A Cry from an Indian Wife by Emily Pauline Johnson

 

A Cry from an Indian Wife

Emily Pauline Johnson

My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell; We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell What mighty ills befall our little band, Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand? Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye. No roaming bison calls for it to-day; No hide of prairie cattle will it maim; The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game: ’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host. Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost. Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack, Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel. They all are young and beautiful and good; Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood. Curse to the fate that brought them from the East To be our chiefs—to make our nation least That breathes the air of this vast continent. Still their new rule and council is well meant. They but forget we Indians owned the land From ocean unto ocean; that they stand Upon a soil that centuries agone Was our sole kingdom and our right alone. They never think how they would feel to-day, If some great nation came from far away, Wresting their country from their hapless braves, Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves. Then go and strike for liberty and life, And bring back honour to your Indian wife. Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me? Who pities my poor love and agony? What white-robed priest prays for your safety here, As prayer is said for every volunteer That swells the ranks that Canada sends out? Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout? Who prays for our poor nation lying low? None—therefore take your tomahawk and go. My heart may break and burn into its core, But I am strong to bid you go to war. Yet stay, my heart is not the only one That grieves the loss of husband and of son; Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas; Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees; One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child That marches on toward the North-West wild. The other prays to shield her love from harm, To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm. Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think, Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink. She never thinks of my wild aching breast, Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest Endangered by a thousand rifle balls, My heart the target if my warrior falls. O! coward self I hesitate no more; Go forth, and win the glories of the war. Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands, By right, by birth we Indians own these lands, Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . . Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

"Mirror Soul."

 Once, I believed in soulmates with all my heart.

Then life tested me.

And for a while, that belief grew quiet.

But my heart opened again.

And I remembered something important.

Soulmates are real.

They are as steady as the stars above you.

And even deeper than a soulmate is your "Mirror Soul."

This is your twin flame.

Someone whose energy matches yours in a powerful way.

A soul who feels drawn to you.

A soul who may be searching for you right now.

There is a gifted artist with a rare intuitive talent.

She is ready to sketch the face of your "Mirror Soul."

If your heart feels happy and full, protect the love you have built.

But if you feel even a small spark of curiosity, this artist may show you something new.

The choice is always yours.

My daily astrological tips will guide you with gentle insight.

And I will be sharing something special with you very soon.

Until then, let love and light lead your way.

Look To The Stars, Always…

Celeste Moonbeam

Cosmic Empath And Sage Of The Stars

CUPID AS A LANDSCAPE PAINTER

 

CUPID AS A LANDSCAPE PAINTER, by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE                Poet's Biography First Line: Once I sate upon a mountain Last Line: No, I trow -- not I! Subject(s): Cupid; Paintings & Painters; Eros

ONCE I sate upon a mountain, Gazing on the mist before me; Like a great grey sheet of canvas, Shrouding all things in its cover, Did it float 'twixt earth and heaven. Then a child appear'd beside me, Saying, 'Friend, it is not seemly, Thus to gaze in idle wonder, With that noble breadth before thee. Hast thou lost thine inspiration? Hath the spirit of the painter Died within thee utterly?' But I turn'd and look'd upon him, Speaking not, but thinking inly, 'Will he read a lesson now!' 'Folded hands,' pursued the infant, 'Never yet have won a triumph. Look! I'll paint for thee a picture Such as none have seen before.' And he pointed with his finger, Which like any rose was ruddy; And upon the breadth of vapour With that finger 'gan to draw. First a glorious sun he painted, Dazzling when I look'd upon it; And he made the inner border Of the clouds around it golden, With the light rays through the masses Pouring down in streams of splendour. Then the tender taper summits Of the trees, all leaf and glitter, Started from the sullen void; And the slopes behind them rising, Graceful-lined in undulation, Glided backwards one by one. Underneath, be sure, was water; And the stream was drawn so truly, That it seem'd to break and shimmer, That it seem'd as if cascading From the lofty rolling wheel. There were flowers beside the brooklet; There were colours on the meadow -- Gold and azure, green and purple, Emerald and bright carbuncle. Clear and pure he work'd the ether As with lapis-lazuli, And the mountains in the distance Stretching blue and far away -- All so well, that I, in rapture At the second revelation, Turn'd to gaze upon the painter, From the picture which he drew. 'Have I not,' he said, 'convinced thee That I know the painter's secret? Yet the greatest is to come.' Then he drew with gentle finger, Still more delicately pointed, In the wood, about its margin, Where the sun within the water Glanced as from the clearest mirror, Such a maiden's form! Perfect shape in perfect raiment, Fair young cheeks 'neath glossy ringlets, And the cheeks were of the colour Of the finger whence they came. 'Child,' I cried, 'what wondrous master In his school of art hath form'd thee, That so deftly, and so truly, From the sketch unto the burnish, Thou hast finish'd such a gem?' As I spoke, a breeze arising Stirr'd the tree-tops in the picture, Ruffled every pool of water, Waved the garments of the maiden; And, what more than all amazed me, Her small feet took motion also, And she came towards the station Where I sat beside the boy. So, when everything was moving, Leaves and water, flowers and raiment, And the footsteps of the darling -- Think you I remain'd as lifeless As the rock on which I rested? No, I trow -- not I!

Nabokov

 

Bird-Understander By Craig Arnold

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Bird-Understander

By Craig Arnold

Of many reasons I love you here is one

the way you write me from the gate at the airport

so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird

trapped in the terminal      all the people

ignoring it       because they do not know

what to do with it       except to leave it alone

until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside

and set it free or       (failing that)

call a bird-understander

to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird

and feel for the bird       and write

to tell me how language feels

impossibly useless

but you are wrong

You are a bird-understander

better than I could ever be

who make so many noises

and call them song

These are your own words

your way of noticing

and saying plainly

of not turning away

from hurt

you have offered them

to me       I am only

giving them back

if only I could show you

how very useless

they are not