‘The Rippling Wind’ and other poems by George Zamalea
By George Zamalea
THE RIPPLING WIND
It well may be part from the tall-grass county
Disappearing into the Corn Belt,
The furious echoes were still hearing
Through the rippling winds!
Sea of Corn and laughs
I must say,
Where the feeding ground of ants and wild birds
Cooking them away into such bliss
Along the pony’s tracks.
At earlier down I saw the undulating magic, agitated
By Holy Ghost, losing itself like
A young Indian Woman under the white tepee
In those beautiful nights!
I must say, it was Yesterday,
Three hundred years back, the tall-grass countryside
Like a river-man seemed to given away
The landscape’s fate of that undulating past!
And I cannot help myself to say, I am Indian,
Now, it is all corn breasts
With the large and handsome arms surrounded
By tinny but domestic dogs.
Not me who build hearts
The righteous discharge of faithful unseen
Who by the tiny endangered
The face of Wisdom,
And the Knowledge of pines,
I deserve to breathe!
I wonder if you
Understand me —
If you read these poems
With the same pleasure
That I write them —
If you wonder like me
Not only the horses or ponies have heading,
But anger and dream, too,
And for those trails that our past had gone, and still
You will be willing not to have trouble
At all to understand what I wrote!
HERE ALL HISTORY SHADES
My history beckons like the Prairies
Dry towns, cute and fierce,
Fearless and enslavement,
As the likeness on the Platte,
The Powder, the Niobrara,
The Tongue, the Snake,
The Yellowstone, who, as an American buffalo,
Strange moonlight, explode
With gigantic waves!
My history beckons like a halfway
Body of Missouri River and the Rockies,
Like the Paha-Sapa, the Black Hills of Sioux!
The delighted night of long dance and tales!
My history beckons, oh powerless!
As the magic, mightily sport beyond
Of the clean range of souls and heats
As the unimaginable size of American bison!
My pony sweet butterfly
And carry me over Paha-Sapa!
My sweet butterfly
Where the feet cannot touch
The soft grass pregnant of floating-flitting
My sweet butterfly
Don’t let us to see all things come apart.
My land, my sacred land still,
Where the ground hunting
Beating my body, so old and calm,
To them, when I am waiting
There to die!