Our Favorite Poems


I have been one acquainted with the night
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain
I have outwalked the furthest city light
I have looked down the saddest city lane
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry,
Came over houses from another street
But not to call me back or say good-bye
And further still, at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been one acquainted with the night

Robert Frost 1874-1963


Deer Dancer

Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter except the hardcore. It was the coldest night of the year, every place shut down, but not us. Of course we noticed when she came in. We were Indian ruins. She was the end of beauty. No one knew her, the stranger whose tribe we recognized, her family related to deer, if that's who she was, a people accustomed to hearing songs in pine trees, and making them hearts.

The woman inside the woman who was to dance naked in the bar of misfits blew deer magic. Henry jack, who could not survive a sober day, thought she was Buffalo Calf Woman come back, passed out, his head by the toilet. All night he dreamed a dream he could not say. The next day he borrowed money, went home, and sent back the money I lent. Now that's a miracle. Some people see vision in a burned tortilla, some in the face of a woman.

This is the bar of broken survivors, the club of the shotgun, knife wound, of poison by culture. We who were taught not to stare drank our beer. The players gossiped down their cues. Someone put a quarter in the jukebox to relive despair. Richard's wife dove to kill her. We had to keep her still, while Richard secretly bought the beauty a drink.

How do I say it? In this language there are no words for how the real world collapses. I could say it in my own and the sacred mounds would come into focus, but I couldn't take it in this dingy envelope. So I look at the stars in this strange city, frozen to the back of the sky, the only promises that ever make sense.

My brother-in-law hung out with white people, went to law school with a perfect record, quit. Says you can keep your laws, your words. And practiced law on the street with his hands. He jimmied to the proverbial dream girl, the face of the moon, while the players racked a new game. He bragged to us, he told her magic words and that when she broke, became human.But we all heard his voice crack:

What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?

That's what I'd like to know, what are we all doing in a place like this?

You would know she could hear only what she wanted to; don't we all? Left the drink of betrayal Richard bought her, at the bar. What was she on? We all wanted some. Put a quarter in the juke. We all take risks stepping into thin air. Our ceremonies didn't predict this. or we expected more.

I had to tell you this, for the baby inside the girl sealed up with a lick of hope and swimming into the praise of nations. This is not a rooming house, but a dream of winter falls and the deer who portrayed the relatives of strangers. The way back is deer breath on icy windows.

The next dance none of us predicted. She borrowed a chair for the stairway to heaven and stood on a table of names. And danced in the room of children without shoes.

You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille With four hungry children and a crop in the field.

And then she took off her clothes. She shook loose memory, waltzed with the empty lover we'd all become.

She was the myth slipped down through dreamtime. The promise of feast we all knew was coming. The deer who crossed through knots of a curse to find us. She was no slouch, and neither were we, watching.

The music ended. And so does the story. I wasn't there. But I imagined her like this, not a stained red dress with tape on her heels but the deer who entered our dream in white dawn, breathed mist into pine trees, her fawn a blessing of meat, the ancestors who never left.

Joy Harjoa



So you wanna be an Indian, with your beads and feathers and furs or skins

You wanna cash in on minority programs and grants and being noticed

And you wanna rub shoulders with Brando and go to cocktail parties because suddenly you're interesting and everyone wants to be your friend

So you wanna be an Indian, go to powwows, dance like one

But you don't want to live on a reservation or in some cheap hot & cold frame on the other side of the tracks in a city north of nowhere

And you don't want to think about Sara, 34, with her bloated, cirrhotic belly, dying, and her seven kids, or have your non-Indian friends catch you grinding corn on a metate, or see the peppers and onions hang from the ceiling and kitchen walls in your home

And you don't want to work the potato fields in Idaho or sell turquoise jewelry on the street in Flagstaff

And you don't want to marry a drunken Indian and get beaten up all the time

And you don't want to pray the old way, offer your flesh or fast four days

And you don't want to go to prison for fighting for your rights

So you wanna be an Indian...

Author Unknown


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