Thursday, October 13, 2016

The Stars

From the 
Songs of the 
Passamaquoddy Indians

For we are the stars. For we sing.
For we sing with our light.
For we are birds made of fire.
For we spread our wings over the sky.
Our light is a voice.
We cut a road for the soul
for its journey through death.
For three of our number are hunters.
For these three hunt a bear.
For there never yet was a time
when these three did not hunt.
For we face the hills with disdain.
This is a song of the stars.

                                                                                     I do not know why I like this poem.

                                                                           I do not know what to say
                                                                                      about this poem.

                                                     Is it conceivable that, had it been written by Davie,
                                                                                       or Macniece,
                                                                         by Patten,
                                                                                                                      or Ginsburg

                                                                by a minor modern, that is –

                        rather than by an anonymous ancient 
                                            of the Passamaquoddy Indians of Canada,

                                      that then I would have passed it over 
                                                        for inclusion in this blog?

                                    Then are aesthetics, too, 
                                                              subject to snobberies, 
                                                                                 even to inverted snobberies?

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The Argaman Press

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