Poetry: There is talk of greening Sinai....

Sinai

Poetry: Elegy For Crazy Horse

I am Crazy Horse
I am the wind
Air skimming the land
Breath of the five directions
I am the ghost direction
The spirit running through the grasses
Whispering to our singing Earth 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
I am a moving shadow
Scenting the buffalo
Across the singing plains
Catch my echo as it passes
It will not come this way again
I am the murmuring of the world 

Hoye !



I came fair-skinned, light-haired
The people whispered "Wasichu!"
I felt a shiver at the very name
The breath of strangers on my face
"Curly"was my boyhood name
"Strange Man" I was later
Then, last, Crazy Horse, my people's warrior. 

Hoye !



I asked my grandmother
She said my mother was good Oglala
That was not my question
I was six years old and I knew my question 

Later my woman Black Buffalo
The one I broke the hoop to know
Said her aunt knew my mother
There was a time she went out under the skies 

Hoye !



Said she sought plants for the heart's ease
There was other medicine at work 

A white man found her in the hills 

A man without people
Poured his longing into her
Took her, abandoned her -
That aunt was a heavy-tongued woman 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
My father gave me everything
My seat on a pony
My gaze, my speed of hand
He gave me his name, the words to live a life - 

Only now, when I sleep out here on the plain
I know his sadness, that he would outlive me. 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
Among the Oglala I grew swift and strong 

Learned to ride and hunt
The ways of horse and buffalo
Found my secret animal
Learned to be invisible
Learned to stay my fear
Hoye !



A child, I studied pictures in the fire
Be patient said my father
Fire is change learn to see beyond the flames 

Flames are children of the sun.
He spoke for us
Not for the men who fire the earth
To shape it into thunderbolts of death.
Hoye !



I dreamed of riding against Shoshoni
Dreamed of raids against the Crow
They were our worthy enemies
Worthy as our friends, Cheyenne.
We watched for silent creeping thieves, Pawnee. 

I did not dream of Wasichu
They massed like locusts to the east 

Hoye !



I lay in a wallow questing the sun
I was the breath rising from the buffalo T

he mist of life hanging in the air
I was the rumble of their thunder
I caught it in my fallen cup
I drank it from the pregnant ground
I heard it far across the plains
Hoye !



My father took me hunting
We crept among the beasts
Stalked and aimed to wound
My father did not pierce the heart
This day we were to run one down
We left the ponies, stood tall in the grasses 

We were men of old that day
Hoye !



When darkness fell we were far beyond the river 

My father cut the liver for me
Today he said was a good day to die
There would never be a better day
Today we were men 

Today we were hunters 

We lived in the spirit 

Hoye !



When the buffalo moved across the world 

They followed the grass, the rise of the seasons 

And we moved with them.
Now their bones litter the land
Snow covers their sightless eyes
I hear the herds of years gone by
Their thunder when our ancestors were young 

Hoye !



One man was my hero, a quiet man straight and true 

One was the medicine man who looked at me
And spoke my twisted fate
Said I would lead my people
And only they could kill me -
That drove me arrow-straight in battle, 

Left me haunted at night.
Hoye !


At night I spin the bowl of stars
Campfires of the ancestors
Cloud treaders
Crossing the blue plains
Walking into fathomless black lands
Deep the streams of darkness
Sweeping by their feeble sons and daughters 

Hoye !



I am a wanderer alone
I am what cannot be dreamed,
My spirit animal is not to be told 

My path cannot be followed
Leaves no trace, no wound
My way is the way of paw and hoof 

Padding soft through time
Hoye !



From my patient watching grandfathers 

I have learned the stillness
To lie in wait and pause
I have sat facing the canyon wall
Let the snake unwind over me
Watched the war ants march across my arm - 

I became their path, their destiny
Hoye !



I have lain with the eagle-catcher
On my back in the pit
Stayed from darkness through the dawn 

Breathing shallow, still, silent
Eyes closed to blank their shine 

I have heard the sweep of wings
The terror of the swooping talons 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
I do not do the sun dance
I do not speak in council
I do not beat the people's drum
My dance is a leap across the river
My drum is the world beneath my pony's hooves 

My song is the flighting arrow
Hoye !



I have learned to fight the white man's war 

To count not coup, but death itself.
Their guns reach ever further
Make giants of small men
I fly the wind with a single feather 

Their bones lie now with the buffalo 

The grass grows in the wagon tracks 

Hoye !



I came to the caverns of silence 

The quiet of trickling water 

The deep rocks of star riding 

For the wanderer in darkness
If they ask why these hills why here 

There is land enough for all
This is the cause I cannot speak 

Hoye !



I cannot speak the secrets of this earth
To men who seek the gold, the scattering of stars
They do not know the beating out of time
The slowing pulse flowing beneath
The crystal exhalations of the night
Their heads are full of plodding numbers
Their fingers count the stubborn minutes and the stumbling hours 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse, I am not a number
I am one, beyond counting
One a fragment of the wind
One the gleam in the eye of the buffalo 

One the glinting of the dawn
One the sun riding the sky
I am the wholeness of the world 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
I have learned to probe the lies
Of easy smiles and promises 

Words distorting futures
I trust the stories of the past 

Memories worn smooth like stones 

Bubbling the water on the fire 

Hoye !


My woman was Black Buffalo Woman 

We stood outside the tipi under the robe 

She was given to another
Called me from the plains
I  heard her in the hills
My picture sleeping in the rock 

For her to conjure in the air 

Hoye !



I found her and asked her
Is this the journey of your life ?
Can you not change your path ?
Her eyes wavered she looked past me
Then searched my gaze and saw me utterly. 

She walked away with me
Took nothing, as I found her
Hoye !



He came after us
Came and shot me
Fired his gun into my face 

Left me for dead
Tore his claws across me
Left my heart beating still
Could not cut the bond between us 

Hoye !



I arrived back to the circle
Her mother cat outside
I looked for someone to speak with her
Two boys were passing
“Tell him the child is born !” she said
“Tell him she is well.”
”I have heard the empty wind of someone speaking.” I said 

Hoye !



Inside she held the child and looked me in the eyes 

“Your daughter” was all she said.
Outside her mother was speaking
Loud for all to hear
She worked a deer skin 

Flashed a glance at me
And boasted till the light failed 

Hoye !



Inside I held that tiny hand
That would hold a pony's mane 

That would grasp a bow
That would sew the beads
That would raise the poles
That would light the fire
That would light the fires within 

Hoye !



When I saw that hand
When it held my finger
I felt the squeeze of firm life 

Saw the end of all my battles 

The power of my people 

Breath of all my ancestors 

Filling my lungs
Hoye !

I left her in the tipi
Walked from the circle of the people 

Rode up from the valleys
Into the winds of the world
I looked up, asked my grandfathers
My grandmothers in the circle of the sky 

How long would we stay down here 

How long, Grandfathers, do you know ? 

Hoye !



It was a strange thing to see
Wasichus craving for gold
Drops of sunsweat fallen to the earth
They died for a quill full of grains
I have seen them mad in the hills of home 

Digging and washing the earth
Sifting the fire dust, hoards of ancient light. 

Hoye !



I went to see the winter count
It told the summer's glory,
The victory against the Crows,
Three good men lost, remembered. 

“Where are the Wasichus?” I asked
It was the year they swarmed on the land.

”Not worthy of record” he said with scorn. 

Hoye !



Once I saw a storm of circling winds
Pass through a line of wagons
Limping up that rutted road
Scattered the wagon goods the people and the cattle 

Gained the heights and sang their song of victory 

That day those people met a greater thunder
A greater anger sweeping them away 

Hoye !



I became the storm from nowhere
My name was heard in countless dreams 

Before I died I lived a story
Placed the truth in empty hands
Hope was riding on my shoulder
We were brothers we endured 

Nothing dies in such a tale 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
When my land was taken
I feel it like a severed limb 

It is there and not there
My people's names echoing 

Haunting the hillsides 

Calling us to save them 

Hoye !



I cannot bear to look on the sick white-woman face
The red and white faces of men who lie
There is no understanding these pay-money white people 

Or the Lakotas either
After they lived among them
I am Crazy Horse
I do not sleep by the white man's fort 

Hoye !



Father said there is a difference
Between us and them

That tells you everything 

We belong to this land
They think that it belongs to them
That is the darkness of their ways
The world is too heavy a load
Hoye !



And yet I will withstand my anger 

I will honour empty promises 

Take vain giving
See blood spilled
The very air made foul
I, Crazy Horse, called a savage
I will live and be patient in the world 

Hoye !



In our lands time flowed quiet like water 

A gentle stream bore us
Carried us in tender arms
Cast us on a friendly bank.
Now time comes in lightning strikes 

Singeing the ground beneath our feet 

Hurling us helpless to the dust
Hoye !



I know there is an end to these fair plains
That the grasses reach an ocean of trees
That ends with the ocean of water flowing to the sky - 

We came from the East to find our destiny 

Star-bowled hoop of pride and plenty
Horse and buffalo, land of richness
Sustained us tall and happy people
Hoye !



Now I ride to the white man's fort 

I will fight no more
My people starve
The beasts are gone
I shall use the word surrender
A white man's word
A little death in a foreign tongue 

Hoye !



I am Crazy horse
I can look tomorrow in the eye
I shall not flinch from destiny
I shall tread the stony path
I shall go under the gun
I shall walk the way of the wagon 

I shall come to the door with bars 

And never pass through
Hoye !



I shall ride into the mountain
My pony's hooves echo under the hill 

Will I warm the grass roots
With my war breath, my cry ?
Will I feel the cool air rise from the cleft 

The breath of caverns in the earth
I dream in with my flickering fire ? 

Hoye !



I am Crazy Horse
It was not enough to be the bravest
To be swifter than the wind
To know Coyote sleeps south of the skyline 

Not enough to climb the rocks to see the future 

It was the small hand of a girl child
Binding itself around my finger
Hoye !



I am Crazy horse
I have heard the grasses part
The soft fall of the panther's paw
I have heard the fanning of the grouse
I have heard the murmur of the streams deep underground 

Flowing through the caverns of the past
Down to the ocean round the world
Hoye !



In the hills
Smoke rises
Winding threads into the sky 

Threads from pipes also rise 

Passed from hand to peaceful hand 

To weave the people's bonds.
Can they sew our hearts together ? 

Hoye !


My rest is silence.
Yet I will still be thunder and lightning 

Striking from the looming sky.

A link to Crazy Horse

I'm looking at the talks I have given over the past twenty years or so outside the school environment.One great American I have always been drawn to, in spite of the significant racial and cultural gulf between us, was Crazy Horse. We had one extraordinary link with this man who died 140 years ago, and the living present in Tamworth up until a single decade ago.

Talk: Crazy Horse: Man of his World, Culture and Time - and his sometimes baffling individuality.

This is a link to an audio recording of this talk: 

https://soundcloud.com/user-266856264/crazy-horse/s-3lVECNODobc

- Richard.

Talk: The Crisis of the Male

It has been suggested to me that some of the public talks I have given over the years might be of interest to an audience now.  

"The Crisis of the Male" is a half-hour musing on how boys become men in our society, and the challenges facing them and the wider community. I hope that it is not too dry or lacking in humor, and it has a few beans to spill. 

I hope to record and share talks on other subjects -  Crazy Horse, Ancient Egypt and the British Empire are in the works.

--

Richard

 

Here's the link to the recorded talk:

 

https://soundcloud.com/user-266856264/the-crisis-of-the-male/s-gsud1fjK1sY

 

Commentary: Messaging and Context

I understand the word "messaging" to mean the public delivery of opinion. In communities where there is an acceptance of the importance of free speech, opinions are normally expressed either in the hope that others will agree, in which case the opinion gathers strength in community life, or that even if others disagree, they will know that others disagree with them. In the latter case, there may be a hope that those who disagree may modify their views - perhaps quickly in the light of evidence and persuasion, perhaps over the longer term as the times themselves change. If the bedrock belief in free speech is insecure or not really a belief at all, the messaging becomes propaganda.

 "Propaganda is communication that is primarily used to influence an audience and further an agenda, which may not be objective and may be selectively presenting facts in order to encourage a particular synthesis or perception, or using loaded language in order to produce an emotional rather than a rational response to the information that is being presented. Propaganda is often associated with material which is prepared by governments, but activist groups, companies, religious organizations, the media, and individuals also produce propaganda." I subscribe to this Wikipedia definition.

Poetry: Tangles with God - the final installment ? Is there ever ?

Commentary: Ancient civilizations (several) buried in Tamworth !

Dear Readers, 

Some of you know what a light-hearted little sprig I am, and how all I yearn to do on a chilly morning in beautiful Tamworth is provide a modicum of entertainment to brighten these solemn columns. (And how many of the younger set understand the origin of the use of the word "columns" for wodges of text? Oh, wait, is "wodge" too English English, or I am being safely mid-Atlantic?)

Well,. I think you might be warned already that I am happily digressing this morning as I look out on early March here and reflect for the thousandth time that the daffodils and crocuses are nodding their pretty little heads in balmy England.

Last year in my nature notes here I was still muttering about the white stuff in mid-April, so memories of February daffs up by train to London from the Scilly Isles just beyond the toe of England are really not going to help.

Ancient civilizations ? Oh, yes. Future archeologists will of course be armed with underground radar and other tech of a sensitivity we can only dream of, but even so it may take a while before they discover the unlikely sites of several puzzling settlements buried deep in our local woods.

Commentary : Neanderthals: their thinking and behaviour

I'll keep this short, but since I come from the home of lost causes, and you can't get a cause more lost than the Neanderthals, I'd better step up. I wish the president had chosen another target for his thoughtless adjective. He might have chosen one of any number of examples from our branch of hominids thinking rashly, impatiently, stupidly, some even in our own gloriously enlightened age, even among the intellectual demigods of our current  political elite.

I don't know much about those lost cousins of ours - but I gather that their brains were larger than ours,

Poetry : I have waited till 4 AM for the fiery wells...

Elevation

Commentary : Reform and Revolution

The kind of enlightened attitudes of tolerance and co-existence Noel Hodson and other correspondents are so impatient for are actually major human achievements that have only occasionally surfaced from the quagmire of history. Second-guessing the murk of oral tradition, we can speculate that over the last half a million years there have been instances, some perhaps lasting generations, of benign societies, enlightened leaders, humane mores. Certainly even the darkest periods will have seen wholly remarkable pockets of humanity living lives of light, and exceptional individuals transcending the pervasive savagery all around them. However, with only just over five thousand years of written records of any kind, and the early centuries of this eyeblink tied to agricultural civilizations, we have to make what we can of very limited recent solid evidence.

Music and Cricket : Glimpses of England

Commentary : February 19th, 2021

2050.....2035....2030 - Stop there - 2030.

I have a problem with how to pitch this proposal where it counts. Here in America, in spite of the repeated nervous caveats concerning the pandemic, the natural disasters and not-so-coded messages from the Almighty, just over half the population is breathing deep sighs of relief every day as we hear leaders who speak soberly and sanely or at least intelligibly and the rhetoric from the top is beginning to spread hope across the wider world. "The world can longer do the minimum in the face of climate change" says Biden today as we re-sign the Paris Accord we should never have left. So why my rising frustration and alarm?

"Too little too late so far and continuing" is my theme, which may seem harsh and ungrateful to shout now in the face of reassurances from the titans of capitalism and government, that the recent paroxysms of blind greed are over. I fear that we are suicidally mistaken if we believe in the talking up, the figures, the promises, even some of the science.

Glimpses of England : The Race to the Last

Once a year there was a cross-country race for the whole school. Legendary athletes had run the course in absurdly short times – we had one of those Pheidippides in our year, who I think went on to push the mile record to close on four minutes but was not the gangling doctor-to-be who broke the barrier first on a scruffy off the beaten track track on the Iffley Road in Oxford close to where I lived in later times this story is not of those near-Olympian demigods but of me and my friends

Poetry : From Time to Time I Tangle

Stuck in the Middle Ages

Poetry : Playing Hide and Seek With God

Glimpses of England : Outdoors in the Perambulator, 1946

 

England was where my early life was apparently much spent in my perambulator the grand carriage four-wheeler kind the lonely ship in which I was put out to air and left to imbibe the silence of the spheres and learn the lessons of self-reliance there being no loving arms available at the time and the isolation was Good for me and the stories told are that I shouted swearwords from my limited infant vocabulary learned from my father back from the war and possessed of rapidly improving RAF English and that some time earlier in the thick of falling V2 rockets Daisy our devoted servant who had been with my grandmother since she was 15 and fresh from rural poverty and in the 1970's was still paid ten shillings a couple of bucks a week and board had run a panic-blurred mile from the shops to get me home to the big house and the huge cellar our air-raid shelter where we slept twenty or more for much of the war while occasionally the German planes added future playground craters to the vicinity and lent colour to our lives and reminiscences true and untrue for the next hundred years

Commentary: Thoughts on Truth 1/31/21

I have been thinking about Truth, and truths. Especially at the moment, when we have some rather big ones to look in the eye. This reflection doesn't feel like poetry, so it won't be. These are interim notes, with a finished product some way off.

It is difficult to move beyond Keats' dictum that Truth is Beauty and Beauty Truth. Oh that that were all we really need to know! It seems to me that I'd have to be Rousseau's Noble Savage to take Truth in such a graceful stride.

Glimpses of England : First Impressions

GLIMPSES - IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND AND A CHILDHOOD THERE FROM 1944 TO 1962 OR THEREABOUTS

 

England is windy nights and weird whistlings from ancient trees I grew up in that soundscape