I once showed a party of Sioux chiefs the sights of Washington, and endeavored to impress them with the wonderful achievements of civilization. After visiting the Capitol and other famous buildings, we passed through the Corcoran Art Gallery, where I tried to explain how the white man valued this or that painting as a work of genius and a masterpiece of art. “Ah!” exclaimed an old man, “such is the strange philosophy of the white man! He hews down the forest that has stood for centuries in its pride and grandeur, tears up the bosom of Mother Earth, and causes the silvery watercourses to waste and vanish away. He ruthlessly disfigures God's own pictures and monuments, and then daubs a flat surface with many colors, and praises his work as a masterpiece!”
SIMULTANEITY
When you touch me—I am
breath rather than a woman breathing.
One thousand wings, a single beat,
split sky with summer rain.
Breath rather than breathing
fills the empty glass.
Split sky with summer rain
reveals horses carved in stone.
Fill the empty glass
with wine of roses, lilac, heather;
reveal horses carved in stone
but not hands that formed their symmetry.
With wine of roses, lilac, heather,
toast grass that fractures concrete blocks
but not hands that formed the symmetry
of streets concealing streams.
Toast grass that fractures concrete blocks
beside the woman reaching toward you;
on streets concealing streams
she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp.
There is a woman reaching toward you;
her face is old, possessions few,
as she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp,
and I see you, I see myself within her mask.
Her face is old, possessions few;
she came to laugh—she came to love,
and I see you, I see myself within her mask
reflecting how the earth breathes.
We came to laugh—we came to love;
one thousand wings, a single beat
reflecting how the earth breathes
when you touch me.
Thank you to the editors at Scribendifor first publishing this poem.
They are a heartless nation, that is certain. They have made some of their people servants — yes, slaves!
We have never believed in keeping slaves, but it seems that the white people do! It is our belief that they painted their servants black a long time ago, to tell them from the rest — and now the slaves have children born to them of the same color!
The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire possessions — to be rich. They desire to possess the whole world. For thirty years they tried to entice us to sell our land to them. Finally, their soldiers took it by force, and we have been driven away from our beautiful country.
My favorite photographs have been unexpected: a double image, something I hadn’t seen when I took the shot, or a photo I didn’t intentionally take yet captured what I hadn’t seen.
photo by Elizabeth
The first shot is what I could see: a sun-drenched hiking trail with rocks and almost no vegetation. The washed out flower at the center of this shot is the same flower in the next, though it was hidden in plain sight till a fluke of light and perspective revealed its magnificence.
photo by Elizabeth
My only edit to the first photo was to reduce the light and slightly increase the definition so the vegetation in the center was visible. The second shot resulted a split second later due to an inadvertent twitch of my finger. I gasped when I saw the second photo, which is unedited, while the third photo is my edit of the second. For me the second shot is what makes photography magic!
IF BIRD
You would be my loon
calling long past light,
my mourning dove, my
sweetest finch flashing
sun from black as night.
If my bird you were I’d
feed you nectar from my
palm and plant thick trees
for you to rest and nest until
I could transform my arms
and hands to feathered limbs—
our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
In many traditions, this long night marks the end of the solar year, the final day of increasing dark. Tomorrow our days will lengthen and a new year begins, not by calendar, but by the sun’s time.
Here’s to the cycles and the richness of dark, the silence of snow and opportunities to reflect, to sleep, and once more emerge into increasing light.
May this year bring peace, more love, more ease and safety for all. HAPPY SOLSTICE!
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 