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AN AMERICAN SUNRISE
POEMS

Joy Harjo
Adjusting type size may change line breaks. Landscape mode may
help to preserve line breaks.
For the children, so they may find their way through the dark—

They are all our children.

To heal was to be familiar with what destroyed.
—RAY YOUNG BEAR, Meskwaki poet

After our walk, there were no babies left; they killed the babies.
—JAMES SCOTT, Mvskoke elder and survivor of the Trail of Tears

When you act and speak you must think of all your relatives—known
and unknown. You must also remember the plants, the animals, the
living things, and the ancient ones—those that have gone before
you.
—HIYVTKE (JEAN CHAUDHURI), Mvskoke, 2001

To tell the truth is to become beautiful, to begin to love yourself,

value yourself. And that’s political, in its most profound way.
—JUNE JORDAN, Caribbean-American poet
CONTENTS

Prologue
Map of the Trail of Tears

Break My Heart
My grandfather Monahwee
Exile of Memory
Granddaughters
The Fight
Directions to You
Seven Generations
In 1990 a congress
Weapons,
The Story Wheel
Once I looked at the moon
Washing My Mother’s Body
There is a map
Rising and Falling
The Road to Disappearance
Mama and Papa Have the Going Home Shiprock Blues
My great-grandfather Monahwee
How to Write a Poem in a Time of War
Mvskoke Mourning Song
First Morning
Singing Everything
Falling from the Night Sky
Our knowledge is based
For Earth’s Grandsons
Running
A Refuge in the Smallest of Places
I’m Nobody! Who Are You?
Bourbon and Blues
My Great-Aunt Ella Monahwee Jacobs’s Testimony
Road
The Southeast was covered
Desire’s Dog
Dawning
Honoring
My Man’s Feet
“I Wonder What You Are Thinking,”
For Those Who Would Govern
Rabbit Invents the Saxophone
When Adolfe Sax patented
Let There Be No Regrets
Advice for Countries, Advanced, Developing and Falling
Tobacco Origin Story
My aunt Lois Harjo told me
Redbird Love
We follow the DNA spiral of stories
Becoming Seventy
Beyond
Ren-Toh-Pvrv
Memory Sack
Every night
Cehotosakvtes
One March
By the Way
When we made it down last year
Welcoming Song
An American Sunrise
Bless This Land

Acknowledgments
 On May 28, 1830, President Andrew Jackson unlawfully signed
the Indian Removal Act to force move southeastern peoples from our
homelands to the West. We were rounded up with what we could
carry. We were forced to leave behind houses, printing presses,
stores, cattle, schools, pianos, ceremonial grounds, tribal towns,
churches. We witnessed immigrants walking into our homes with
their guns, Bibles, household goods and families, taking what had
been ours, as we were surrounded by soldiers and driven away like
livestock at gunpoint.
There were many trails of tears of tribal nations all over North
America of indigenous peoples who were forcibly removed from their
homelands by government forces.
The indigenous peoples who are making their way up from the
southern hemisphere are a continuation of the Trail of Tears.
May we all find the way home.
This is only one trail. There were many trails of tears from the homelands of the
Muscogee Creek Nation west, just as there were for the Cherokee, Chickasaw,
Choctaw, Seminole and many other tribal nations.
AN AMERICAN SUNRISE
BREAK MY HEART

There are always flowers,

Love cries, or blood.

Someone is always leaving

By exile, death, or heartbreak.

The heart is a fist.

It pockets prayer or holds rage.

It’s a timekeeper.
Music maker, or backstreet truth teller.

Baby, baby, baby

You can’t say what’s been said

Before, though even words

Are creatures of habit.

You cannot force poetry

With a ruler, or jail it at a desk.

Mystery is blind, but wills you

To untie the cloth, in eternity.

Police with their guns

Cannot enter here to move us off our lands.

History will always find you, and wrap you

In its thousand arms.
. . .
Someone will lift from the earth
Without wings.

Another will fall from the sky

Through the knots of a tree.

Chaos is primordial.
All words have roots here.

You will never sleep again

Though you will never stop dreaming.

The end can only follow the beginning.

And it will zigzag through time, governments, and lovers.

Be who you are, even if it kills you.

It will. Over and over again.

Even as you live.

Break my heart, why don’t you?

My grandfather Monahwee (also spelled “Menawa”), of some
generations back, was allowed to visit his home, at Okfuskee (near
what is now known as Dadeville, Alabama), to stay there one night
before being exiled to the West. He is reported to have said to “a
highly reputable gentleman,” after gifting him with his portrait:

“I am going away. I have brought you this picture—I wish you to

take it and hang it up in your house, that when your children look at
it, you can tell them what I have been . . . for when I cross the great
river, my desire is that I may never again see the face of a white
man.”

After he left, he never turned back. He kept walking forward with his
beloved people.

I returned to see what I would find, in these lands we were forced to

leave behind.
EXILE OF MEMORY

Do not return,
We were warned by one who knows things
You will only upset the dead.
They will emerge from the spiral of little houses
Lined up in the furrows of marrow
And walk the land.
There will be no place in memory
For what they see
The highways, the houses, the stores of interlopers
Perched over the blood fields
Where the dead last stood.
And then what, you with your words
In the enemy’s language,
Do you know how to make a peaceful road
Through human memory?
And what of angry ghosts of history?
Then what?
. . .
Don’t look back.

In Sunday school we were told Lot’s wife

Looked back and turned
To salt.
But her family wasn’t leaving Paradise.
We loved our trees and waters
And the creatures and earths and skies
In that beloved place.
Those beings were our companions
Even as they fed us, cared for us.
If I turn to salt
It will be of petrified tears
From the footsteps of my relatives
As they walked west.
. . .
I did not know what I would find

The first night we set up our bed in the empty room

Of our condo above the Tennessee River
They’d heard we were coming
Those who continued to keep the land
Despite the imposition of newcomers
And the forced exile of our relatives.

All night, they welcomed us

All night, the stomp dancers
All night, the shell shakers
All night circle after circle made a spiral
To the Milky Way
. . .
We are still in mourning.

The children were stolen from these beloved lands by the

government.
Their hair was cut, their toys and handmade clothes ripped
From them. They were bathed in pesticides
And now clean, given prayers in a foreign language to recite
As they were lined up to sleep alone in their army-issued cages.
. . .
Grief is killing us. Anger tormenting us. Sadness eating us with
disease.
Our young women are stolen, raped and murdered.
Our young men are killed by the police, or killing themselves and
each other.
. . .
This is a warning:
Heroin is a fool companion offering freedom from the gauntlet of
history.
Meth speeds you past it.
Alcohol, elixir of false bravado, will take you over the edge of it.
Enough chemicals and processed craving
And you can’t push away from the table.

If we pay enough, maybe we can buy ourselves back.

. . .
We used to crowd the bar for Tuesday ten-cent beer night.
It was the Indian, poetry, biker and student bar
In that university and military base town.
Trays packed with small cups of beer passed nonstop
Over the counter all night.
We brought all of our thirsty dreams there
Gambled with them at the pool table, all night.
Danced with them and each other on the blood-stained dance floor
To jukebox songs fed by dimes and quarters, all night.
And by 2 A.M. we staggered out
To the world made by Puritan dreaming
No place for Indians, poets or any others who would
Ride the wild winds for dangerous knowledge.

All night.
. . .
In the complex here there is a singing tree.
It sings of the history of the trees here.
It sings of Monahwee who stood with his warrior friends
On the overlook staring into the new town erected
By illegal residents.
It sings of the Civil War camp, the bloodied
The self-righteous, and the forsaken.
It sings of atomic power and the rise
Of banks whose spires mark
The worship places.
The final verse is always the trees.
They will remain.
. . .
When it is time to leave this place of return,
What will I say that I found here?

From out of the mist, a form wrestled to come forth—

It was many-legged, of many arms, and sent forth thoughts of many
colors.
There were deer standing near us under the parted, misted sky
As we watched, they smelled for water
Green light entered their bodies
From all leaved things they ate—
. . .
The old Mvskoke laws outlawed the Christian religion
Because it divided the people.
We who are relatives of Panther, Raccoon, Deer, and the other
animals and winds were soon divided.
But Mvskoke ways are to make relatives.
We made a relative of Jesus, gave him a Mvskoke name.
. . .
We could not see our ancestors as we climbed up
To the edge of destruction
But from the dark we felt their soft presences at the edge of our
mind
And we heard their singing.

There is no word in this trade language, no words with enough

power to hold all this we have become—
. . .
We are in time. There is no time, in time.
We are in a traditional Mvskoke village, far back in time.
Ekvnvjakv is in labor, so long in time.
She is not young and beyond the time of giving birth.
The keeper of birthing is tracking her energy, and time.
My thinking is questioning how, this time.
. . .
A young boy wrestles with two puppies at the doorway.
A little girl, bearing an old woman spirit appears
With green plants in her hands.
Twins play around the edge of the bed.

Earth’s womb tightens with the need to push.

That is all that I see because of the fogginess of time.
. . .
I sing my leaving song.
I sing it to the guardian trees, this beloved earth,
To those who stay here to care for memory.
I will sing it until the day I die.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
in confusion the robot said, "Ozymandias decipher the language
somehow. Seem to be a sort of guide."
"Why—he's parroting fragments from our conversation yesterday,"
Marshall said.
"I don't think he's parroting," I said. "The words form coherent
concepts. He's talking to us!"
"Built by the ancients to provide information to passersby,"
Ozymandias said.
"Ozymandias!" Leopold said. "Do you speak English?"
The response was a clicking noise, followed moments later by,
"Ozymandias understand. Not have words enough. Talk more."
The five of us trembled with common excitement. It was apparent
now what had happened, and the happening was nothing short of
incredible. Ozymandias had listened patiently to everything we had
said the night before; then, after we had gone, it had applied its
million-year-old mind to the problem of organizing our sounds into
sense, and somehow had succeeded. Now it was merely a matter of
feeding vocabulary to the creature and letting it assimilate the new
words. We had a walking and talking Rosetta Stone!
Two hours flew by so rapidly we hardly noticed their passing. We
tossed words at Ozymandias as fast as we could, defining them
when possible to aid him in relating them to the others already
engraved on his mind.
By the end of that time he could hold a passable conversation with
us. He ripped his legs free of the sand that had bound them for
centuries—and, serving the function for which he had been built
millennia ago, he took us on a guided tour of the civilization that had
been and had built him.
Ozymandias was a fabulous storehouse of archaeological data. We
could mine him for years.
His people, he told us, had called themselves the Thaiquens (or so it
sounded)—they had lived and thrived for three hundred thousand
years, and in the declining days of their history had built him, as an
indestructible guide to their indestructible cities. But the cities had
crumbled, and Ozymandias alone remained—bearing with him
memories of what had been.
"This was the city of Durab. In its day it held eight million people.
Where I stand now was the Temple of Decamon, sixteen hundred
feet of your measurement high. It faced the Street of the Winds—"
"The Eleventh Dynasty was begun by the accession to the Presidium
of Chonnigar IV, in the eighteen thousandth year of the city. It was in
the reign of this dynasty that the neighboring planets first were
reached—"
"The Library of Durab was on this spot. It boasted fourteen million
volumes. None exist today. Long after the builders had gone, I spent
time reading the books of the Library and they are memorized within
me—"
"The Plague struck down nine thousand a day for more than a year,
in that time—"
It went on and on, a cyclopean newsreel, growing in detail as
Ozymandias absorbed our comments and added new words to his
vocabulary. We followed the robot as it wheeled its way through the
desert, our recorders gobbling in each word, our minds numbed and
dazed by the magnitude of our find. In this single robot lay waiting to
be tapped the totality of a culture that had lasted three hundred
thousand years! We could mine Ozymandias the rest of our lives,
and still not exhaust the fund of data implanted in his all-
encompassing mind.
When, finally, we ripped ourselves away and, leaving Ozymandias in
the desert, returned to the base, we were full to bursting. Never in
the history of our science had such a find been vouchsafed: a
complete record, accessible and translated for us.
We agreed to conceal our find from Mattern once again. But, like
small boys newly given a toy of great value, we found it hard to hide
our feelings. Although we said nothing explicit, our overexcited
manner certainly must have hinted to Mattern that we had not had as
fruitless a day as we had claimed.
That, and Leopold's refusal to tell him exactly where we had been
working during the day, must have aroused Mattern's suspicions. In
any event, during the night as we lay in bed I heard the sound of
halftracks rumbling off into the desert; and the following morning,
when we entered the mess-hall for breakfast, Mattern and his men,
unshaven and untidy, turned to look at us with peculiar vindictive
gleams in their eyes.

Mattern said, "Good morning, gentlemen. We've been waiting for

some time for you to arise."
"It's no later than usual, is it?" Leopold asked.
"Not at all. But my men and I have been up all night. We—ah—did a
bit of archaeological prospecting while you slept." The Colonel
leaned forward, fingering his rumpled lapels, and said, "Dr. Leopold,
for what reason did you choose to conceal from me the fact that you
had discovered an object of extreme strategic importance?"
"What do you mean?" Leopold demanded—with a quiver taking the
authority out of his voice.
"I mean," said Mattern quietly, "the robot you named Ozymandias.
Just why did you decide not to tell me about it?"
"I had every intention of doing so before our departure," Leopold
said.
Mattern shrugged. "Be that as it may. You concealed the existence of
your find. But your manner last night led us to investigate the area—
and since the detectors showed a metal object some twenty miles to
the west, we headed that way. Ozymandias was quite surprised to
learn that there were other Earthmen here."
There was a moment of crackling silence. Then Leopold said, "I'll
have to ask you not to meddle with that robot, Colonel Mattern. I
apologize for having neglected to tell you of it—I didn't think you
were quite so interested in our work—but now I must insist you and
your men keep away from it."
"Oh?" Mattern said crisply. "Why?"
"Because it's an archaeological treasure-trove, Colonel. I can't begin
to stress its value to us. Your men might perform some casual
experiment with it and short circuit its memory channels, or
something like that. And so I'll have to invoke the rights of the
archaeological group of this expedition. I'll have to declare
Ozymandias part of our preserve, and off bounds for you."
Mattern's voice suddenly hardened. "Sorry, Dr. Leopold. You can't
invoke that now."
"Why not?"
"Because Ozymandias is part of our preserve. And off bounds for
you, Doctor."
I thought Leopold would have an apoplectic fit right there in the
mess-hall. He stiffened and went white and strode awkwardly across
the room toward Mattern. He choked out a question, inaudible to me.
Mattern replied, "Security, Doctor. Ozymandias is of military use.
Accordingly we've brought him to the ship and placed him in sealed
quarters, under top-level wraps. With the power entrusted to me for
such emergencies, I'm declaring this expedition ended. We return to
Earth at once with Ozymandias."
Leopold's eyes bugged. He looked at us for support, but we said
nothing. Finally, incredulously, he said, "He's—of military use?"
"Of course. He's a storehouse of data on the ancient Thaiquen
weapons. We've already learned things from him that are
unbelievable in their scope. Why do you think this planet is bare of
life, Dr. Leopold? Not even a blade of grass? A million years won't do
that. But a superweapon will. The Thaiquens developed that
weapon. And others, too. Weapons that can make your hair curl.
And Ozymandias knows every detail of them. Do you think we can
waste time letting you people fool with that robot, when he's loaded
with military information that can make America totally impregnable?
Sorry, Doctor. Ozymandias is your find, but he belongs to us. And
we're taking him back to Earth."
Again the room was silent. Leopold looked at me, at Webster, at
Marshall, at Gerhardt. There was nothing that could be said.
This was basically a militaristic mission. Sure, a few anthropologists
had been tacked onto the crew, but fundamentally it was Mattern's
men and not Leopold's who were important. We weren't out here so
much to increase the fund of general knowledge as to find new
weapons and new sources of strategic materials for possible use
against the Other Hemisphere.
And new weapons had been found. New, undreamed-of weapons,
product of a science that had endured for three hundred thousand
years. All locked up in Ozymandias' imperishable skull.
In a harsh voice Leopold said, "Very well, Colonel. I can't stop you, I
suppose."
He turned and shuffled out without touching his food, a broken,
beaten, suddenly very old man.
I felt sick.
Mattern had insisted the planet was useless and that stopping here
was a waste of time; Leopold had disagreed, and Leopold had
turned out to be right. We had found something of great value.
We had found a machine that could spew forth new and awesome
recipes for death. We held in our hands the sum and essence of the
Thaiquen science—the science that had culminated in magnificent
weapons, weapons so superb they had succeeded in destroying all
life on this world. And now we had access to those weapons. Dead
by their own hand, the Thaiquens had thoughtfully left us a heritage
of death.
Grayfaced, I rose from the table and went to my cabin. I wasn't
hungry now.
"We'll be blasting off in an hour," Mattern said behind me as I left.
"Get your things in order."
I hardly heard him. I was thinking of the deadly cargo we carried, the
robot so eager to disgorge its fund of data. I was thinking what would
happen when our scientists back on Earth began learning from
Ozymandias.
The works of the Thaiquens now were ours. I thought of the poet's
lines: "Look on my works, ye mighty—and despair."
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OZYMANDIAS
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