Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
The poems included here stem from my sense of the environment in which I grew up and in which I live today. The environment includes people, landscape, weather, the traditional stories and songs of the O’odham and how they all interact and offer varying perspectives for me as a participant. The main stage for this environment is primarily the Sonoran desert in southern Arizona, a place that is the traditional home of the Tohono O’odham. The language I write in is the Tohono O’odham language spoken in southern Arizona and Northern Sonora, Mexico; it is a language that should be presented in the world’s literature. The Tohono O’odham oral tradition is still rich with songs, oratory, prayers and stories; this is a great gift that many Native Nations across the U.S. have lost due to the great language shift toward English. I am fortunate to be able to access the oral literature of the Tohono O’odham; it is an oral literature that influences me at every turn.
Jeweḍ ‘I-Hoi
Kus hascu hab a:g mat hab o cei,
“añ ep ta:tk mat si ‘i-hoi g jeweḍ,
nap pi ṣa’i ta:tk a:pi?”
“Pi’a, pi’a.”
Ñia, kus hascu hab a:g?
Kutp hems heg hab a:g mat o ṣ??-hai g jeweḍ k o ‘i-hoi
a no heg hab a:g mat sikol o memḍad mo g milga:n b a’aga rotation.
Ñia, kutp hems heg hab a:g mo hegai ta:tk.
Kutp hems hab e-elid mo an ke:k id jeweḍ da:m c da’a an da:m ka:cim
oidc.
Ceṣṣajcug g jeweḍ hab masma mat hemakc g s-melidkam kawyu o
ceṣṣajcug.
An meḍad c g mo’oj ṣelim an e-wiḍut huhu’u mehidag ku:bs oidc.
S-ke:g hab ma:s.
Heg an we:maj wiappoi mo an ko:mcug g taṣ c gahu amjeḍ i-bebhe
si alig ta:gio amjeḍ gamhu hukkam hudñig ta:gio.
Ñia, kut hegai maṣ d maṣad ceḍ o odham o si al hehemad matṣ an o
bij.
Riding the Earth
She said she felt the earth move again.
I never knew whether she meant she felt a tremor
or whether it was the rotation of the earth.
I like to think she felt the rotation, because
anyone can feel a tremor.
And when she felt this
she could see herself
standing on the earth’s surface.
Her thick, wide feet solidly planted,
toes digging in.
Her visualization so strong
she almost feels her body arch
against the centrifugal force of the rotation
She sees herself with her long hair floating,
floating in the atmosphere of stardust
She rides her planet the way a child rides a toy.
Her company is the boy who takes the sun on its daily journey
and the man in the moon smiles as she passes by.
In memory of Barbara Lannan
“Jewed I-hoi/Riding the Earth” reprinted with permission by the author from Earth Movements, Kore Press, 2005.
B ‘o ‘e-a:g maṣ ‘ab him g ju:kǐ
B ‘o ‘e-a:g maṣ ‘ab him g ju:kǐ.
Ṣag wepo mo pi woho.
Nañpi koi ta:tk g jeweḍ mat am o i si ka:ckad c pi o i-hoiñad c o ñendad.
Ṣag wepo mo pi woho.
Nañpi koi ta:tk g da:m ka:cim mat o ge s-wa’usim s-we:ckad.
Ṣag wepo mo pi woho.
Nañpi koi ta:tk g hewel mat s-hewogim o ‘i-me:
Ṣag wepo mo pi woho.
Nañpi koi hewegid g s-wa us jeweḍ
mat g hewel ‘ab o ‘u’ad.
Ñia, heg hekaj o pi ṣa’i woho matṣ o ju:.
It is Going to Rain
Someone said it is going to rain.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the earth and the way it holds still
in anticipation.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the sky become heavy with moisture of preparation.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet felt the winds move with their coolness.
I think it is not so.
Because I have not yet inhaled the sweet, wet dirt the winds bring.
So, there is no truth that it will rain.
In memory of Barbara Lannan
“B ‘o e-a:gi mas ‘ab him g Ju:ki/It is Going to Rain” reprinted with permission by the author from Earth Movements, Kore Press, 2005.
Ñ-ku ibaḍkaj ‘ant ‘an ols g cewagǐ.
With my harvesting stick I will hook the clouds.
‘Ant o’i-waññ’io k o ‘i-hudiñ g cewagǐ.
With my harvesting stick I will pull down the clouds.
Ñ-ku’ibadkaj ‘ant o ‘i-siho g cewagǐ.
With my harvesting stick I will stir the clouds.
With dreams of distant noise disturbing his sleep,
the smell of dirt, wet, for the first time in what seems like months.
The change in the molecules is sudden,
they enter the nasal cavity.
He contemplates that smell.
What is that smell?
It is rain.
Rain somewhere out in the desert.
Comforted in this knowledge he turns over
and continues his sleep.
Dreams of women with harvesting sticks
raised towards the sky.
In memory of Barbara Lannan
Ofelia Zepeda, “Pulling Down the Clouds” from Ocean Power. © 1995 Ofelia Zepeda. Reprinted by permission of The University of Arizona Press.
E-atkǐ ‘ep ‘ai mat o ‘e-keihi g O’odham
o ‘e-keihi kut hab masma ab o ‘i ha-miabǐ g ju:kǐ
‘apt ge cuhug oidk o ka:d mat hab o kaijjid:
“‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘at hahawa o ma:si
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
am o aṣkia wi’is g ñeñe’i
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
‘at hahawa o ‘i-ceṣ g taṣ
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
am o aṣkia wi’is g s-cuhug
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o.”
It is the time for the ritual.
To dance, to sing so that rain may come,
so that the earth may be fixed one more time.
Throughout the night,
a night too short for such important work,
the people converge energies.
They call upon the night.
They call upon the stars in the darkness.
They call upon the hot breezes.
They call upon the heat coming off the earth.
They implore all animals.
The ones that fly in the sky.
The ones that crawl upon the earth.
The ones that walk.
The ones that swim in the water and
the ones that move in between water, sky, and earth.
They implore them to focus on the moisture.
All are dependent.
From the dark dryness of the desert,
on that one night the call of the people is heard.
It is heard by the oceans, winds, and clouds.
All respond sympathetically.
Throughout the night you hear the one who is assigned yelling:
“‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
before it becomes light
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
there are still songs to be sung
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
before the sun comes up
‘oig ‘o, ‘oig ‘o
there is still a little bit of night left.
With the dawn we face the sunrise.
We face it with all our humility.
We are mere beings.
All we can do is extend our hands toward the first light.
In our hands we capture the first light.
We take it and cleanse ourselves.
We touch our eyes with it.
We touch our faces with it.
We touch our hair with it.
We touch our limbs.
We rub our hands together, we want to keep this light with us.
We are complete with this light.
This is the way we begin and end things.
In memory of Barbara Lannan
Ofelia Zepeda, “O’odham Dances” from Ocean Power. © 1995 Ofelia Zepeda. Reprinted by permission of The University of Arizona Press.
I
Every day it is the same.
He comes home.
He tells her about it.
As he speaks, his breath condenses in front of his face.
She goes about her business;
every now and then she looks over.
She doesn’t hear his voice.
She sees the soft fog that continues to form a halo.
She knows he is still talking about that place.
He never tires of it like she does.
Only on summer days when the air is hot
and moisture is still a long time in coming,
she asks him to tell her about that place.
She sits facing him.
Waiting for the first vocalic, non-stops,
the push of air from his lips.
He tells her of the place where clouds are formed.
The cool dampness of his voice is rich.
Even on a dry June day
her face beads with wetness
as he talks directly to her.
Each aspirated sound a gentle burst of coolness.
“Tell me again, tell me again,” she teases.
If he knew she only wanted relief from the heat
and not the story, he would stop talking.
He begins, “The first time I saw the place
where clouds are formed was from
the window of a train . . .”
Another time was in a mirage
in the heat outside Tucson.
Once he thought he saw it
in the dry light of stars.
The place he remembers best
was when he saw it in the eyes
of a woman he spoke to.
When he first noticed it,
she hid it by lowering her gaze.
Soon she let him look freely.
There were times when she opened her eyes
wide, allowing an unobscured view.
Sometimes he saw her eyes smolder
with dryness on a summer day.
Other times she was rich with moisture.
Clouds came in succession.
The earth’s shadows muted.
“You know the forty days
and forty nights?
I was there.
I’ll be there when it happens again,”
she said with a slight smile.
Like a child, he rushed to look
into her eyes at every opportunity.
If he could, he would hang on her eye socket,
peering inside,
marveling at her displays.
II
An unusually cold December day right around Christmas;
clouds, mist find solace in the canyons of the Santa Catalina Mountains.
White moisture quietly moving amid the cactus.
Truly, clouds, wind, and rain are the few elements
that can touch the saguaro from head to foot.
Oblivious of spines, needles.
Rubbery hide surrounded, soothed by elements.
Contact triggers stored heat of remembered summers.
Moisture beads roll forward, unstoppable.
From the city below
we see mist rising, mist rising.
III
We sit close in the cab of the truck.
The weather is cold, wet outside.
Too messy to stand in
waiting for a school bus.
My father’s truck is warm inside,
having been at work since four a.m.
The sound of the engine is soothing,
heater working to capacity.
Inside the cab we are silent.
We don’t need language.
We listen to the regular hum of the engine,
rhythm of the windshield wipers,
soft rain on the hood.
Aware of the cold air
surrounding our temporary shelter.
We look out over the fields
where fog clings to the soil.
Every now and then
with the back of his gloved hand
he wipes the windshield.
“Is it coming yet?”
The three of us sit quietly,
breathing clouds.
Clouds condense as
they contact the coolness of the windows.
My father appears to breathe air
with temperature in balance.
He forms no clouds.
He watches us.
We continue to breathe
gray, soft mist, waiting for the school bus.
Ofelia Zepeda, “The Place Where Clouds Are Formed” from Where Clouds are Formed. © 2008 Ofelia Zepeda. Reprinted by permission of The University of Arizona Press.