There’s no more north and south.

house

“Our Houses”

by Linda Hogan (1947-)

When we enter the unknown
of our houses,
go inside the given up dark
and sheltering walls alone
and turn out the lamps
we fall bone to bone in bed.

Neighbors, the old woman who knows you
turns over in me
and I wake up
another country. There’s no more
north and south.
Asleep, we pass through one another,
like blowing snow,
all of us,
all.

from Seeing through the Sun 

where nothing created is wasted

An arresting poem from the Chickasaw novelist, essayist, and environmentalist Linda Hogan.
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“Inside”
How something is made flesh
no one can say. The buffalo soup
becomes a woman
who sings every day to her horses
or summons another to her private body
saying come, touch, this is how
it begins, the path of a newly born
who, salvaged from other lives and worlds,
will grow to become a woman, a man,
with a heart that never rests,
and the gathered berries,
the wild grapes
enter the body,
human wine
which can love,
where nothing created is wasted;
the swallowed grain
takes you through the dreams
of another night,
the deer meat becomes hands
strong enough to work.

 

But I love most
the white-haired creature
eating green leaves;
the sun shines there
swallowed, showing in her face
taking in all the light,

 

and in the end
when the shadow from the ground
enters the body and remains,
in the end, you might say,
This is myself
still unknown, still a mystery.

the shoulders which bend forward and forward and forward

hogan-photo

Perhaps this devastating poem from Chickasaw novelist, essayist, and environmentalist, Linda Hogan (1947- ) will ring as true to you as it does to me…

“Workday”

I go to work
though there are those who were missing today
from their homes.
I ride the bus
and I do not think of children without food
or how my sisters are chained to prison beds.

I go to the University
and out for lunch
and listen to the higher-ups
tell me all they have read
about Indians
and how to analyze this poem
They know us
better than we know ourselves.

I ride the bus home
and sit behind the driver.
We talk about the weather
and not enough exercise.
I don’t mention Victor Jara’s mutilated hands
or men next door
in exile
or my own family’s grief over the lost child.

When I get off the bus
I look back at the light in the windows
and the heads bent
and how the women are all alone
in each seat
framed in the windows
and the men are coming home,
then I see them walking on the avenue,
the beautiful feet,
the perfect legs,
even with their spider veins,
the broken knees
with pins in them,
the thighs with their cravings,
the pelvis
and small back
with its soft down,
the shoulders which bend forward
and forward and forward
to protect the heart from pain.