Honor the Earth

Chris Eyre’s intro film

Honor the Earth  with John Trudell’s music

It’s Native American Heritage Month.

devotees ~ dancing defiance

We Will Dance!

Defiance, desperation and the quest for survival in 1890.

 Posted per Nancy at Leslie’s http://lesliepaints.wordpress.com/2010/08/04/wolf-paws-for-eva/

 

devotees

slowly he disappears among the penned ponies

knowing and yet wishing not

the tents, uniforms, guns

wary of even his own now

aware their life fabric has been brutally sliced

soft mouths nuzzle his hands

he inhales ever reliable horse scents

cares not for calico, coffee or coins

long tails twitch and flick as he moves among them

keen to his warrior man smell

as willing to push their all beyond the limits

as he

wind racing

foreign tongue streams nearby

ripping good hearts into rancid meat

furthest away surrounded by hooves, manes, hot breath

blows against his neck

stars safe above

spring grass under feet

he drinks their peace

they eat his pain

whispering

we are one

crazy horse

 

@wojcik

poem for Crazy Horse

Here’s a previously posted poem  that might be of interest to some very quiet visitors to my blogcasa.

 

 

devotees

slowly he disappears among the penned ponies

knowing and yet wishing not

the tents, uniforms, guns

wary of even his own now

aware their life fabric has been brutally sliced

soft mouths nuzzle his hands

he inhales ever reliable horse scents

cares not for calico, coffee or coins

long tails twitch and flick as he moves among them

keen to his warrior man smell

as willing to push their all beyond the limits

as he

wind racing

foreign tongue streams nearby

ripping good hearts into rancid meat

furthest away surrounded by hooves, manes, hot breath

blows against his neck

stars safe above

spring grass under feet

he drinks their peace

they eat his pain

whispering

we are one

crazy horse

 

 

@wojcik

 

 

devotees

slowly he disappears among the penned ponies

knowing and yet wishing not

the tents, uniforms, guns

wary of even his own now

aware their life fabric has been brutally sliced

soft mouths nuzzle his hands

he inhales ever reliable horse scents

cares not for calico, coffee or coins

long tails twitch and flick as he moves among them

keen to his warrior man smell

as willing to push their all beyond the limits

as he

wind racing

foreign tongue streams nearby

ripping good hearts into rancid meat

furthest away surrounded by hooves, manes, hot breath

blows against his neck

stars safe above

spring grass under feet

he drinks their peace

they eat his pain

whispering

we are one

crazy horse

 

@wojcik

 

view short bull’s paintings of scenes from the life of crazy horse via sandoz at www.dawnhawk.org

Tasunka Witko/Crazy Horse stories Sandoz Heard

“Crazy Horse laughed, a sound they had seldom heard this last while. “I am no white man,” he said. “They are the only people who make rules for others and say:  ‘If you stay on one side of this line it is peace but if you go on the other side I will kill you all.’ There is still plenty of room, my friend. Camp where you wish.”

If you’re searching for a biography to dig into in then I suggest  ye seek and find a copy of Crazy Horse, The Strange Man of the Oglalas by Mari Sandoz. It’s an oldie but a damn goodie if there ever was one.  Several other writers have taken runs at rendering the life and times  of the Lakota warrior.  Kingsley Bray’s work is quite fine, but for my money, Mari Sandoz’s effort delivers the real goods. Why? Because she and Eleanor Hinman gathered information directly from people who actually knew Crazy Horse—He Dog, Little Killer, Short Bull, Red Feather.  No amount of digging through papers can substitute for that sort of personal engagement with living sources with memories to share, the ability to answer questions, and provide details. Though by her own accounting, Sandoz also did a lot of digging through various paper piles.  What’s perhaps most telling was her awareness of the expressive yet difficult to wield power of language and writing to convey the ‘unknown’ to others–an awareness that prompted her to state, “…I have used the simplest words possible, hoping by idiom and figures and the underlying  rhythm pattern to say some of the things of the Indian for which there are no white-man words, suggest something of his inner nature, something of his relationship to the earth and the sky and all that is between.”  Some things can not be translated because there are no ‘equals’ for concepts, for values, for insights and connections from one language and culture to another which has no such concepts, values, insights or connections. Sandoz realized this essential ‘lack’ or obstacle and did her best to overcome it in order to try to get at the heart of a man, of a people, of a culture under intense assault to become something entirely foreign to their natures.  That’s a tough task for any writer working outside their own mental landscape. Sandoz took it on of her own accord and the fact that the resulting writing has the power to break through time and place and cultural barriers places the work in a class by itself.

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