...The only change in the creative process I've seen with the dance poems comes with the luxury of writing within a framework -- each dance has a distinct feel, an embedded cadence that will suggest a certain shape or silhouette on the page.... "Fox Trot Fridays" was the first in the group; it wrote itself rather quickly.
After that felicitous birth, I imagined writing a poem about each type of ballroom dance -- waltz, tango, quickstep, rumba, cha-cha, mambo, samba, swing, even paso doble. And then, of course, I couldn't write a word, because I was trying to write about dance, not get inside the dance.
When I began to appreciate the technical intricacies of each style -- not just the pattern "quick- quick with a / heel-ball-toe" but the rise upon tiptoe that occurs between the slow count and the first quick in fox-trot, for example, or the gradual lowering from tiptoe that one executes in the second half of the third beat in the waltz -- only then did "American Smooth" [her most recent book] start to shimmer into being.
My scaffolding was to provide a humble description of the dance technique -- what each part of the body should be doing, measured out precisely, without emotion -- in the hopes of finding the poem's true desire, to achieve flight of consciousness, a lifting of the spirit as well as of the human form. 1
THE MUSICIAN TALKS ABOUT "PROCESS"
(after Anthony 'Spoons' Plough)
I learned the spoons from my grandfather, who was blind.
Every day he'd go into the woods 'cause that was his thing. He met all kinds of creatures, birds and squirrels, and while he was feeding them he'd play the spoons, and after they finished they'd stay and listen.
When I go into Philly on a Saturday night, I don't need nothing but my spoons and the music. Laid out on my knees they look so quiet, but when I pick them up I can play to anything: a dripping faucet, a tambourine, fish shining in a creek.
A funny thing: When my grandfather died, every creature sang. And when the men went out to get him, they kept singing. They sung for two days, all the birds, all the animals. That's when I left the South.
A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight, Contented with perfume, Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of the golden glow Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet. Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises, Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring, Only the cat, padding between the roses, Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come, And you are quiet like the garden, And white like the alyssum flowers, And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies? They knew my mother, But who belonging to me will they know When I am gone.
Now that your big eyes have finally opened Now that you're wondering how must they feel Meaning them that you've chased across America's movie screens Now that you're wondering how can it be real That the ones you've called colorful, noble and proud In your school propaganda They starve in their splendor You've asked for my comment I simply will render
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying
Now that the longhouses breed superstition You force us to send our toddlers away To your schools where they're taught to despise their traditions You forbid them their languages, then further say That American history really began When Columbus set sail out of Europe, then stress That the nation of leeches that conquered this land Are the biggest and bravest and boldest and best And yet where in your history books is the tale Of the genocide basic to this country's birth Of the preachers who lied, how the Bill of Rights failed How a nation of patriots returned to their earth And where will it tell of the Liberty Bell As it rang with a thud Over Kinzua mud And of brave Uncle Sam in Alaska this year
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying
Hear how the bargain was made for the West With her shivering children in zero degrees Blankets for your land, so the treaties attest Oh well, blankets for land is a bargain indeed And the blankets were those Uncle Sam had collected From smallpox-diseased dying soldiers that day And the tribes were wiped out and the history books censored A hundred years of your statesmen have felt it's better this way And yet a few of the conquered have somehow survived Their blood runs the redder though genes have paled From the Gran Canyon's caverns to craven sad hills The wounded, the losers, the robbed sing their tale From Los Angeles County to upstate New York The white nation fattens while others grow lean Oh the tricked and evicted they know what I mean
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying
The past it just crumbled, the future just threatens Our life blood shut up in your chemical tanks And now here you come, bill of sale in your hands And surprise in your eyes that we're lacking in thanks For the blessings of civilization you've brought us The lessons you've taught us, the ruin you've wrought us Oh see what our trust in America's brought us
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying
Now that the pride of the sires receives charity Now that we're harmless and safe behind laws Now that my life's to be known as your "heritage" Now that even the graves have been robbed Now that our own chosen way is a novelty Hands on our hearts we salute you your victory Choke on your blue white and scarlet hypocrisy Pitying the blindness that you've never seen That the eagles of war whose wings lent you glory They were never no more than carrion crows Pushed the wrens from their nest, stole their eggs, changed their story The mockingbird sings it, it's all that he knows "Ah what can I do?" say a powerless few With a lump in your throat and a tear in your eye Can't you see that their poverty's profiting you
My country 'tis of thy people you're dying
Buffy Sainte-Marie on Rainbow Quest with Pete Seeger (Episode 38)