Back to Paula Gunn Allen Online MemorialI AM THE REAL HOLLYWOOD INDIAN (or The Trick Is Going Home)
For Paula Gunn Allen
I am the real Hollywood Indian, born there on Sunset & Vermont in the heyday long before Wounded Knee and Alcatraz and the movement back when we were just “colored”, and we tried on the Mestizo accent of East Los, and the signifying trait of Esu at the towers, but later that voice became red and we spoke the language of the colonizers and we began to sing the songs of our own tongues cut out by force from our mouths and red lines drawn in the blood shell color of our ancestors and I was that ancestor on Sunset and Vermont.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, with my squash blossoms turning to silver butterflies in the breeze in the old Los Angeles haze and eagle vision spirit eye of the mountains at night, the sparkle of city lights over a haze of heat and desert air that causes me to breathe, and I am flying at night in the stars where I can see through the eyes of the eagle, Wahaliatka, Eagle Woman.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, not some Miss Thang turned California golden child, sniffing the remnants of some china cup and saucer thrown to the night wolves along Sunset and Gower – their studio is my front yard- and I act out desires on flesh and blood, red lines on paper, tea and scones at sundown, boy of the moment no longer and I am more real than you will ever know.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, a blessing and burden of myth, a howl on a night wind, vision and virgin light from the dead stars above, down through the canyons loping with a bay moon of time and space and all that is between and I am still here, Watching creation spin on its axis and spitting out the stars
I am the real Hollywood Indian, the one who left and remained the same, who emerged from dark desert canyons and minds of frightened girls, who lived to tell the tale and keeps telling, shouting out blood to all who will listen, spitting red on a page to all who will hear and I am still here.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, a ceremony in the making. On Sunset and Vermont running on all fours, a hat of black velvet covering my youth, my blessed age, my being and continuing that is the song of my mother, and I will not tell you again, my words have been spoken.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, speechless and serene in my rage and I will scream at the top of my voice until I can no longer force it back up, birthing stars and dreaming the Sun, new visions and new ceremonies and I will call you home.
I am the real Hollywood Indian, the trickster who birthed herself, Wahalitka, Eagle Woman, sharp-eyed, fierce-lipped, denied everything, given nothing save for the hawk at my back, the thorn in my side, silver butterflies visioning heaven, caustic vision and ancestral memory in the eye of the eagle, and I will see you reborn.
© 2001 Carolyn Dunn
reprinted with permission
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shawl poem for paula
you wove yourself a shawl of words wrapped it tight about you lifted your chin and high-stepped in to kick off the grand entry
you wove yourself a shawl of names tsechenako kochinnenako hwame porivo koshkalaka pocahontas
you wove yourself a shawl of thoughts gynocratic theosophic cosmic profane sacred fearsome funny
you pierced the edges with your awl, your sharp eyesight, your anger, your fierce love for the thoughtworlds destroyers could not claim
you leapt right in, a riot of fringe, a fractal trail of pollen, a spiral of stars, your laugh a revolt against drought and boredom
we all fell in behind you
some of us looked both ways first some of us kept an ancient rhythm some of us tripped along in shiny black heels and some sulked backwards in muddy boots too proud to call you auntie
we are cree sioux cherokee osage breed pinoy dykes and white girls who just love a drum we are women who wear the shawl of words you wove against oblivion
(c) joanna brooks reprinted with permission
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May 18, 2008
My friend is dying
not my friend
just
my mother
teacher
guide
inspiration
unlocked
the unknown
undiscovered
unlit
passages
that carried me
here
so many worlds
open.
Where to place my foot
is clear
now
she gave me keys
to locks
unseen
or the car
I often can't remember
which,
but her voice
words
remind
from a book
deep in a stack
office floor strewn
numbers
figures
results
those words
carry me
forward now
to where I
wanted to be
before.
(c) Leslie Kay
reprinted with permission
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First Language
for PGA
Tectonic plates crush words together,
syllables pulse in Earth’s crust, pressure
rises in rifts of memory and dream,
held in Earth’s mind, smoothed by wind, rain.
Burst of language, Her torn skin,
rock-fired words, micaceous glisten,
clay hardening around sound and sense
but hollowed, porous like Earth Herself.
An urn of stardust we emerge,
our voice—Her mind, Her breath, Her image.
(c) Mary Churchill
reprinted with permission
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Home Calling (for Paula Gunn Allen) Lately New Mexico calls to me. Maybe it's the friends, maybe mesas or some purity of light that never left my heart when I waved Vaya con Dios to Taos. I still see that young woman blaze like dawn along canyon walls, believing warmth will soften any hardness. She comes as a stranger now, her face in mirrors rock, no sun touching the shadow places with holy fire. Here in the East I've grown too sad, eyes clouded with falling towers on a stolen island – here, after you died in the night, Paula, I recalled winter's conversation, you lilting Lately New Mexico calls to me in 1940's gin & cigarette voice, lung cancer and chemo further roughening the mix. Certainly we spoke about mixings, two mixed bloods, breeds, yearning for home, some steady earth balancing our feet. And I'll carry forever understandings you gifted to me from north California beach – Many mixed bloods, especially women, feel chronic fatigue. The "bloods" war against each other inside our bodies. My Scots-Laguna mother taught me that. We half- laughed about others failing to notice our terrible tiredness. You joked Yeah, they think we're normal, never suspect we're about to faint, or worse, we're poets. Lately friends urge me to write happy poems and odes of joy call to me as New Mexico calls –
then, Paula, I remember your death song, Despite the cancer, despite my house burning to the ground, I won't give up. I'll grow stronger. I'll dance again at Laguna Pueblo. New Mexico called you all the way, Paula. In my grief I dance with you, your beloved trumpet vines in bloom, hummingbirds whirring deep into orange flowerings of happiness, you a pain-free girl blossomed with bird energy. Sparkly eyed daughter of dawn, I hear you – laughter of last stars, dreams of turquoise, sage-fragrant limbs flying, shining. Paula, it's over, the split life, the wars inside and out, the human cruelties, stupidities. Sister to so many of us, welcome home. © Susan Deer Cloud 6.3.08
Reprinted with permission
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“Puff”
My mother’s name was Shimanna Which mean ‘raincloud’ in our language. It was a name bestowed upon her By a wise old elder Steeped in secret lore. It was a ceremonial token Of her entrance to his sacred lodge The secret gathering place of the tribe. But it was not an indian name. The tradition was not Laguna. The tradition was not Sioux. The one who named her was gay And the token he gave bespoke, Years ahead of its time, Her admittance to that tribe.
(c) Suleiman Allen
from http://paulagunnallenonlinememorial.blogspot.com/
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SPIDER WOMAN
Here in your house amongst the pretty laced china cup, silk scarves and books lining the shelves, I take comfort in you having slept here, thought new worlds here, breathed fire here, made your enemies drink their own blood, watched the sun rise, the sound of water slowly spreading its fingers in loving prayer. Your beautiful linens, wallpapered borders hand-drawn, woven in color and content, all in one.
I’m not long for this world, you said in a dream of another time, space, life, lace, feathered light and air, yet there you sat, telling me it was time. Then you were gone.
Five hundred miles later, through old haze, children crying, gnarled trunks and congested airways, I lay here, looking for you. A last song of days looms sweetly amongst the tangled web you so carefully spun from your body, fingers dancing, spinning, until time stood still. I lay here, dreaming your voice, watching light and air fall from spinarets and thousand faceted eyes of sky blown clouds.
Last night, frogs sang, calling rain home. The sky opened up, dreaming the dark rimmed edge of night along a rain basted sky, clouds seamless, the only thing missing was you.
© 2008 Carolyn Dunn
from http://paulagunnallenonlinememorial.blogspot.com/
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Long-Distance Gifts
For Paula Gunn Allen
Look into the palms of these hands my hands were so young and inexperienced, she took them gently, my teacher, my auntie professor, my grandmother the whole way from California she took my hands into her hands so she could look into the lines and marks of my birth, my dreams, my failures and joys. Into the depths of what I brought with me through my mother, what my ancestors, Natives of the East and Jews from the Mediterranean wrote on my hands, she read their messages.
All the way from California, Professor Auntie Paula looked into my hands that she had taken into her hands the month before, and declared “Ah, you’re a traditional.” “You better shake them up, girlfriend!” “Jewish Indian women are dangerous, you know!” Across the phone lines our voices travelled, from sea to shining sea: half laughter and half Indian talk. Across purple mountains’ majesty: Laughing and culture women’s mixed blood laughter together with women’s mixed blood culture together with women’s mixed blood education together with women’s love. Mother and daughter. Teacher and student. Grandmother of Ancient Wit and Tricks, and Granddaughter learning the Women’s Traditions written in eternity, caught among college culture, blood politics, phone wires, and the last time we hugged.
Now I am standing under the white pine who has cradled twenty-foot canes of pink rose blossoms in my front yard. December’s tornado pushed over every oak in its path, but she still rises. My hands are turned to the sky. It is June and I am weeping at the loss of my treasured teacher covered in fallen petals and honeysuckle perfume in the dark I pray for her.
On Friday, with my hands still open I light Sabbath candles and set a place for Auntie Paula at our dinner meal. In a vase there are peony blossoms. To the empty chair, to her spirit, I tell jokes, then sit on the porch with my drum and sing.
Stephanie A. Sellers
from http://paulagunnallenonlinememorial.blogspot.com/
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If you have a poem written for or about Paula, email it to info at paulagunnallen dot net. |
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