Part 2
TO A CHILD’S MOCCASIN
Looted from the body of an Indian child killed at Wounded Knee. ’Twas complained that Indian women--some were slain--fought with the braves; which, indeed, they did.
I
A wild mother’s patterned fancy--white beads, green and blue, With here, like heart-stained arrows, scarlet zigzagged through, Thy lining furry rabbit, little shoe!
How joyously she wrought thee, the long blue sunny day, On the wind-stroked grass of the prairie, ’neath the willows’ shady sway, Singing the old song mothers sing alway:
_Chaske, my little Chaske, Chaske my brave to be! Fleet shall he run as the stallion, stand tall as the tall pine tree, As the storm be mighty and valiant--Chaske, my chief to be!_
Stringing the beads in patterns, zigzag red and blue; Sewing with thread of tendon the furry edges true; Singing the song of mothers the blue day through.
II
A hill-slope, a desolation; yonder the cordoned crest Of glinting gun and sabre--here, like mole in nest, Trapped in the hill-crest’s hollow, the huntsmen’s quest.
A solitude of heaven, high and sunny still Above a breadth of desert--sudden the locust shrill Of bullets, then death, and sudden the war-whoop’s thrill.
And here a wild squaw-mother--something dead at the breast, Something live at the shoulder, spitting lead with the best---- Singing a song of wild-heart’s cradle-rest:
_Death, you have taught me to mother! Death, I will mother well! With red, red blood I will nourish, I will lull with the rifle’s spell! For O you have taught me to suckle and I will suckle them well!_
Only a wild squaw-mother, bullet-stung at the start, Quiet out there in the desert, something dead nigh the heart. See! her quaint fancy’s beading, zigzag art.
[Illustration: The Only Good Indian Is a Dead Indian
(_An old saying of the Plains_)]
“THE ONLY GOOD INDIAN IS A DEAD INDIAN”
So there he lies, redeemed at last! His knees drawn tense, just as he fell And shrieked out his soul in a battle-yell; One hand with the rifle still clutched fast; One stretched straight out, the fingers clenched In the knotted roots of the sun-bleached grass; His head flung back on the tangled mass Of raven mane, the war-plume wrenched Awry and torn; the painted face Still foe-wards turned, the white teeth bare ’Twixt the livid lips, the wide-eyed glare, The bronze cheek gaped by battle-trace In dying rage rent fresh apart:-- A strange expression for one all good!-- On his naked breast a splotch of blood Where the lead Evangel cleft his heart.
So there he lies at last made whole, Regenerate! Christ rest his soul!
V
POEMS OF PUEBLO LAND
[Illustration]
EARTH’S TERRACED BOWL
The art of the Pueblo Indians is so intimately woven into the pattern and fabric of their lives that it can hardly be called an art. It is never merely ornamental, and therefore dispensable; it is the intrinsic and indispensable mode of performing the essential acts of living, and its technique is an immediate reflection of the conditions of life. The forms which adorn the painted olla are those cloud, vegetation, and life forms which are spontaneously associated with the thought of water--a thought which is ever-present among these agriculturists in an arid country. The beads which trick out festal costumes are talismans, emblematic in the very nature of their materials and hues; and the colors which are ceremonially significant are the colors which Nature makes so varied and vivid in the soil and sky and vegetation of the Southwest. Dances themselves are as much in the character of agricultural operations and political duties as of festal holidays; and the Powers and Forces which to us are superstitions or personifications are for them normal presences. We speak of art and symbolism in connection with their modes of aesthetic expression because these are the terms with which we most nearly describe them; but it is always important in interpreting such an art to bear in mind that it has little in common, spiritually, with what in our own culture is analogous to it.
_Earth’s Terraced Bowl_ is an interpretation of the imagery of this Pueblo art-in-life. Its purpose is to aid in our comprehension of a beautiful and ancient culture, setting the coloristic and symbolic elements into relationship with the life which they express. The site described is the plateau above the Rio Grande, at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo range, where Santa Fé is built over the ruins of an ancient pueblo, and in its modern development is bringing into new expression the art and architecture of the ancient peoples. The images chosen are, first, the Pueblo woman potter, fashioning her ceremonial bowl, of which the terraced rim is emblem of the cloud-terraces that rise above the mountains in ever-changing variety; second, the man drilling emblematic beads of shell and turquoise, of jet and abalone, such as these Indians have used from beyond the dawn of history; third, the great mid-summer dance, now devoted to the mystery of the union of heaven and earth as it appears in vegetation and in the life which is dependent upon vegetation; and fourth, the festivals of fertility and of harvest, which complete, as it were, the definition of the life of man in this simple setting.
[Illustration: Earth’s Terraced Bowl--I
_The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists, The Woman who appears in dissolvent skies, Her body is very slender and luminous, Her hands touch the extremity of the Earth, Her feet touch softly upon the Earth!_ ]
EARTH’S TERRACED BOWL
I
_Four are the terraced Mountains that uphold the Heaven in that Land and Four are the Colors that pattern the Life of Man._
In that land where the stars of the night are ever near and burning, --eyes of spirit watchers through the Black pine forest; In that land where the azures of day are quivering and intense, --precious the blue turquoise in the womb of the treasure hill; In that land where the red-scarred mesas sunder and canyon the earth, --walls of jasper and sard ribboned with malachite; In that land whose corners are keyed by heaven-locking mountains,----
Glorieta, the Herald of Morn, Sandia, who purpleth the South, Jemez, the hearth-fire of Evening, And fourth, the Hills of the North,
The cloud-gloomed and crimson-flared Mountains of Bleeding Christ.... In that land doth the white cumulus froth unto the blue summit of Day, and the ochres and beryls of earth fade into violet Night; In that land do the terraced hills uphold the terracing clouds; In that land do the Weavers of Rain spin filaments many and delicate,
silvering horizons many, veiling with luminous veils, baptismal with blessing....
There also marcheth the Sun in the splendor of Beauty; There also wandereth the Moon in the softness of Beauty; There all the colors unite, patterned in Beauty; There all the cloud-forms assemble, vestured in Beauty; Daily in that land man walketh in Beauty; Nightly in that land man dreameth in Beauty.
II
_There the Indian Woman adorneth her potter’s work with symbols of the life that falleth from Heaven and of the life of Earth that ariseth responsive thereto._
Behold, where the Indian Woman fashioneth her Bowl of red clay! Ceremonial water it shall contain, Ceremonial meal it shall contain; It shall contain the Water and the Bread of Life, Even as holdeth this Earth the Water and the Bread of Life!
Behold, earthen-red is the Bowl, smooth-rounded and rising rimmed, bordered with terraces four,---- Yea, as riseth this Earth four-terraced into the Heaven!
Behold, fair-painted is the Bowl, with the forms of Heaven painted,---- cloud-terraces thereon painted, filaments of spun rain thereon painted, the wayward-darting lightning thereon painted,---- With curves many, with angles many, with lacings of thin lines, painteth she them, cunning-handed....
Who are they who give answer unto the rains, save the leaf and the flower? Who are they who joy in the freshness of sweet dews, save the bird and the butterfly? To whom shall the moisture be more precious than unto the Seeds of Life? Wherefore these also, cunning of hand, she painteth fair upon the Bowl.
Therewith, painteth him who sitteth upon the margin of the high cloud, fluting,---- Him with the rain-pack humped upon his back, him the Cloud-Musician, flower-garlanded, fluting,---- Him also she painteth, cunning-handed, singing as she fashioneth her earthen Bowl, singing as she painteth thereon the forms of Heaven, singing the Song of the Cloud-Musician, singing the Song of the Beautiful Sky!
_And this is her Song of the Beautiful Sky and of the Spirit Mother whose abode is in the Pool of Heaven._
“Beautiful Sky! The mountains are dark behind me; The sun is low beyond them. To the billowing cloud blown over the plain, the mountains are bidding farewell, The sun is touching it in farewell....
“Underneath, it is of the deepest blue, like the waters of soundless pools; Underneath, it is fringed with fringes of light-falling rain. But above, its face is sunward; Above, it is filmed with pale gold, as of the day-seen moon....
“Beautiful Sky! In the heart of the cloud is a perfect Rainbow, seven-hued with beauty; Over her is a perfect Rainbow---- Her spirit mother!”
III
_There the Indian Man maketh him beads that are symbols of Earth’s Quarters and of the Place of Man’s Life, central in the World._
Behold, the Indian Man, where he drilleth and polisheth---- Where he maketh him beads of four significant colors, Talismans shapeth him, singing the Song of his Central Life!
White shell beads---- Are not the disks of Dawn faint-lustrous, as on the Eastern crests fall the earliest footfalls of Morning? Turquoise beads---- Broken are the shapes, irregular spaces of azure, where the white clouds part, to mottle and pattern the sky.... Talismans of crystal---- Clear is the bubble of Day, zenith-high it is blown when all things are perfect!
So the Father and the Mother In their Night of Meditation First the lustre of the Dawn laid, Then the azure light of Morning, Touched them with translucent crystal, Touched, and lighted perfect Day!
Talismans of black stone---- Jet as the starless Night, as the cloud-enfolded Night.... Talismans of abalone---- Opalled as is Evening on the Western Sea, many-reflecting,---- These also shapeth he him, remembering....
For whither shall they pass, whose sun is in the West? And whither shall they pass, whose lodge is in the deep Earth? Theirs are the many reflections of the Sunset land! Theirs is the black unfathomed Night!
Behold, the Indian, where he sitteth beside his hearth, Making him beads of four significant colors; Singing the Song of his Central Life, Singing the Song of this Middle Place!
_The four colors of the Wheel of Day and the four colors of the Circle of the Earth unite in the Middle Place, this is the song of the Indian Man, as the winds of his mind are singing it._
“White light of Dawn, Blue light of Day, Saffrons of Sunset, Thereafter swooning Night:
“In the Middle Place all are gathered together---- Morning and the East, Nooning and the South, The vanishing Eve of the West, And Northering Night:
“In the Middle Place all colors meet, To the Middle Place the Four Winds blow: The Circle of the Earth, The Wheel of Day, In the Middle Place they are united:
“_I_ am the Middle Place! _I_ am the Central Man! The life of the Four Winds is my breathing life, All colors unite to illuminate me!”
[Illustration: Earth’s Terraced Bowl--II
_I am the Middle Place! I am the Central Man! The Life of the Four Winds is my breathing life, All colors unite to illuminate me!_ ]
IV
_There, also, the tribes of the Red Men dance the images of man’s life: the Fertilization of the Fields, they dance; the upgrowing of the Corn; and the Summer, and the Winter, which are the seasons of life._
Behold, the Musicians of Summer, the Indian Musicians, chanting! Yellow and blue are the colors of the drums, whereto the dancers dance---- The Dancers of Summer, crested with iridescent feathers, like the many colors of flowers, Crested with wisps of featherdown, like the cloud-breaths of summer winds in the blue bowl of Heaven.... Is not blue the color of the South, whence the Summer cometh? Is not the resplendent Sun robed in shining yellow?
Twain are the Seasons of the Year, as they dance alternating: The Summer advances dancing, and it recedes; The Winter advances dancing, and it recedes.... Twain also are the divisions of men, as they dance in alternation.
Behold, the Musicians of Winter, the Indian Musicians, chanting! Red and green are the colors of their drums, whereto their dancers dance---- The Dancers of Winter, their bodies with red earth many-symboled, in their hands the cypress-green rhythmically waving.... Is not the bare earth red, where it gleams between the snows? Are not the snow-bent brows of the cypress Wintergreen?
Twain are the Great Seasons, as they dance the Year, alternating; Twain also are the divisions of men where they dance the Life of the World---- Male and female they dance, twofold in each division,---- verily, as the Year is twofold in each division.... Particolored their drums, where they dance, particolored their festal costumes; Their voices they uplift in song, in the Song of the Color Mixer, singing Him who apportioneth all, who adorneth the World in Beauty, who maketh all perfect in Beauty!
_Here followeth the Song of the Color Mixer, who createth the World with the music of his drum, who painteth the Year with his light._
“Shining in four Times, Shining in four Directions,---- Thus the Color Mixer hath created it!
“First is the blue---- The little clouds that float up from the South, These are the breaths of Spring!
“Thereafter, the green---- All the Earth waveth with green-verdant feathers Where the Summer Sun cometh forth, radiant in the East!
“Red-yellow is the third color---- In the West the mountains of Autumn are variegated,---- Red earth and yellow, red berries and yellow!
“White also is a color---- Many times it is shadowed with blue, As if the Wintry North were remembering Spring!
“These make up the Year, These make up the World,---- Thus the Color Mixer hath created it!”
V
_The Tribes of the Red Men rejoice in their fields, thinking with thankfulness of the Cloud Spirits which have caused the Goodness of Life to descend, and of the Rainbow Woman who hath woven the colors of her body into the several-colored maize, and of the Corn Maidens, with the pollen-hued butterflies at their lips._
Behold, the Tribes, where they rejoice in the bounties of the harvest! Men and women are there, and youths, laughter-loving; Mothers are there, and children merry of limb; The friendly animals are there, the sport-eager dog, the burro, burden-bearing.
Many songs are sung in the midst of the maize-fields; Many colors gleam where the people move to and fro, Where they gather the sheathéd ears, the ears hard-ripened, Where they gather the crispéd maize, gleaning the several colors.
Many the songs that are sung, and many the altars made precious With gift of well-drilled bead, with polished talisman, With fields of waving feathers bearing the plume-winged prayers, Where from the terraced Bowl the sacred meal is scattered....
While the harvesters bethink them, Singing, where the maize they gather, Of the dancing Cloud-born Women, Of the Maidens of the Mist-Foam, Of the Daughters of the Sunbeams, Of the shining Rainbow-Mother In her stripes of many colors, Like the corn of many colors....
_The Song of the Rainbow Woman, whose body archeth the Fields of Life, is on the lips of the Harvesters._
“The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists, The Woman who appears in dissolvent skies, Her body is very slender and luminous, Her hands touch the extremity of the Earth, Her feet touch softly upon the Earth!
“Adorned is her body with many and beautiful colors, With the green of tender grass it is adorned, With the blue of feathery lupine it is adorned, With the red of glowing cactus, With the yellow of bright pollen....
“Daughter Corn is likewise adorned with colors, Blue corn there is and red corn, Yellow corn there is and white corn: All corn grows upon the bladed green, Touched by the luminous sunlight, watered by crystal dews....
“The Woman who dwells in the Place of Mists, Arching the caverns of the clouds, Arching the Earth with Beauty! Bride she is of the luminous Sun,---- Their offspring is corn of all colors!”
VI
_The colors of the World’s Quarters and the colors of the Year are united in the Land itself, to paint the walks of Man’s Life with beauty._
Thus speaketh that Land where the colors are gathered together, Thus singeth the Heart of Man in the shining land of the mesas, Where he watcheth the Weavers of Rain spin and pattern their fabrics, Where Earth lifteth terraced hills and the Heavens are terraced with glories!
Four are the Hills of the Life of Man, Four are the steps of Earth’s terraced Bowl, Its corners are keyed with Heaven above, Its Pattern of old was made whole-- in that Land where man walketh in Beauty, in that Land where man dreameth in Beauty!
THE CORN MAIDENS
(A Pueblo Cycle)
_The Chief Singer remembereth the Powers of Life:_
Five are the Beings which alone are necessary---- Five are the Great Beings which man must know if he would live.
Whereof the first is the Shining Sun, father of all things illumined with life; Whereof the second is Earth, Mother of Men; Whereof the third is Water, who is Elder of All; And the fourth whereof is Fire, who is Elder of All.
Central is the fifth---- Central are our Brothers and Sisters of the Fields of Corn, Central are our Brothers and Sisters the Seeds of Growing Things.
Five are the Beings which alone are necessary---- Five are the Beings whereby men live.
[Illustration: The Corn Maidens
_All, all is beautiful! The Seeds of Life are beautiful! The Gifts of Life are beautiful! Men walk in beauty! The Children walk in beauty!_ ]
_The Warriors of Light issue from Sipapú:_
Hail to the Light! Hail to the Light!
The Sun of our Day is arisen, The glory of Dawn fills our eyes! Forth from the gloom of our prison, Greeting the azuring skies!
Led on by the Warriors of Morning, Led forth by the Archers of Light, New splendors our bodies adorning, We come from the mothering Night!
Our hearts are as dancers upleaping! Our spirits a jubilant song! Like summer-winged birds we come sweeping, Throng within luminous throng!
Hailing the Light in its wonder! Hailing the Heaven in its blaze! Where the Dawning hath burst it asunder, Filling with glory our days!
Hail to the Light! Hail to the Light!
_The Earth is like a great drum beneath their feet:_
The Earth is throbbing like a drum---- Booming, reverberating, Throbbing with deep pulsation....
So my heart is beating deeply, So my heart is reverberating....
_The Corn Maidens are greeted with choric song:_
O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens of the Corn! Treasure bringing, Pleasure singing, Joy with you is yearly born! With beauty ye our lives adorn!
Ye are the Sisters of the singing Trees; Ye are the Daughters of the sighing Fields; O’er your silks and tassels throng the humming bees Gathering the honeys which your pollen yields!
Round your grateful roots the nursing waters run, Under leafy shelters the swelling corn-ears form, With their precious kernels growing one by one, Ripening for the harvest-day, sheathéd from all harm!
Earth with fields a-dancing ye make beautiful! Earth with hues entrancing ever ye make fair! The vessel of rejoicing ye keep forever full! The singing of your voices fills the singing air!
O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens! O ye Maidens of the Corn! Planting, tilling, Baskets filling---- Joy with you is yearly born, Where with beauty, where with beauty Yearly ye our lives adorn!
_The Flute Musician summoneth to cool slumber:_
Cool wells of water, Clear wells of sweet water, I slumber beside them....
Star phantoms in water, Dream phantoms in water, I gaze on them slumbering....
Echoing voices of women, Echoing from the still water, I harken them slumbering....
Liquid melodies lingering, Floating faint o’er the water, Soothe my soul in its slumber....
Where the pools lie silent, Deep and placid the water, I sink into slumber....
Where life’s wanderings vanish, Sunk in the shadowless water, Fade the dim phantoms of slumber....
_The Morning Star summoneth the Corn Maidens:_
Come away! Come away! Come away!
Over the crest of the Southland, Over the marge of the Year!
Into the Gardens of Summer, Into Fields ever green, ever dear!
Unto the Land of Rejoicing, Unto the Dancers of Cheer!
Where the Sons of Morning waken through the circles of the Sky, And the zonéd World refreshened turneth with exultant cry, While the flaming Sun ascendant leapeth shouting zenith-high!
There the fields in glowing colors down the bright horizons throng; There the minstrel winds beguiling mellow music bear along, And the heart of life upspringeth in a jubilance of song!
Come away! Come away! Come away!
Into the Gardens of Summer, Over the marge of the Year! Fleet to the Land of Rejoicing---- Fleet with the Dancers of Cheer!
_The Corn Maidens linger in the Place of Mist and Dew:_
Mists of Morning dreamily ascending---- Earth and Heaven in one being blending.... Upcoming corn, Tender-green corn....
Breaths of Summer balmy-fragrant blowing---- Crystal dews upon the corn-leaves glowing.... Silkening corn, Tasseling corn....
Butterflies from honey-cups sweet sipping---- Pollen-dews upon the corn low-dripping.... Ear-forming corn, Kernelling corn....
Feathered wings of birds the blue sky covering---- Golden haze o’er all the cornfields hovering.... Ripening corn, Hardening corn....
Many colors through the wide fields dancing---- Laughing sunlight o’er the cornlands glancing.... Crisp-sheathéd corn, Harvest-ripe corn....
_Sun’s Gleam parteth the mists and revealeth the Rainbow Woman:_
Sun Gleam! Sun Gleam! Part thou the Mists of their Concealment! Cleave thou the clouds that do them veil!
Sun Gleam! Sun Gleam! Bare thou the way to their revealment! Blaze to their biding-place swift trail!
_The Choir watcheth with eagerness:_
Lo, now she cometh glory-vestured---- Daughter of Joy! Daughter of Day! Lo, now she cometh beauty-splendored, Crested with Sun-Father’s ray!
She bursteth the seals of the Night, The lair of the hidden layeth bare! She scattereth with lances of light The demons of Earth and of Air!
She maketh still places to shout, The caverns of silence to sing! The choirs of the hills wide about With joy of her radiance ring!
Lo, she darteth her arrows flame-feathered! The fog-hidden bursteth aglow! Up, up, from the arches of crystal Springeth the Mist-Mother’s Bow!
_The Rainbow Woman approacheth the Zenith:_
O Woman of the Rainbow, we hail thee! Daughter of Sun Gleam, we hail thee!
The Place of Concealment is found! Abode of the precious Corn Maidens!
_The Choir chanteth the beauty of the World:_
All, all is beautiful! Once again all is beautiful!
The Fathering Sun, The Mothering Earth, Yearn unto one another, Warm unto one another, Where all is beautiful!
The rain-fringéd clouds, The light-gleaming dew,---- Crystal of Heaven, Crystal of Earth,---- In their freshness all is beautiful!
Fair blossoms of flowers, Fair pollens of corn,---- The meadows rejoice in them, The fields rejoice in them,---- In their fragrance all is beautiful!
Colored plumes of the World, Colored kernels of corn,---- Day they make precious, Life they make precious,---- In their fruitfulness all is beautiful!
Yea, all, all is beautiful! The Seeds of Life are beautiful! The Gifts of Life are beautiful! Men walk in beauty! The Children walk in beauty!
[Illustration: Saint Dominic’s Day--I