Poetry Readers Challenge discussion

“From Sand Creek” by Simon J. Ortiz is labeled a classic on its cover. It is a 2000 reprint of a book published in 1981. Ortiz has given it a new preface in which he focuses on the exclusion and misrepresentation of Indian people (his term, his people) from U.S. history. The book weaves together two stories of loss. One is the massacre of a peaceful group of Cheyenne and Arapaho people by U.S. soldiers, in spite of the American flag they flew at their campsite at Sand Creek in 1864. The other is a group of damaged people with whom he spent time in a veterans’ hospital in 1974-75. These topics flow into and out of each other.
I was first attracted to this book by its structure. Ortiz puts a short piece of prose (often only two lines) on the left hand page and a poem (untitled) on the right. By this arrangement he can convey information without cluttering the imagery and feeling of the poem. Sometimes the matter on the two facing pages is clearly linked. An example:

Even the farmer has become a loser; in small Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska towns, there are more bars than churches or food stores.

Dreams
thinned
and split
can only produce
these bones.

.. . . . . .The last outpost
known,
the rusted plowshare.

Talked to a farmer
about Arapaho schemes.
They knew things
were too good to last,
said he.

. . . . . . . . .In Denver,
I could drink them under
the table anytime.

All they remembered
was open plain and mountains.
They wouldn’t even/couldn’t even
consider Denver anyway.

Me
I think as far as California,
I do.

The colloquial language and the shifts in thought here are typical of the poems overall. Native American singing has influenced the flow of words, and is also referred to in several poems. The writing is also clearly in the category of writing called “poetry of witness.” I sometimes resist such work, but I found this book moving. Here is another pair:

In this hemisphere, corn is ancient and young; it is the seed, food, and symbol of a constantly developing and revolutionary people.

Don’t fret now.

Songs are useless
to exculpate sorrow.
That’s not their intent anyway.

Strive
for significance.
Cull seeds from grass.
Develop another train of corn.

Whisper for rain.

Don’t fret.
Warriors will keep alive in the blood.

Here’s a set about the VA hospital:

Like many other Americans, I love movies, and there were movies at the Veterans Hospital. Watching, men and boys throbbed and ached, passionately, hopelessly.


Dusty plays
the piano
before the movie begins.
His fingers blunt
themselves upon keys.
. . . . . . . .. Throbbing
bullets and aches.

He is mute otherwise.
Memory for him
rattles in dry cells.

Dusty, Dusty, play
for us
before the movie begins.

He plays and his tears
are no music.
. . . . . . . . . . Throbbing aches
and bullets.

Despite all the broken lives, deaths, and dreams destroyed portrayed in these poems, Ortiz insists on hope. He ends the book with

That dream
shall have a name
after all,
and it will not be vengeful
but wealthy with love
and compassion
and knowledge.
And it will rise
in this heart
which is our America.

Hope is necessary for survival, especially in conditions where Ortiz can equate “civilized” with “soulless.” As one belonging to the race of white invaders, I am challenged by Ortiz’s judgments, but I am also included, being only two generations from farmers like those of the first poem above.

It sounds like a book of multiple healings and multiple betrayals. Very interesting. I don't know that I feel totally engaged in the poetry itself though. I've read other Ortiz that I've liked and I do generally like poetry of witness but I'm not sure this is for me.

Very interesting use of language in these poems you've quoted, Ellen. All the repetition, the slow drawn-out build-up of themes really enhances the sense of pain that comes across. The cumulative effect seems to be that when he gets to a stanza like "Me,/I think as far as California,/I do," a stanza whose strange syntax if taken in isolation might come across as a bit unnatural or singsong or contrived, there is a real authentic poignancy behind the words that prevents them from feeling unnatural or singsong at all.

In the excerpt that starts "Don't fret now," all the repetition serves to make the consolations seem less convincing, such that I'm left with a mixture of hope and doubt about whether the poet really believes his own statement that "Warriors will keep alive in the blood."

You do a good job of making an argument on behalf of this important-seeming book, Ellen.