottonwoods thrive along its banks.
Coyote whistles, thrilling to see such a sight.
One is weaving red zigzags and black lightning;
the other threads yellow in and out with blue.
Around them grow rows of maize and squash and beans.
“Corn Maidens, Corn Maidens, your braids are so long,”
he whistles with his flute, then changes into
a white moth and flutters by where they’re weaving.
They see his wings shimmer a beautiful hue
and long to lace his shade into their fabric.
The moth flies off and the maidens, yet unstruck
by sunlight, chase him to capture his colors, 750
to crush and incorporate into their cloth.
But the moth leads them off, far away from home,
and, frenzied to follow, they are led astray.
Coyote-White-Moth leads them into the bushes
where they start throwing off their clothes to catch him
until they’ve stripped to their skins and stand naked
and, overcome by fatigue, they fall asleep.
White Moth turns back into Coyote and smokes
a pipe of sage and tobacco then whistles
a tune on his flute that changes the maidens
into white butterflies that fly to the sky
to join the clouds and pour as female rain,
the gentle spring rain that nourishes the corn.
All this happened, they say, at Riverward Knoll
where grow the weeds that can drive people crazy.
Clever Coyote knew how to use these weeds
and was always foraging for fresh supplies.
He also knew where to find defenseless sheep
and girls alone with them out on the buttes.
Down in Chaco Canyon hunting datura
he came upon a girl herding her flocks
with no one else in sight except her sheepdog.
Craving undoes him; he concocts his approach.
He hides his reed flute in the pack on his back
and takes out his pipe to smoke some tobacco 775
to waft skyward as he walks toward the girl.
She is weaving a wildflower garland
when she sees the stranger coming, looking sad.
He arrives and smiles, as to a daughter,
and begins, “Young lady, surely a daughter
of Changing Woman, as fair as a white shell,
I seem to have lost my herd, could you help me?”
“What can I do?” she asks, disarmed by his charm.
“Well, my goat herd got spooked last night and ran off
and I think they’ve gone down the canyon yonder.
Perhaps you could send your dog down there to see?
Meanwhile I would wait here and help with yours.”
She trusts and consents; she sees no harm in it.
So off trots the dog, faithful to her bidding,
and he sits down close by where she is sitting
and lets her take some tokes of what he’s smoking.
In time it takes effect and he leans over
and kisses her soft lips. At first she lets him,
but then she resists his stronger advances
and begins to call, but no one’s there to hear.
He puts his palm over her mouth then lifts her
over his shoulder and carries her away,
southward up the canyon. She watches in fear
behind them, her flocks forsaken to wander
shepherdless; her flowers lay lost on the ground. 800
**
(BOOK THREE: God Incarnate)
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