Category: Poems & poem-like things

Reader (17)

Is there a significant difference between Marcos, who saw a city where there was a group of Zuni villages, and a modern ethnographer such as [Ruth] Benedict, who . . . lost sight of Zuni history and the complexity of Zuni culture, subsuming it into an Apollonian stereotype?
DANIEL T. REFF
“Anthropological Analysis of Exploration Texts: Cultural Discourse and the Ethnological Import of Fray Marcos de Niza’s Journey to Cibola”

Nunqua trobé en sieglo logar tan deleitoso,
Nin sombra tan temprada, ni olor tan sabroso . . .
(Never had I found on earth a spot so delightful,
Nor shadows so cooling, nor odors so delicious . . . )
GONZALO DE BERCER
Milagros de Nuestro Señora

Thy purpose–still one shore beyond desire!
The sea’s green crying towers a-sway, Beyond
And kingdoms
           naked in the
                       trembling heart–
HART CRANE
The Bridge

Pekwin (a.k.a. Sun Priest, Word Priest) (conclusion)

As they pass south of Kyakima,
a boy herding turkeys on the hillside
hears the commotion, looks,
scrambles down to head
off the mask. He tackles it,
the others help him wrestle the man
to the ground, this poor thing
with no words
of his own remaining.
A mind given over
wholly to the elder brothers,
the eaters-of-raw-food.
They have the mask down but it won’t
come off. They pull & tug
& it screams curses in
the sacred language of the East:
it’s stuck fast.
The masker gasps for breath,
he’ll suffocate! They tug
& pull & stretch.

With one last scream the mask
comes loose, a layer of flayed skin
sticking to its back.
The mummer has become the Man
Without a Face, an impossible being.
Despite all the doctors can do
he dies four days later.

They try to clean the Shumekuli mask
as they would any other, scrubbing off
the paint, the pattern of raincloud steps.
Does a masker keep the god’s
turtle-shell rattles on his legs,
the spirit gourd in his hand
for everyday use?
The sacred & the common must be kept apart.

Except this mask,
the White Shumekuli–
a mask that should never
be worn lightly–
it won’t give up its newest
layer of skin.
__________

The story about the White Shumekuli mask comes from Zuni oral tradition, as presented in two separate sources.

Pekwin (a.k.a. Sun Priest, Word Priest) (cont’d)

The other night in the kiva as
a few of us sat & smoked,
the daylight priest of Kechipawa reminded us
of what happened last year at the Yaaya festival.
The Helix Society had set up the fir tree
& all the townspeople were out
dancing, they’d linked arms
& formed the four concentric rings
alternately turning
in opposite directions–entrancing
spectacle for old Knife-Wing, no doubt,
peering down through his smoke hole
in the sky. Everyone’s there, from all
the six towns, dancing, when
the Helix People bring out the masks,
the Horned Ones outside
& the six Shumekuli at the center
circling the tree.

But one of the maskers has, it seems,
an improper thought.
The White Shumekuli mummer
suddenly remembers some transgression–
the night before, let’s say,
he slept with his wife. The mask
goes mad. The masker screams,
claws at his face
but it sticks tight.
He runs full tilt at the inner circle
& the circle breaks,
they try to catch him but the mask
has turned savage, roaring
like a trapped bear, smashes through
the next circle & the outer
two rings of dancers falter
& give way. The Shumekuli
who lives in the East has decided
to take his mask & go home.
Caught up in his guilt, the dancer
has forgotten who
gives life to whom: acts
like a child tagging after
an angry parent. He runs pell-mell
& the crowd dwindles.
__________

The story about the White Shumekuli mask comes from Zuni oral tradition, as presented in two separate sources.

Pekwin (a.k.a. Sun Priest, Word Priest)

This is how it unfolds, as plainly
as if it were painted
in lines of prayermeal:
when the men in metal come to Shiwanna
our warriors, outnumbered as they are,
put up a respectable fight.
This time our enemies enter from the west,
drink like fools from the Lake
that withholds nothing,
this time their dreams will burn off
like a morning fog. Will turn
to light, a white breast feather,
one grain of gold.
When they depart,
their stone-footed familiars
crumple under them.

This time we have better intelligence:
that their witch doctors–five men in brown
robes & two in tunics–will prevent
a slaughter. They ask after
the black man, yes–but not
to avenge him. They’ll come to feel
his death relieves them
of some distasteful thing. And greedy as
they all are–as apt to steal
& murder as any witch–
they’re voracious for tales
that enlarge upon their runaway
slave’s appetites. Why shouldn’t
we feed them?
Still, these strangers arouse
some sympathy. They are such children.

(To be continued.)

Reader (16): Depositions

When Esteban had approached within one day’s journey of the city of Cí­bola, he sent his envoys ahead with his gourd to the lord of Cí­bola, making himself known, announcing that he had come to bring peace and to heal them. [But] when they gave him the gourd, and he saw the cascabeles [probably copper bells, manufactured by other tribes], he turned furious and hurled it to the floor, saying, “I know these people! These cascabeles aren’t a thing WE work with! Tell them to go back immediately, or not a one of them will be spared!” Thus he continued to rage unabated.

So the envoys returned, downcast, hardly daring to tell Esteban what had happened. But when they did tell him, he told them not to worry, that he [still] intended to go there, because, regardless of how badly they had responded, they would [still] welcome him.

So they went on until they reached the city of Cí­bola. The sun had already gone down. With all the people he brought along, there were more than three hundred men, and many women besides. They weren’t permitted to enter the city, but were put up in a large house with good rooms outside the city. And they stripped Esteban of everything he brought, saying that their lord had ordered it. All that night they gave us nothing to eat or drink.

The next day, when the sun [had risen] the width of a lance, Esteban left the house, and some of the chiefs with him, upon which a great number of people came out of the city, and when he saw them, he decided to flee, and we as well. That’s when they gave us all these arrow wounds and gashes and we fell, and other dead bodies fell on top of us, and thus we remained until night without daring to move a muscle. We heard loud voices from the city, and saw many men and women looking out from the rooftops. We didn’t see anything more of Esteban, but we believe he was shot with arrows, as were those who went with him. We alone escaped.

INDIANS (prob. Salado/Hohokam, and/or proto-O’odham) FROM A TOWN NINETEEN DAYS’ JOURNEY FROM “Cí?BOLA”, AS RECORDED BY FRAY MARCOS DE NIZA, 1539

*

The death of the Negro is perfectly certain, because many of the things which he wore have been found, and the Indians say that they killed him here because the Indians of Chichilticale said that he was a bad man, and not like the Christians who never kill women, and that he killed them, and because he assaulted their women, whom the Indians love better than themselves.

FRANCISCO Ví?SQUEZ DE CORONADO, August 3, 1540, writing from “this city of Granada and in the province of Cí­bola” (Hammond and Rey translation)

*

[T]he lord of Cevola inquired of him whether he had other brethren: he answered he had an infinite number, and that they had great store of weapons with them, and that they were not very farre from thence. Which when he had heard, many of the chiefe men consulted together, and resolved to kill him, that he might not give newes unto these his brethren, where they dwelt, & . . . for this cause they slew him, and cut him into many pieces, which were divided among all those chiefe lords, that they might know assuredly that he was dead; and also . . . he had a dogge like mine [i.e. a greyhound, like Alarcon’s], which he likewise killed a great while after.

COLORADO RIVER INDIAN INFORMANT OF ALARCí“N, November 1540 (Hakluyt translation)

*

As the Negro had told them that farther back two white men, sent by a great lord, were coming, that they were learned in the things of heaven, and that they were coming to instruct them in divine matters, the Indians thought he must have been a spy or guide of some nations that wanted to come and conquer them. They thought it was nonsense for him to say that the people in the land whence he came were white, when he was black, and that he had been sent by them. So they went to him, and because, after some talk, he asked for turquoises and women, they considered this an affront and determined to kill him.

PEDRO CASTAí‘EDA Y Ní?í‡ERA, member of the Coronado expedition, recalling ca. 1563 what the Ashiwanni had told him

*

. . . [B]ut with these Black Mexicans came many Indians of Sóno-li [Sonora], as they call it now, who carried war feathers and long bows and cane arrows like the Apaches, who were enemies of our ancients; therefore these our ancients, being always bad tempered and quick to anger, made fools of themselves after their fashion, rushing into their town and out of their town, shouting, skipping and shooting with sling-stones and arrows and war clubs. Then the Indians of Sóno-li set up a great howl, and they and our ancients did much ill to one another. Then and thus, was killed by our ancients, right where the stone stands down by the arroyo of Kia-ki-me, one of the Black Mexicans. . . . Then the rest ran away, chased by our grandfathers, and went back to their country in the Land of Everlasting Summer.

ASHIWANNI INFORMANTS OF FRANK CUSHING, late 19th century

*

Just as the sun went down, I’itoi came and sang there again. Then more people gathered and joined him. And before the night was half over, he made the dancers run because he knew it was time for Siwani to come again. As he stepped up the pace with his rattle, I’itoi said many things so that through this the people would learn that he truly had supernatural powers.

Sure enough, Siwani came with his friends and took I’itoi out and knocked him down and beat him until morning. The sun was already up when Siwani left him, saying, “Whoever takes this corpse, I’ll do to you just what I did to him.”

DOLORES, an O’odham storyteller, 20th century

Shiwanna/Esteban (conclusion)

If they allow me to live
beyond tonight,
what will I become?
Will they let me marry in,
join the priesthood?

Even if they kill me,
they’ll still press me
into service, won’t they?
String my scalp from a pole
for the women to see.
With these black locks
I could unseat
their gods of thunder . . .

A disembodied view of the back
of his own head. The red gambler–
a young man, almost a child,
with the ugliest face imaginable–
snatches it by the hair
& hurls it skyward,
a meteor in reverse.

The gambler glows–
all colors now–& is joined
by what could be his twin:
a pair of flames
cavorting among the viscera.
(Will the Heavenly Father find
this scent to his taste?)

Through the thick black smoke
he watches his dismembered parts
melt down,
each blow of the hammer
releasing sparks
with erratic flight paths,
rising
on butterfly wings:
yellow, blue, scarlet, white,
iridescent, black–

Let the ocean redeem
your inadequate alphabets–

What’s that?
I thought . . . Just a sparrow
awoken by my pacing.
Poor thing, forced to flutter
through the dark in search
of a better roost.
With all the owls about
he’d better be quick . . .

Shiwanna/Esteban (cont’d)

What’s life worth
without such visions?
Be it the full three
score & ten, or cut
however short–as long
as there’s one, continual encountering . . .

It made my head hurt
when I read William
of Ockham–sanest
of mad Franciscans–outline
the blind alleys
down which a mind
can lead the soul
possessed
by abstraction.
Though he missed everything, of course . . .

Who will miss me—
even notice
my absence? Who,
if they kill Marcos, will believe
these Indians?
My name–who will say it?
My work–how to keep it up
with the gourd gone
& almost all my faith
scattered along the way?

The friar would tell me
to pray: I believe.
Help Thou my unbelief.
Circular reasoning, sure,
the classic type.
But what the hell
did Aristotle know?
Or Seneca?
Or Pliny?
The high priests of Reason,
bloodless,
ignorant of all beyond their borders,
equating their backwater sea
with the great Ocean.

What did I know? These Seven
Cities are a joke: seven dusty towns,
seven confections of mud.
As crowded with busy little souls
as termite mounds.

Or are there in fact
only six, as some
of my guides kept saying?
Perhaps the seventh is just
a place for ceremony,
a capital where no one’s allowed
to spend the night. Or else
they have a different accounting,
refuse to let the whole dissolve
into enumerated parts.
Or simply equivocate . . .