William Stafford

Here you will find thePoemReport To Crazy Horseof poet William Stafford

Report To Crazy Horse

所有的苏族被击败。我们家族有穷,布鲁里溃疡t a few got richer. They fought two wars. I did not take part. No one remembers your vision or even your real name. Now the children go to town and like loud music. I married a Christian. Crazy Horse, it is not fair to hide a new vision from you. In our schools we are learning to take aim when we talk, and we have found out our enemies. They shift when words do; they even change and hide in every person. A teacher here says hurt or scorned people are places where real enemies hide. He says we should not hurt or scorn anyone, but help them. And I will tell you in a brave way, the way Crazy Horse talked: that teacher is right. I will tell you a strange thing: at the rodeo, close to the grandstand, I saw a farm lady scared by a blown piece of paper; and at that place horses and policemen were no longer frightening, but suffering faces were, and the hunched-over backs of the old. Crazy Horse, tell me if I am right: these are the things we thought we were doing something about. In your life you saw many strange things, and I will tell you another: now I salute the white man's flag. But when I salute I hold my hand alertly on the heartbeat and remember all of us and how we depend on a steady pulse together. There are those who salute because they fear other flags or mean to use ours to chase them: I must not allow my part of saluting to mean this. All of our promises, our generous sayings to each other, our honorable intentions?those I affirm when I salute. At these times it is like shutting my eyes and joining a religious colony at prayer in the gray dawn in the deep aisles of a church. Now I have told you about new times. Yes, I know others will report different things. They have been caught by weak ways. I tell you straight the way it is now, and it is our way, the way we were trying to find. The chokecherries along our valley still bear a bright fruit. There is good pottery clay north of here. I remember our old places. When I pass the Musselshell I run my hand along those old grooves in the rock.