Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WAHSAH, by JOSEPH BRUCHAC First Line: Then old man spoke to the people Last Line: We must answer: no!!!! Variant Title(s): Wahsah Zeh (war Dance) - As Long As The Grass Subject(s): Nuclear War; Atomic Bomb; Hydrogen Bomb | ||||||||
Then Old Man spoke to the people. "Go and hide in our Mother," he said. "The wind which comes will blow away your breath. The rain which comes will burn your flesh. Go and hide in our Mother," he said. A cool morning in April. I drive to work thinking. The tiny fists of buds begin to swell on trees beside the road. The sap in the maple buckets turns yellow. The grass edges its way to green. These are things which can be seen, but other forces touch my life, more invisible than air itself or greed which masters human hearts. Woman who fell from the sky Grandmother Woman who fell from the sky Grandmother Who held the seeds of plants in her hand Who fell to new earth on Turtle's back Who held the good seeds of plants in her hand Who fell to the Earth on Turtle's back You, who gave birth, your children need you You, who gave life, your grandchildren need you You, who brought birth, your grandchildren need you You, who brought life, your children need you Less than 500 miles from here, men and women work calmly near the Nuclear Plant. They tell themselves, as they tell reporters, that nothing is wrong, that American know-how which sends rockets streaking, scrawls of chalk across black space to distant planets, can always control the monsters it creates. They do not know the stories of the Earth they live on, have never heard of the Evil Mind Longhouse People tell of in winterlodge tales. They have never seen the Kinzua Dam cover good corn land of the Seneca Nation, graves of leaders, George Washington's word. They have never seen Smallpox smile from gift blankets, seen beaches of Maui, Kaui and Hawaii covered with 400,000 bodies, limbs burned by the fire of western disease... as the Mandan, Arikara enter the Sweat Lodge and the pustules swell, swell up like a bubble of radioactive hydrogen trapped within the dome of a safe reactor. And perhaps this nation knows no myths and even the story of Mary Shelley's haunted flesh means nothing more than a way to hold children for an hour before the pale eye of commerce whose rainbow dreams hypnotize away all humanity which does not exist for profit. And somehow no one knows how Karen Silkwood's car goes off the road. A thousand papers flutter about her, they are the white swans who flew up from the water to catch the woman who fell from the sky. They are too late. And somehow no one knows how when police arrive the papers are gone and the men of Kerr-McGee sleep soundly and the red earth of Oklahoma is Karen Silkwood's burying ground. And somehow no one knows how there was plutonium contamination in her bathroom plutonium contamination in her bedroom plutonium contamination in her food and perhaps say the men at the Nuclear Plant whose safety practices she had condemned she intended to contaminate herself to gain publicity this is what they say the men at Kerr-McGee and do they sleep soundly? This is a song of quiet anger, of anger which will be quiet no longer. If only, perhaps, they could watch just one finger of their left hand begin to decay half an inch, a tenth of an inch each time they absorbed enough to shorten a life, start the crazy quilt proliferation of leucocytes. If only that, instead of numbers, of dosimeter readings which measure a "4" which they say is only as much radiation as one would get from 200 chest x-rays. Then they set "5" as the number safe to absorb in one month. Madame Curie, patron saint of luminous watches, we honor you. Madame Curie, held up to me, heroine of my childhood, we honor you. Madame Curie, limbs thin as sticks, hair falling out, we honor you. Because the spirit cannot be seen, is it not there? Tell me it is not there when you see the body of a human which no longer holds it. Tell me that breath is less important than the color of skin, the clothing you wear, the whiteness of teeth in a "sex-appeal" smile. Woman who comes walking Grandmother Woman who comes walking Grandmother You wear a dress of white Buffalo Skin You walk to us with visible breath You wear the dress of white Buffalo Skin You walk to us from four directions White Buffalo Woman White Buffalo Woman White Buffalo Woman White Buffalo Woman You bring the Pipe, the heart of the people You bring the stone the blood of the people You bring the stem the plants of the earth You bring the tobacco breath of the Creator And of those who saw you coming one whose heart was good brought back life to the people, one whose heart was bad, who saw your body and not the beauty of the gift you carried who looked at you as corporations look at the Earth, at the coal of Black Mesa, at the oil shale of the Crow Reservation at the North Slope of Alaska, that one, that other one fell to the Earth fell to the Earth to the Earth as bones and worms crawled among his bones. This is a song of anger for the dream they are killing is not just my own. They eat the earth from beneath the feet of our grandchildren's grandchildren. Satanta, the great Kiowa chief, said it more than a hundred years ago. "You cut down the trees, kill the Buffalo, you make the streams filthy so that even you have no water to drink. Are you people crazy?" And in answer the army officers spat at his feet. Let them kill themselves? Is that what you say? But the grave they dig is American, a giant economy size, a family model, the only product manufactured for profit which does not have built-in obsolescence. The half-life of radioactive wastes manufactured by our nuclear plants can be measured in tens of thousands of years. The glaciers returned to the poles but those will remain, faithful through the ages. It is as if the poison which killed a Roman emperor stayed in the air until today, killing every person who breathed it. It is as if the spear which wounded the side of Christ still hung, invisible, on the hill of Golgotha, goring every living creature which came close to that place. It is as if the stone Cain hurled against his brother were orbiting, a tiny evil moon, striking down guilty and innocent from that time on. And the Sun watches We do not see him. We do not accept the gift offered freely. There is no profit in solar power. There is power in the reactor's poison. There is profit in oil, in coal, in the rape of our Mother to bring forth her black blood and bones burning in factories, smoke choking sky acid rain weeping into mountain lakes, trout dying, trees dying, the water bitter. And Grandmother Moon fills up the night, Grandmother Moon fills even our dreams with the light of Sun the light they have not seen A man is about to leap from a ledge. He is not trying to kill himself. He swears he will be able to fly. Some believe him, some know he is a fool, but no one stops him. They all stand by as he leaps to the crowded street below, even though, strapped to his back as if it could lift him into flight, is a case of dynamite. This poem is a poem of anger. This poem calls back those of the past. It calls back Powhatan it calls back Madakwando it calls back Pontiac it calls back Tecumseh it calls back Dragging Canoe it calls back Osceola it calls back Captain Jack it calls back Chief Joseph it calls back Cochise it calls back Dull Knife it calls back Satank it calls back Looking Glass it calls back Crazy Horse it calls back Sitting Bull Tatanka Iyotake Tatanka Iyotake Tatanka Iyotake Tatanka Iyotake It calls all those whose spirits never left us It calls all those whose spirits never left us It calls all those whose spirits never left us It calls all those whose spirits never left us GER O NI MO GER O NI MO GER O NI MO GER O NI MO There are no mountains in which to hide from the rain which will fall. No one can dodge the bullets of this gun which kills even the hand which fires it. This poem calls back Ayontwantha. This poem calls back the Peacemaker. This poem will say the sacred names. It calls all those who love the Earth, calls both living and dead on Turtle's back. It calls the Bear Mothers It calls Gluskabe It calls Grandmother Spider It calls Manabozho It calls Coyote It calls Moon, our Grandmother It calls the Manitous It calls the Thunderbird It calls the Kachinas It calls the Thunderers HE NO HE NO HE NO HE NO Grandfathers wash the Earth Grandmothers wash the minds of those who do not believe in circles Grandfathers, take them, make their minds straight Grandmothers, take them, make their hearts good. Listen, all of us who love our children Listen, all of us who love our land Listen, all of us who love our parents Listen, all of us who love our friends All of us are "Indian" now The treaty not made is the only one which might never be broken. It promises waste, it promises death for as long as the rivers run for as long as the grass shall grow We must answer: No. We must answer: No. We must answer: No. WE MUST ANSWER: NO!!!! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A RENUNCIATION OF THE DESERT PRIMROSE; FOR J. ROBERT OPPENHEIMER by NORMAN DUBIE ANAGRAM BORN OF MADNESS AT CZERNOWITZ, 12 NOVEMBER 1920 by NORMAN DUBIE FROM A STORY IN THE NEW YORK SUNDAY TIMES TRAVEL SECTION by ALAN DUGAN THE GARDEN SHUKKEI-EN by CAROLYN FORCHE POST-MODERNISM by JAMES GALVIN THE BATH: AUGUST 6, 1945 by KIMIKO HAHN LATE SPRING IN THE NUCLEAR AGE; FOR CLARE ROSSINI by ANDREW HUDGINS |
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