I wrote this piece for two separate contests. It is also associated with this painting (mine!):
I chose the Cherokee story of how Grandmother Spider Steals the Sun. (I believe the Choctaw have a very similar tale, but I wanted her to steal the SUN, not fire). The purpose was to bring the story into the present, but I still wanted to keep some of the mystical elements.
For a fairly short version of the story check here: http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/GrandmotherSpiderStealsTheSun-Cherokee.html
You are welcome to go seek out other versions of the story (the "official" scholarly version is by James Mooney, and you can find his version through Google Books), but the essence is pretty much the same. Or for (what I think of as a better) version ('cuz it's got more animals ;p ), check out: http://library.thinkquest.org/CR0215453/MYSite/Spider.html (Also note: I did make a conscious decision to set my version of the story in modern-day Oklahoma. Though I recognize there are a lot of Cherokee people in North Carolina, I chose to set it within the official Cherokee nation in Oklahoma.)
I'd LOVE to hear any comments or critiques you have. Please keep in mind:
1) I wanted to kind of bridge the gap between poetry and prose with this piece. I wanted it to sound like an oral history, but with some of the little details I associate with poetry. Did I succeed? Is it too much like prose?
2) How did I do with the imagery? I'm not used to telling a story quite like this in poem format, so I'm concerned about what imagery is useful and how it's phrased.
3) For those who are Cherokee (or Choctaw, I suppose) and have heard the story before, I'd particularly like to hear your thoughts on how well I translated the heart of the story to the present. I know I took a little bit of poetic license with it (and we were allowed to include only a PART of the story, so I skipped the earlier animals), but I'd like to know how I did.
4) Is it too mystical? I fear I haven't modernized the myth enough! Do you like the ending?
Any other comments appreciated! :)
"Grandmother Spider Bears the Weight of the Sun"
December.
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the streak of spider's silk across the sky.
Where her brothers and sisters have failed,
she must succeed.
Out of the darkness sprouts
the five gnarled fingers of an ancient tree,
reaching for the absent sun.
Grandmother nestles in its palm,
lets her hair lose from its braid
and snatches a single silken strand of silver hair from her head.
She lids the little clay pot,
winds the silk thread around it
and then watches the tiny lump of earth lift
like hopes into the sky.
Grandmother waits—a small child
in the lap of an old, old tree—
until the wind ceases
and the earth stops for breath
And Grandmother holds her hand up to the sky
to catch her little pot
baked warm and soft.
She smiles,
cradles the clay egg in her lap,
and lifts the dainty lid—
Dawn springs joyous into the sky,
a child from its grandmother's lap,
as she turns her feet toward the bus stop
and a warm cup of coffee.
I chose the Cherokee story of how Grandmother Spider Steals the Sun. (I believe the Choctaw have a very similar tale, but I wanted her to steal the SUN, not fire). The purpose was to bring the story into the present, but I still wanted to keep some of the mystical elements.
For a fairly short version of the story check here: http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/GrandmotherSpiderStealsTheSun-Cherokee.html
You are welcome to go seek out other versions of the story (the "official" scholarly version is by James Mooney, and you can find his version through Google Books), but the essence is pretty much the same. Or for (what I think of as a better) version ('cuz it's got more animals ;p ), check out: http://library.thinkquest.org/CR0215453/MYSite/Spider.html (Also note: I did make a conscious decision to set my version of the story in modern-day Oklahoma. Though I recognize there are a lot of Cherokee people in North Carolina, I chose to set it within the official Cherokee nation in Oklahoma.)
I'd LOVE to hear any comments or critiques you have. Please keep in mind:
1) I wanted to kind of bridge the gap between poetry and prose with this piece. I wanted it to sound like an oral history, but with some of the little details I associate with poetry. Did I succeed? Is it too much like prose?
2) How did I do with the imagery? I'm not used to telling a story quite like this in poem format, so I'm concerned about what imagery is useful and how it's phrased.
3) For those who are Cherokee (or Choctaw, I suppose) and have heard the story before, I'd particularly like to hear your thoughts on how well I translated the heart of the story to the present. I know I took a little bit of poetic license with it (and we were allowed to include only a PART of the story, so I skipped the earlier animals), but I'd like to know how I did.
4) Is it too mystical? I fear I haven't modernized the myth enough! Do you like the ending?
Any other comments appreciated! :)
"Grandmother Spider Bears the Weight of the Sun"
December.
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the streak of spider's silk across the sky.
Where her brothers and sisters have failed,
she must succeed.
Out of the darkness sprouts
the five gnarled fingers of an ancient tree,
reaching for the absent sun.
Grandmother nestles in its palm,
lets her hair lose from its braid
and snatches a single silken strand of silver hair from her head.
She lids the little clay pot,
winds the silk thread around it
and then watches the tiny lump of earth lift
like hopes into the sky.
Grandmother waits—a small child
in the lap of an old, old tree—
until the wind ceases
and the earth stops for breath
And Grandmother holds her hand up to the sky
to catch her little pot
baked warm and soft.
She smiles,
cradles the clay egg in her lap,
and lifts the dainty lid—
Dawn springs joyous into the sky,
a child from its grandmother's lap,
as she turns her feet toward the bus stop
and a warm cup of coffee.
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