CONSIDERING THE BOUNDARIES OF LANGUAGE

CONSIDERING THE BOUNDARIES OF LANGUAGE

Now, if I learn a new language,
Another way to speak,
I would listen to the Miwok
Learn the names of things,
Learn to think in that idiom
And say, Michako:
We are the People.


#poetry  

In the idiom
I live a movement
gathering
weaving
running
paddling
dancing

Life flows through,
Everything remains:
Catching so many flickers in a basket
Leaving the rest for more.

Not only to elk and deer but to
squirrels
red shafted flickers
wood rats
gophers
salmon
I apologize
In triumph and sorrow profound
As the eyes that slowly fade.

Using every part
digging
scraping
covering
feeding
warming
I speak of life for life.

I name the plants as they are:
Sedge—the stream’s weaver
Yerba buena—illusion of water
Bay tree—boundary marker, repeller of insects,
protector of the harvest
Hazel nut—velvet leaved arrow maker
Willow—frame for my home, fish trapper
Tule ruse—coverer, absorbent rain shield
Oak tree—giver of food, home of the woodpecker

In the idiom
I chant:

O soap root plant
Seven times my provider:
As I glue my spear
I sing to you.
As I throw stunned fish from the pond
I sing to you.
As I brush my hair
I sing to you.
As I eat your roasted bulb flavored with meat and herbs
I sing to you.
As you seal my boiling basket
I sing to you.
As I brush acorn meal
I sing to you.
As I clean my body in the stream’s coolness
I sing to you.
In the evening I sit with the children,
Wek Wek circles above his people
You stand on the steep bank
Clustering wavy leaves
Tiny flowers, stars of the sunset,
Open to the night moths.
I sing.
I sing.
I sing.

I name
The coyote running through blowing grass,
My charmstone hanging from the alder’s branch over my fishing hole,
The strands of iris leaves rolling on my thing,
The bird bones cut and tied that whistle in the dance house,
The smoke that rises from the hole in the sweathouse roof,
The redwood bark covering my home.

I welcome strangers
The lone runner who trades obsidian for clam discs,
The clan across the river before we dance two days and nights,
The girl with the brownest eyes whose secret fire burns
like the cornered bobcat on the mountain.

As my bride I show her the rocks
Which mark my mother’s sedge clump.
I name them all
And they are hers.

At night our fears disappear
Above the hundred rabbit skins
Woven by her hands.
Rattlesnakes and the dark
Find no room
As we create our children.

In the morning I gather nettles
To weave a net for her hair.
I watch the woodpeckers
And chant:

O woodpecker
Seven times my provider!
As I catch you in my willow basket and leave your mate
I sing to you.
As your feathers trim my dancing belt
I sing to you.
As I gather your nuts from the pack rat’s home when the acorns are few
I sing to you.
As your down floats through the air of the dance house
I sing to you.
As I roast your brother in the fire
I sing to you.
As my wife weaves her most intricate basket flush with the red of you
I sing to you.
Precious is the sound of your wings.
The morning sun brightens your red head
As I hear you pounding on the oak
I sing.
I sing.
I sing.

Singing together our clan treks to the great bay.
Digging the clams our heads ben toward the mud
We do not see the large boat until it is close
Nor the tall, light men
Speaking words that do not comprehend the buckeye
Leafing green when the rest of the earth is still waiting for Spring.
We answer their sounds
Knowing our souls full with the land,
Michako:
We are the People.