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The Death of Sitting Bear: New and Selected Poems
“These are the poems of a master poet. . . . When you read these poems, you will learn to hear deeply the sound a soul makes as it sings about the mystery of dreaming and becoming.” — Joy Harjo, Mvskoke Nation, U.S. Poet Laureate
Pulitzer Prize winner and celebrated American master N. Scott Momaday returns with a radiant collection of more than 200 new and selected poems rooted in Native American tradition.
“The poems in this book reflect my deep respect for and appreciation of words. . . . I believe that poetry is the highest form of verbal expression. Although I have written in other forms, I find that poems are what I want and need most to read and write. They give life to my mind.”
One of the most important and unique voices in American letters, distinguished poet, novelist, artist, teacher, and storyteller N. Scott Momaday was born into the Kiowa tribe and grew up on Indian reservations in the Southwest. The customs and traditions that influenced his upbringing—most notably the Native American oral tradition—are the centerpiece of his work.
This luminous collection demonstrates Momaday’s mastery and love of language and the matters closest to his heart. To Momaday, words are sacred; language is power. Spanning nearly fifty years, the poems gathered here illuminate the human condition, Momaday’s connection to his Kiowa roots, and his spiritual relationship to the American landscape.
The title poem, “The Death of Sitting Bear” is a celebration of heritage and a memorial to the great Kiowa warrior and chief. “I feel his presence close by in my blood and imagination,” Momaday writes, “and I sing him an honor song.” Here, too, are meditations on mortality, love, and loss, as well as reflections on the incomparable and holy landscape of the Southwest.
The Death of Sitting Bear evokes the essence of human experience and speaks to us all.
Pulitzer Prize winner and celebrated American master N. Scott Momaday returns with a radiant collection of more than 200 new and selected poems rooted in Native American tradition.
“The poems in this book reflect my deep respect for and appreciation of words. . . . I believe that poetry is the highest form of verbal expression. Although I have written in other forms, I find that poems are what I want and need most to read and write. They give life to my mind.”
One of the most important and unique voices in American letters, distinguished poet, novelist, artist, teacher, and storyteller N. Scott Momaday was born into the Kiowa tribe and grew up on Indian reservations in the Southwest. The customs and traditions that influenced his upbringing—most notably the Native American oral tradition—are the centerpiece of his work.
This luminous collection demonstrates Momaday’s mastery and love of language and the matters closest to his heart. To Momaday, words are sacred; language is power. Spanning nearly fifty years, the poems gathered here illuminate the human condition, Momaday’s connection to his Kiowa roots, and his spiritual relationship to the American landscape.
The title poem, “The Death of Sitting Bear” is a celebration of heritage and a memorial to the great Kiowa warrior and chief. “I feel his presence close by in my blood and imagination,” Momaday writes, “and I sing him an honor song.” Here, too, are meditations on mortality, love, and loss, as well as reflections on the incomparable and holy landscape of the Southwest.
The Death of Sitting Bear evokes the essence of human experience and speaks to us all.
192 pages, Hardcover
First published March 10, 2020
77 people are currently reading
1971 people want to read
About the author
N. Scott Momaday
72 books577 followersN. Scott Momaday's baritone voice booms from any stage. The listener, whether at the United Nations in New York City or next to the radio at home, is transported through time, known as 'kairos"and space to Oklahoma near Carnegie, to the "sacred, red earth" of Momaday's tribe.
Born Feb. 27, 1934, Momaday's most famous book remains 1969's House Made of Dawn, the story of a Pueblo boy torn between the modern and traditional worlds, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize and was honored by his tribe. He is a member of the Kiowa Gourd Dance Society. He is also a Regents Professor of Humanities at the University of Arizona, and has published other novels, memoir, plays and poetry. He's been called the dean of American Indian writers, and he has influenced other contemporary Native American writers from Paula Gunn Allen to Louise Erdrich.
Momaday views his writings, published in various books over the years, as one continuous story. Influences on his writing include literature of America and Europe and the stories of the Kiowa and other tribal peoples.
"Native Americans have a unique identity," Momaday told Native Peoples Magazine in 1998. "It was acquired over many thousands of years, and it is the most valuable thing they have. It is their essence and it must not be lost."
Momaday founded The Buffalo Trust in the 1990s to keep the conversations about Native American traditions going. He especially wanted to give Native American children the chance to getting to know elders, and he wanted the elders to teach the children the little details of their lives that make them uniquely Native American. Once the Buffalo Trust arranged for Pueblo children to have lesson from their elders in washing their hair with yucca root as their ancestors did for as long as anyone can remember.
"In the oral tradition," Momaday has said, "stories are not told merely to entertain or instruct. They are told to be believed. Stories are realities lived and believed."
Born Feb. 27, 1934, Momaday's most famous book remains 1969's House Made of Dawn, the story of a Pueblo boy torn between the modern and traditional worlds, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize and was honored by his tribe. He is a member of the Kiowa Gourd Dance Society. He is also a Regents Professor of Humanities at the University of Arizona, and has published other novels, memoir, plays and poetry. He's been called the dean of American Indian writers, and he has influenced other contemporary Native American writers from Paula Gunn Allen to Louise Erdrich.
Momaday views his writings, published in various books over the years, as one continuous story. Influences on his writing include literature of America and Europe and the stories of the Kiowa and other tribal peoples.
"Native Americans have a unique identity," Momaday told Native Peoples Magazine in 1998. "It was acquired over many thousands of years, and it is the most valuable thing they have. It is their essence and it must not be lost."
Momaday founded The Buffalo Trust in the 1990s to keep the conversations about Native American traditions going. He especially wanted to give Native American children the chance to getting to know elders, and he wanted the elders to teach the children the little details of their lives that make them uniquely Native American. Once the Buffalo Trust arranged for Pueblo children to have lesson from their elders in washing their hair with yucca root as their ancestors did for as long as anyone can remember.
"In the oral tradition," Momaday has said, "stories are not told merely to entertain or instruct. They are told to be believed. Stories are realities lived and believed."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 82 reviews
January 23, 2026
I feel a little shine of honor this morning, to be reviewing this poet’s work.
N. Scott Momaday is a new-to-me writer, a man we lost two years ago, just one month shy of his 90th birthday.
He was a legend of the American Southwest, a man who was born to the Kiowa tribe (with Cherokee and European heritage through his mother’s side), and who grew up among the Diné, as well (for those of you who like Tony Hillerman, or who are currently obsessed with “Dark Winds” on Netflix, as I am, you’ll find many familiar Diné references in his verse).
So, his beginnings were deeply rooted in the sparse, arid beauty of our Southwest states, particularly Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona, but his “mixed” mother was a lover of classic literature, and his shared journey with her ultimately led him to a passion for history, literature and linguistics and a PhD at Stanford University.
the lowly lizard
crouching on the sandy path
claims the right-of-way
Momaday’s work is a fascinating blend of Native, American, Russian, and European influences, and his work often reads a little like this haiku:
a seductive scent
your hair like the sheen of flax
je suis dans la lune
This particular collection is a hefty one, a compilation of new and reprinted works from earlier in his career. At 167 pages, it’s a big commitment, even for poetry lovers like me, but if a reader takes their time with this work, I suspect they’ll find it richly rewarding.
You are the dark shape I find
On nights of the spilling moon,
Pale in the pool of heaven.
You are spirit, you are that
Which summons me and confirms
My passage. You know my name.
Your ritual dance remarks
The crooked way between me
And the very thing you are:
Mask, essence, and revenant.
You are, as you ever were,
The energy that sustains
My mere despair. And always
You are the dark shape I find.
It is an inconsistent work, and the way it was organized (in three parts), made it unclear which poems were new and the time periods in which they were written. As this was published when he was 86, I’m suspecting a lot of his work was lumped together here, which made, at times, for an uneven read. Meaning: I’d read a poem like the one above and be brought to tears, then I’d go to read 20 of the dullest poems, in a row. The high points were very high here, the low rather low, but there were enough of both to keep me committed.
Momaday knew his share of love, and his share of loss (and grief). He juxtaposes the famous Sitting Bear’s loss of a son with his own loss of a daughter. He was clearly in love, several times in his life, and his take on women is refreshing, almost startling, in his appreciation for the divine feminine.
In short, you can just tell what type of a person he was: deep, thoughtful, romantic, reflective. He shined quite a bit of light in our world, and I was happy to have found some of it.
PRAYER FOR WORDS
My voice restore for me.
--Navajo
Here is the wind bending the reeds westward,
The patchwork of morning on gray moraine:
Had I words I could tell of origin,
Of God’s hands bloody with birth at first light,
Of my thin squeals in the heat of his breath,
Of the taste of being, the bitterness,
And scents of camas root and chokecherries.
And, God, if my mute heart expresses me,
I am the rolling thunder and the bursts
Of torrents upon rock, the whispering
Of old leaves, the silence of deep canyons.
I am the rattle of mortality.
I could tell of the splintered sun. I could
Articulate the night sky, had I words.
N. Scott Momaday is a new-to-me writer, a man we lost two years ago, just one month shy of his 90th birthday.
He was a legend of the American Southwest, a man who was born to the Kiowa tribe (with Cherokee and European heritage through his mother’s side), and who grew up among the Diné, as well (for those of you who like Tony Hillerman, or who are currently obsessed with “Dark Winds” on Netflix, as I am, you’ll find many familiar Diné references in his verse).
So, his beginnings were deeply rooted in the sparse, arid beauty of our Southwest states, particularly Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona, but his “mixed” mother was a lover of classic literature, and his shared journey with her ultimately led him to a passion for history, literature and linguistics and a PhD at Stanford University.
the lowly lizard
crouching on the sandy path
claims the right-of-way
Momaday’s work is a fascinating blend of Native, American, Russian, and European influences, and his work often reads a little like this haiku:
a seductive scent
your hair like the sheen of flax
je suis dans la lune
This particular collection is a hefty one, a compilation of new and reprinted works from earlier in his career. At 167 pages, it’s a big commitment, even for poetry lovers like me, but if a reader takes their time with this work, I suspect they’ll find it richly rewarding.
You are the dark shape I find
On nights of the spilling moon,
Pale in the pool of heaven.
You are spirit, you are that
Which summons me and confirms
My passage. You know my name.
Your ritual dance remarks
The crooked way between me
And the very thing you are:
Mask, essence, and revenant.
You are, as you ever were,
The energy that sustains
My mere despair. And always
You are the dark shape I find.
It is an inconsistent work, and the way it was organized (in three parts), made it unclear which poems were new and the time periods in which they were written. As this was published when he was 86, I’m suspecting a lot of his work was lumped together here, which made, at times, for an uneven read. Meaning: I’d read a poem like the one above and be brought to tears, then I’d go to read 20 of the dullest poems, in a row. The high points were very high here, the low rather low, but there were enough of both to keep me committed.
Momaday knew his share of love, and his share of loss (and grief). He juxtaposes the famous Sitting Bear’s loss of a son with his own loss of a daughter. He was clearly in love, several times in his life, and his take on women is refreshing, almost startling, in his appreciation for the divine feminine.
In short, you can just tell what type of a person he was: deep, thoughtful, romantic, reflective. He shined quite a bit of light in our world, and I was happy to have found some of it.
PRAYER FOR WORDS
My voice restore for me.
--Navajo
Here is the wind bending the reeds westward,
The patchwork of morning on gray moraine:
Had I words I could tell of origin,
Of God’s hands bloody with birth at first light,
Of my thin squeals in the heat of his breath,
Of the taste of being, the bitterness,
And scents of camas root and chokecherries.
And, God, if my mute heart expresses me,
I am the rolling thunder and the bursts
Of torrents upon rock, the whispering
Of old leaves, the silence of deep canyons.
I am the rattle of mortality.
I could tell of the splintered sun. I could
Articulate the night sky, had I words.
June 3, 2023
I saw this book and was beyond excited to get a copy to read. The poems were full of emotion and were beautiful to read. I thought the imagery was amazing. I really loved The Listener and The Pursuit of Man by God. I liked all of the poems and several times I found myself reading them out loud to get the full lyrical experience. I felt some of these poems spoke to his life as the passage of time was continuing. I hadn’t heard of N. Scott Momaday or his works before this but I would love to read more in the future. I definitely need to keep picking up poetry, as that hasn’t been as well represented in my reading as I would like the last few years.
March 5, 2020
(Free review copy provided by Harper Books)
When I heard there was a new N. Scott Momaday book being released, I was pleasantly surprised. After reading it, I feel like the scope of this poetry collection is a reflection on his own life and work. There were many poems about the passage of time, death, and aging. There were just as many poems about life (falling in love, traveling, experiences, nature...) and the appreciation of it. Not every piece resonated with me, but they all contributed to the over all atmosphere of the collection. I appreciated them, because they helped lift up the ones I loved. And I think that every poem will have resonance with someone, depending on where you are in life. The overall feeling I was left with at the end of this collection was an appreciation for the balance between life and death. I want to live my life to the fullest, so I can look back on it in the same way Momaday does.
A few of my favorite poems:
📚The Kiowa No-Face Doll - a reflection on how colonizers have seen us as a faceless mass to be silenced.
📚A Note on Animals - A cute poem that made me feel the expanse of who we share the world with.
📚To an Aged Bear - Death and old age are a natural balance to living. We shouldn’t fear it.
📚A Witness to Creation - What day would I want to relive? These moments in life are fleeting and we should savor them.
📚The Death of Sitting Bear - I learned a lot about a historical Kiowa figure and thought about how I see his traits in Indigenous people today.
📚Ultimus - We all want to be remembered well. What is the legacy we will leave behind?
When I heard there was a new N. Scott Momaday book being released, I was pleasantly surprised. After reading it, I feel like the scope of this poetry collection is a reflection on his own life and work. There were many poems about the passage of time, death, and aging. There were just as many poems about life (falling in love, traveling, experiences, nature...) and the appreciation of it. Not every piece resonated with me, but they all contributed to the over all atmosphere of the collection. I appreciated them, because they helped lift up the ones I loved. And I think that every poem will have resonance with someone, depending on where you are in life. The overall feeling I was left with at the end of this collection was an appreciation for the balance between life and death. I want to live my life to the fullest, so I can look back on it in the same way Momaday does.
A few of my favorite poems:
📚The Kiowa No-Face Doll - a reflection on how colonizers have seen us as a faceless mass to be silenced.
📚A Note on Animals - A cute poem that made me feel the expanse of who we share the world with.
📚To an Aged Bear - Death and old age are a natural balance to living. We shouldn’t fear it.
📚A Witness to Creation - What day would I want to relive? These moments in life are fleeting and we should savor them.
📚The Death of Sitting Bear - I learned a lot about a historical Kiowa figure and thought about how I see his traits in Indigenous people today.
📚Ultimus - We all want to be remembered well. What is the legacy we will leave behind?
February 29, 2020
Won this in a Goodreads giveway!
It was delightful, and beautiful and I enjoyed every minute of it. I read it all on my two hour flight, and found myself going back to re-read sentences and phrases that were so touching I couldn't get them out of my head.
There were times when some of the poems felt a little academic and stiff (Momaday has a vast and impressive academic resume) and I prefer my poetry to be more down-to earth and less formal, but it didn't take away from the overall beauty of this work.
It was delightful, and beautiful and I enjoyed every minute of it. I read it all on my two hour flight, and found myself going back to re-read sentences and phrases that were so touching I couldn't get them out of my head.
There were times when some of the poems felt a little academic and stiff (Momaday has a vast and impressive academic resume) and I prefer my poetry to be more down-to earth and less formal, but it didn't take away from the overall beauty of this work.
January 21, 2020
I received an ARC or his collection from the publisher through a giveaway hosted on Good Reads.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a spectacular meeting of cultures. Raised by a literature-loving mother and a Kiowa Native American father, Momaday grew up surrounded by stories and poems of many types and from many traditions, a background that he embraced, nursed, and perfected through his higher education. In this, his fifth poetry collection (by my count), these stories and histories intermingle to create a beautiful collection, switching in subject matter from the history of his father’s people and their myths to his own experiences in the world, from deeply personal poems to worldly observations, from very literal pieces to those full or rich imagery and symbolism. And intermingled, there are also prose pieces to set the context of some of the more specific verses, though they are still every bit as poetic as his verses.
I enjoyed this collection so much, the pages and time seeming to fly by whenever I opened it. Not only was it very entertaining, but I also found it educational as well. I had never heard of the Kiowa tribe before, much less the great Warrior Sitting Bear, but I am thankful for the chance to learn about him and his people, and find myself wanting to learn even more. I also learned about my own area, as I grew up in a town along the Susquehanna but had never heard of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School before, and learning about it was a heartbreaking reminder of just how recently the native population were still being mistreated and the wretched consequences of the white settlers’ actions.
For this reason, I don’t just recommend this collection, but urge people to read it, especially those who currently or formerly lived in an area that had a large American First Nations population (which is probably most of the United States to some extent). It is not such a distant memory as many like to pretend it is, and the chance to learn even a few snippets of our country’s history from a descendant of its original people is something everyone should experience at some point in their life, so why not start by reading about it?
Even without the historical and cultural education that could be potentially built off of his poems inspired by his father’s stories, though, Momaday’s skill as a poet is not something to be taken lightly. Even if you feel you know plenty about its subject matter, the way every poem is put together and the wide variety of styled Momaday uses in order to stretch his creative wings is something that deserves to be enjoyed and admired by poetry fans everywhere. I do not know much about him past what I picked up from this book, but even if it were to turn out that this is his first foray into writing on his father’s hereditary culture and every other collection of his was of a more common stock of subject matter, I would still be eager to take in more of his words, and fully intend to do just that if I am able to get my hands on another of his collections.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a spectacular meeting of cultures. Raised by a literature-loving mother and a Kiowa Native American father, Momaday grew up surrounded by stories and poems of many types and from many traditions, a background that he embraced, nursed, and perfected through his higher education. In this, his fifth poetry collection (by my count), these stories and histories intermingle to create a beautiful collection, switching in subject matter from the history of his father’s people and their myths to his own experiences in the world, from deeply personal poems to worldly observations, from very literal pieces to those full or rich imagery and symbolism. And intermingled, there are also prose pieces to set the context of some of the more specific verses, though they are still every bit as poetic as his verses.
I enjoyed this collection so much, the pages and time seeming to fly by whenever I opened it. Not only was it very entertaining, but I also found it educational as well. I had never heard of the Kiowa tribe before, much less the great Warrior Sitting Bear, but I am thankful for the chance to learn about him and his people, and find myself wanting to learn even more. I also learned about my own area, as I grew up in a town along the Susquehanna but had never heard of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School before, and learning about it was a heartbreaking reminder of just how recently the native population were still being mistreated and the wretched consequences of the white settlers’ actions.
For this reason, I don’t just recommend this collection, but urge people to read it, especially those who currently or formerly lived in an area that had a large American First Nations population (which is probably most of the United States to some extent). It is not such a distant memory as many like to pretend it is, and the chance to learn even a few snippets of our country’s history from a descendant of its original people is something everyone should experience at some point in their life, so why not start by reading about it?
Even without the historical and cultural education that could be potentially built off of his poems inspired by his father’s stories, though, Momaday’s skill as a poet is not something to be taken lightly. Even if you feel you know plenty about its subject matter, the way every poem is put together and the wide variety of styled Momaday uses in order to stretch his creative wings is something that deserves to be enjoyed and admired by poetry fans everywhere. I do not know much about him past what I picked up from this book, but even if it were to turn out that this is his first foray into writing on his father’s hereditary culture and every other collection of his was of a more common stock of subject matter, I would still be eager to take in more of his words, and fully intend to do just that if I am able to get my hands on another of his collections.
March 7, 2022
At first, I wasn't so impressed. There are some nice poems about nature, and there's an autobiographical quality about many of the poems. Overall, I had the impression that it was a nice collection but I wasn't blown away. But then I started re-reading the poems and now I want to keep rereading them.
"Yahweh Says to Urset:
I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that you have not seen before and that more of them are beautiful than not, more of them delightful than not. I pray that you hold easily in your hands the balance between Earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow, pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death.
I pray that you are happily in love in the dawn and more deeply in love in the dusk. Amen."
"Yahweh Says to Urset:
I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that you have not seen before and that more of them are beautiful than not, more of them delightful than not. I pray that you hold easily in your hands the balance between Earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow, pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death.
I pray that you are happily in love in the dawn and more deeply in love in the dusk. Amen."
July 13, 2024
Not really sure how to rate poetry. Some of these poems I really connected with and others I didn’t understand, his writing is beautiful !!!
June 15, 2020
A beautiful collection of poems that draw on nature to reflect on life and death. From falling in love and traveling to the final moments of life, these poems are an in depth examination of personal achievement and a question of what we leave behind when we go. A wonderfully done collection, though not all of the poems really spoke to me, it is an easy 4 stars.
Thank you to the publishers and Goodreads for my copy of this book.
Thank you to the publishers and Goodreads for my copy of this book.
March 10, 2020
The Death of Sitting Bear is a wonderful collection of poems about Love, Loss, Mourning, the Human Condition, and his love for the southwest landscape. His poem and the book title 'The Death of Sitting Bear' is a memorial to a Kiowa kinsman who was a warrior and chief. He beautifully celebrates his love for his heritage and his love for words and the sacredness they hold. Momaday's writing is influenced by the Kiowa oral traditional stories told to him by his father.
I really enjoyed this collection of poems. His use of imagery is beautiful. I Definitely have a few favorite poems and quotes. 'A Century of Impressions' at one point felt like a map. He has a lyrical way of making you appreciate nature and as a former volunteer of a National Monument I appreciated the poems that articulated the beauty of the surrounding landscape.
I really enjoyed this collection of poems. His use of imagery is beautiful. I Definitely have a few favorite poems and quotes. 'A Century of Impressions' at one point felt like a map. He has a lyrical way of making you appreciate nature and as a former volunteer of a National Monument I appreciated the poems that articulated the beauty of the surrounding landscape.
January 3, 2020
Momaday's work feels so in sync and connected with the land of which he writes, I can practically feel the cool refreshment of the breeze and the rain. These poems and passages range from jovial and playful to soft and serious, but always full of heart. Blended within are pages on the history and legacy of Sitting Bear, the Kiowa warrior. This collection is both rustic and celestial, a glorious array of American landscapes, from the Northern Lights to deserts ripe with Saguaro. One of the very best poetry collections of 2020.
June 14, 2022
Unfortunately, some of the most interesting parts of this weren't the poems, but the explanations/context/exposition given along side. There are a handful of really lovely poems, but a lot that wasn't very memorable to me. Poetry in particular is very subjective though, so I'm giving this 3 stars to acknowledge it's not written poorly or anything, it's just not as moving or stirring as I would have hoped for.
November 27, 2020
“Story is the marrow of literature. The story does not end with the last word. It goes on in the silence of the mind, in that region in which exists the unknown, the mysterious, and that origin of the word in which all words are contained. I profess the conviction that there is only one story, but there are many stories in the one…a poem is a moral statement concerning the human condition, composed in verse.”
I have been thrilling to the selections of Denver Public Library for November’s Indigenous History month and am so in love with this book and these poems. I wish I could include them all. I have been disillusioned with many of the stories we are telling, in modern fiction and media alike; and these poems are the way out, they made me remember that stories do not have to be as soul destroying as the ones we are in, that people are not our only teachers. Momaday knows, he knows, he knows what I have learned, that light, forest, shadows, breath, sound, dream, wildlife, landscapes are our teachers also. If our stories can absorb that wisdom, we will walk a better path. We have to.
A Story of Light
When the leaves turn
And the light of the forest deepens,
I will remember a thousand words between us.
Those that enclosed us, as in the pattern
Of shadows that shiver with the turning leaves,
Recount a story that was told about us by those
Who told stories in the caves. We danced
To the music of the words. On our tongues
Were shaped the names of our original being.
This is what the storyteller said: The leaves turn,
And in the light that emanates from the leaves
There is enchantment. There is wonder.
Meditation on Wilderness
In the evening’s orange and umber light,
There comes vagrant ducks skidding on the pond.
Together they veer inward to the reeds.
The forest—aspen, oak, and pine—recedes,
And the sky is smudged on the ridge beyond.
There is more in my soul than in my sight.
I would move to the other side of sound;
I would be among the bears, keeping still,
Not watching, waiting instead. I would dream,
And in that old bewilderment would seem
Whole in a beyond of dreams, primal will
Drawn to the center of this dark surround.
The sacred here emerges and abides.
The day burns down, the hours dissolve in time;
The bears parade the deeper continent
As silences pervade the firmament,
And wind wavers on the radiant rime.
Here is the house where wilderness resides.
A Witness to Creation
If you could have that one day back, the one that
you have kept a secret in your soul, what day would it be?
What? One among the many? Well, let me make you this offering:
It would be the day on which I stood on the rim of Monument Valley and beheld
those ineffable monoliths for the first time. I was young, you see, like a fledgling
who leaves the nest and flies out over the earth. I saw beyond time, into
timelessness. It was the first and holiest of all days. On such a day—
on that original day—did the First Man behold the First World. It filled
him with wonder and humility. Then and there, looking for one enchanted
moment into eternity, I was the First Man. I was present at Creation.
Division
There is a depth of darkness
In the wild country, days of evening
And the silence of the moon.
I have crept upon the bare ground
Where animals have left their tracks,
And faint cries carry on the summits,
Or sink to silence in the muffled leaves.
Here is the world of wolves and bears
And of old, instinctive being,
So noble and indifferent as to be remote
To human knowing. The scales upon which
We seek a balance measure only a divide.
Yahwek to Urset
I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that
you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that
you have not seen before and that more of them are
beautiful than not, more of them delightful than not.
I pray that you hold easily in your hands the balance
of the earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know
freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow,
pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death.
I pray that you are grateful for the gift of your being,
and I pray that you celebrate your life in the proper
way, with grace and humility, wonder and contentment,
in the strong, deep current of your spirit’s voice. I pray
that you are happily in love with the dawn and that you
are more deeply in love in the dusk.
The Essence of Belonging:
…You persist,
And a clean wind measures your persistence.
Along a cleavage in space the day becomes,
And you conspire in the invention of belonging,
Radiant, jealously imagined, estranged from time,
And to the crowded habitation of the mind
You bring a solitude, a mere and sensual silence
In which the essence of belonging belongs.
Song of Longing
Will you come to me now
Thee white moon shines on the cornfields
Evening falls among the melon rows
The orange sun sets on the mountains
The river runs sparkling on blue stones
And the long reeds bend and sway
I will welcome you with sweetgrass and sage
Will you come to me now
I sing in my heart of your coming
I sing in my soul of your coming
Lines for My daughter
With reverence for the earth you venture
into vague margins of advancing rain
and behold crystals of the sailing sun.
The clouds weave ribbons of shade and eclipse,
rippling on the colors that compose you,
sand, sienna, jade, the speckled turquoise
of mountain skies. And in your supple mind
there are shaped the legends of creation,
and in them you appear as dawn appears,
beautiful in the whispers of the wind,
whole among the soft syllables of myth
and the rhythms of serpentine rivers.
Once more you venture. The long days darkne
In the wake of your going, and thunder
Rolls, bearing you across a ridge of dreams.
I follow on the drifts of sweetgrass and smoke,
On a meadow path of pollen I walk,
And hold fast the great gift of your being.
La tierra del encanto
Xlouds build on the northern ridge
Where the shades of night grow pale
And there comes a rain like smoke.
The mountains loom and recede. And
Below, the umber plain is a pitted hide.
There the distance of time runs out.
And the mind extends beyond itself.
I have seen in the twist of wind
The landscape severed and heard
The edged cries of streaming hawks
First light is a tapestry on canyon walls,
And shadows are pools of illusions.
I am a man of the ancient earth
For I have know the desert at dawn.
Prairie Hymn:
On the tongue a hymnal of American names,
And the silence of falling snow—Glacier,
Bearpaw, Bitterroot, Wind River, Yellowstone.
I dreamed among the ice caps long ago,
Ranging with the sun on the inward slope,
Down the wheel of seasons and the solstices
To the tilted moon and cradle of the stars. T
here was the prairie, always reaching.
Time was sundered, and the light bore wonder.
The earth broke open and I held my breath.
In the far range of vision the prairie shone bright
As brit on the sea, crescive and undulant…
The range of dawn and dusk; the continent lay out
In prairie shades, in a vast carpet of color and light.
In the Sun Dance I was entranced, I drew in the smoke
Of ancient ice and sang of the wide ancestral land.
Rain-laden clouds ringed the horizon, and the hump-backed
Shape sauntered and turned. Mythic deity!
It became the animal representation of the sun, an
In the prairie wind there was summer in the spring.
Excerpts:
In the Forest:
Oh my brother, I hear your footsteps
In the forest. They are strong and even;
They sound the rhythm of your great heart.
To the Farther Camps:
Where the reeds bend eastward
I sing, and there is elation in it
And laughter like the play of spinning leaves
I sing, and I am gone from sorrow
Ago:
Something
Of their delight remains among the rocks,
Tsegi, the place of origin. Their laughter slips
On the ripples of sand, and I look after them.
To An Aged Bear:
Translate yourself to spirit; Be present on your journey. Keep to the trees and waters. Be the singing of the soil.
Prayer for Words:
I could tell of the splintered sun. I could
Articulate the night sky, had I words.
Dichos:
Neither do I believe in time. Time is the red rock and the blue cloud floating above Oljeto.
The long arc of the red mesa; it has to be seen at sunrise, when fire informs it from within.
Appearances:
There where
The mountains rise In the north and the reeds
Bend eastward, I have seen
The edge of a sacred world. There are the fringes of rain.
A Century of Impressions:
…carols of the mind
on the pale magenta sky
the soul emerging
…the land’s crystal light
on the colors of canyons
here my pots of paint
…through the Grand Canyon
the rapids dance with the raft
tango in the toss
a pride of lions
in the streets of Nairobi
shops closing early
the perfect poem
in Tibet it is written
and there it is lost
the valley below
a song among the shadows
the lyrical land
landscapes forgotten
a return to sacred sites
a world renewal
geologic time
informs the towering cliffs
with eternity
I have been thrilling to the selections of Denver Public Library for November’s Indigenous History month and am so in love with this book and these poems. I wish I could include them all. I have been disillusioned with many of the stories we are telling, in modern fiction and media alike; and these poems are the way out, they made me remember that stories do not have to be as soul destroying as the ones we are in, that people are not our only teachers. Momaday knows, he knows, he knows what I have learned, that light, forest, shadows, breath, sound, dream, wildlife, landscapes are our teachers also. If our stories can absorb that wisdom, we will walk a better path. We have to.
A Story of Light
When the leaves turn
And the light of the forest deepens,
I will remember a thousand words between us.
Those that enclosed us, as in the pattern
Of shadows that shiver with the turning leaves,
Recount a story that was told about us by those
Who told stories in the caves. We danced
To the music of the words. On our tongues
Were shaped the names of our original being.
This is what the storyteller said: The leaves turn,
And in the light that emanates from the leaves
There is enchantment. There is wonder.
Meditation on Wilderness
In the evening’s orange and umber light,
There comes vagrant ducks skidding on the pond.
Together they veer inward to the reeds.
The forest—aspen, oak, and pine—recedes,
And the sky is smudged on the ridge beyond.
There is more in my soul than in my sight.
I would move to the other side of sound;
I would be among the bears, keeping still,
Not watching, waiting instead. I would dream,
And in that old bewilderment would seem
Whole in a beyond of dreams, primal will
Drawn to the center of this dark surround.
The sacred here emerges and abides.
The day burns down, the hours dissolve in time;
The bears parade the deeper continent
As silences pervade the firmament,
And wind wavers on the radiant rime.
Here is the house where wilderness resides.
A Witness to Creation
If you could have that one day back, the one that
you have kept a secret in your soul, what day would it be?
What? One among the many? Well, let me make you this offering:
It would be the day on which I stood on the rim of Monument Valley and beheld
those ineffable monoliths for the first time. I was young, you see, like a fledgling
who leaves the nest and flies out over the earth. I saw beyond time, into
timelessness. It was the first and holiest of all days. On such a day—
on that original day—did the First Man behold the First World. It filled
him with wonder and humility. Then and there, looking for one enchanted
moment into eternity, I was the First Man. I was present at Creation.
Division
There is a depth of darkness
In the wild country, days of evening
And the silence of the moon.
I have crept upon the bare ground
Where animals have left their tracks,
And faint cries carry on the summits,
Or sink to silence in the muffled leaves.
Here is the world of wolves and bears
And of old, instinctive being,
So noble and indifferent as to be remote
To human knowing. The scales upon which
We seek a balance measure only a divide.
Yahwek to Urset
I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that
you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that
you have not seen before and that more of them are
beautiful than not, more of them delightful than not.
I pray that you hold easily in your hands the balance
of the earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know
freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow,
pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death.
I pray that you are grateful for the gift of your being,
and I pray that you celebrate your life in the proper
way, with grace and humility, wonder and contentment,
in the strong, deep current of your spirit’s voice. I pray
that you are happily in love with the dawn and that you
are more deeply in love in the dusk.
The Essence of Belonging:
…You persist,
And a clean wind measures your persistence.
Along a cleavage in space the day becomes,
And you conspire in the invention of belonging,
Radiant, jealously imagined, estranged from time,
And to the crowded habitation of the mind
You bring a solitude, a mere and sensual silence
In which the essence of belonging belongs.
Song of Longing
Will you come to me now
Thee white moon shines on the cornfields
Evening falls among the melon rows
The orange sun sets on the mountains
The river runs sparkling on blue stones
And the long reeds bend and sway
I will welcome you with sweetgrass and sage
Will you come to me now
I sing in my heart of your coming
I sing in my soul of your coming
Lines for My daughter
With reverence for the earth you venture
into vague margins of advancing rain
and behold crystals of the sailing sun.
The clouds weave ribbons of shade and eclipse,
rippling on the colors that compose you,
sand, sienna, jade, the speckled turquoise
of mountain skies. And in your supple mind
there are shaped the legends of creation,
and in them you appear as dawn appears,
beautiful in the whispers of the wind,
whole among the soft syllables of myth
and the rhythms of serpentine rivers.
Once more you venture. The long days darkne
In the wake of your going, and thunder
Rolls, bearing you across a ridge of dreams.
I follow on the drifts of sweetgrass and smoke,
On a meadow path of pollen I walk,
And hold fast the great gift of your being.
La tierra del encanto
Xlouds build on the northern ridge
Where the shades of night grow pale
And there comes a rain like smoke.
The mountains loom and recede. And
Below, the umber plain is a pitted hide.
There the distance of time runs out.
And the mind extends beyond itself.
I have seen in the twist of wind
The landscape severed and heard
The edged cries of streaming hawks
First light is a tapestry on canyon walls,
And shadows are pools of illusions.
I am a man of the ancient earth
For I have know the desert at dawn.
Prairie Hymn:
On the tongue a hymnal of American names,
And the silence of falling snow—Glacier,
Bearpaw, Bitterroot, Wind River, Yellowstone.
I dreamed among the ice caps long ago,
Ranging with the sun on the inward slope,
Down the wheel of seasons and the solstices
To the tilted moon and cradle of the stars. T
here was the prairie, always reaching.
Time was sundered, and the light bore wonder.
The earth broke open and I held my breath.
In the far range of vision the prairie shone bright
As brit on the sea, crescive and undulant…
The range of dawn and dusk; the continent lay out
In prairie shades, in a vast carpet of color and light.
In the Sun Dance I was entranced, I drew in the smoke
Of ancient ice and sang of the wide ancestral land.
Rain-laden clouds ringed the horizon, and the hump-backed
Shape sauntered and turned. Mythic deity!
It became the animal representation of the sun, an
In the prairie wind there was summer in the spring.
Excerpts:
In the Forest:
Oh my brother, I hear your footsteps
In the forest. They are strong and even;
They sound the rhythm of your great heart.
To the Farther Camps:
Where the reeds bend eastward
I sing, and there is elation in it
And laughter like the play of spinning leaves
I sing, and I am gone from sorrow
Ago:
Something
Of their delight remains among the rocks,
Tsegi, the place of origin. Their laughter slips
On the ripples of sand, and I look after them.
To An Aged Bear:
Translate yourself to spirit; Be present on your journey. Keep to the trees and waters. Be the singing of the soil.
Prayer for Words:
I could tell of the splintered sun. I could
Articulate the night sky, had I words.
Dichos:
Neither do I believe in time. Time is the red rock and the blue cloud floating above Oljeto.
The long arc of the red mesa; it has to be seen at sunrise, when fire informs it from within.
Appearances:
There where
The mountains rise In the north and the reeds
Bend eastward, I have seen
The edge of a sacred world. There are the fringes of rain.
A Century of Impressions:
…carols of the mind
on the pale magenta sky
the soul emerging
…the land’s crystal light
on the colors of canyons
here my pots of paint
…through the Grand Canyon
the rapids dance with the raft
tango in the toss
a pride of lions
in the streets of Nairobi
shops closing early
the perfect poem
in Tibet it is written
and there it is lost
the valley below
a song among the shadows
the lyrical land
landscapes forgotten
a return to sacred sites
a world renewal
geologic time
informs the towering cliffs
with eternity
October 4, 2020
The Death of Sitting Bear had such an epic scale to it. So many of the stories felt like they had a grand purpose and message. The poet this reminds me most of (not so much in form but in tone and message) was Walt Whitman (one of my personal faves). There were poems about nature, the universe, self-examination and reflection, aging, time, death and mourning, American history, classical literature and mythology, Biblical allusions, the Kiowa warrior in the title, pretty much everything epic that Whitman draws on as well. There are also some cheeky, song-styled poems included that are refreshing after the other, more serious poems. It is as if Momaday is writing for a generation like Whitman was, capturing the tone of an era and a culture. Doing important work to preserve a space in time for a future generation.
The biggest reason I didn't like it was because it felt too long...and it is much longer than many poetry collections. The length meant that there was less of a cohesive theme to the collection and many poems that could have been pared away to create a stronger book. Or you can just skim/skip the ones that don't interest you as much. The tone of this was quite academic and lofty, not the more intimate, simple kind I prefer. But it's nice to exercise our reading chops occasionally and read something more erudite and challenging. An enjoyable collection with a few stand-out gems in it, I recommend The Death of Sitting Bear for fans of Walt Whitman, historical writing, and general poetry. Below, find two of my favourite quotes from this collection.
"I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that you have not seen before and that more of them are beautiful than not, more delightful than not. I pray you hold easily in your hands the balance of the earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow, pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death. I pray that you are grateful for the gift of your being, and I pray that you celebrate your life in the proper way, with grace and humility, wonder and contentment, in the strong, deep current of your spirit's voice. I pray that you are happily in love in the dawn and that you are more deeply in love in the dusk." The entirety of "Yahweh to Urset"
"Then my breath caught in my throat. The Northern Lights were hanging, roiling, whipping on the sky, descending squarely upon me. The shock of this magnificent light show was greater than that of the icy wind, and I was stunned again. But nothing distracted me from what I was seeing: the snowy night sky unraveling into great ribbons and dancing color. I have seen the Northern Lights before, but they were never like these. It was an event of great spiritual moment, such as children know in their wonder and innocence. It was Christmas in the universe." in "The Night Sky at Coppermine"
The biggest reason I didn't like it was because it felt too long...and it is much longer than many poetry collections. The length meant that there was less of a cohesive theme to the collection and many poems that could have been pared away to create a stronger book. Or you can just skim/skip the ones that don't interest you as much. The tone of this was quite academic and lofty, not the more intimate, simple kind I prefer. But it's nice to exercise our reading chops occasionally and read something more erudite and challenging. An enjoyable collection with a few stand-out gems in it, I recommend The Death of Sitting Bear for fans of Walt Whitman, historical writing, and general poetry. Below, find two of my favourite quotes from this collection.
"I pray that you are kept safe throughout this day, that you live as wholly as you can, that you see things that you have not seen before and that more of them are beautiful than not, more delightful than not. I pray you hold easily in your hands the balance of the earth and sky, that you laugh and cry, know freedom and restraint, some joy and some sorrow, pleasure and pain, much of life and a little of death. I pray that you are grateful for the gift of your being, and I pray that you celebrate your life in the proper way, with grace and humility, wonder and contentment, in the strong, deep current of your spirit's voice. I pray that you are happily in love in the dawn and that you are more deeply in love in the dusk." The entirety of "Yahweh to Urset"
"Then my breath caught in my throat. The Northern Lights were hanging, roiling, whipping on the sky, descending squarely upon me. The shock of this magnificent light show was greater than that of the icy wind, and I was stunned again. But nothing distracted me from what I was seeing: the snowy night sky unraveling into great ribbons and dancing color. I have seen the Northern Lights before, but they were never like these. It was an event of great spiritual moment, such as children know in their wonder and innocence. It was Christmas in the universe." in "The Night Sky at Coppermine"
April 5, 2021
Best poetry I have read in a long time. If you get the chance, listen to Momaday’s reading. His voice is perfect.
January 26, 2024
my first introduction to Momaday, and wow what a treasure of a poet
September 1, 2021
19/31 #TheSealyChallenge
February 10, 2020
*ARC sent from HarperBooks for review-big thank you to HarperBooks!
When I was in high school, I used to pour over pages of pages in books and online for poems written by Native American authors. I only found few, and most I couldn't contact the author or find a concrete book.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a collection of poems young 15-year-old Michelle would have been elated to find. It would have cemented her faith in her people and given her more of a connection.
12 years later, it's arrived at my house and been read by my eyes.
I loved some of these poems for their lyrical genius, but some felt cliche and overdone by most of the Indigenous community. The writing was beautiful overall.
4/5 stars
When I was in high school, I used to pour over pages of pages in books and online for poems written by Native American authors. I only found few, and most I couldn't contact the author or find a concrete book.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a collection of poems young 15-year-old Michelle would have been elated to find. It would have cemented her faith in her people and given her more of a connection.
12 years later, it's arrived at my house and been read by my eyes.
I loved some of these poems for their lyrical genius, but some felt cliche and overdone by most of the Indigenous community. The writing was beautiful overall.
4/5 stars
February 3, 2020
ARC given by Edelweiss+ for Honest Review
The Death of Sitting Bear is intellectual, lyrical, and well written. Poems boast haunting and vivid metaphors on topics such as earth, life, religion, and living as an American Indian/Native American.
My favorite poems include: "A Modest Boast (Toast)", "A Note On Animals", and "English, The Language."
The Death of Sitting Bear is intellectual, lyrical, and well written. Poems boast haunting and vivid metaphors on topics such as earth, life, religion, and living as an American Indian/Native American.
My favorite poems include: "A Modest Boast (Toast)", "A Note On Animals", and "English, The Language."
November 2, 2020
I’m a profoundly sad that I’m 46 years old and not known about this poet. I have wasted so much time. I recommend listening to the audio version so you hear the poets own voice.
August 17, 2020
It’s so hard to rate a poetry collection. A few really stood out and overall I enjoyed reading it though.
There was some in here I really loved like “A Darkness Comes”, “A Note on Animals”, and “The Snow Mare”.
It was interesting to read contemporary poetry that rhymed (not all in the collection rhymed, but several did).
Also, lovely to see Native American history and heritage woven into the poems.
There was some in here I really loved like “A Darkness Comes”, “A Note on Animals”, and “The Snow Mare”.
It was interesting to read contemporary poetry that rhymed (not all in the collection rhymed, but several did).
Also, lovely to see Native American history and heritage woven into the poems.
May 30, 2020
Only a handful of writers have had as much lasting impact on me as N. Scott Momaday. When I first read House Made of Dawn, then recently published, in a class on modern American fiction, both the "Hemingway" and the "Faulkner" factions claimed NSM as our own. Working with Native graduate students, I developed a profound love for his auto-ethnography--no genre sums it up adequately--The Way to Rainy Mountain. No writer has done more to open paths for the younger generations of writers balancing their tribal heritage with life in the changing multifaceted world.
Having said that, I've never really connected with NSM's poetry and reading the collected poems didn't really change that. He often chooses a diction, syntax and poetic form that feel slightly archaic in the Norton Anthology of Renaissance Poetry sense. There's an oracular quality to much of his work that reads as statement rather than exploration, and my aesthetic tends strongly towards explorations of the un- or barely known (which is precisely what I love about House and Way). The best of NSM's short lyrics recall the lyrical descriptions of nature in the novels and the title sequence stands absolutely on its own as an engagement with colonialism on the personal and national levels.
Favorite poems: "Division," "Visitation at Amherst" (nice tribute to Emily Dickinson); Dichos, Appearances," "Pigments," "Torrent," and "A Woman Working." A taste of NSM at his best from "la tierra encanto":
"I have seen in the twist of wind
The landscape severed and heard
The edged cries of screaming hawks,
First light is a tapestry on canyon walls,
And shadows are pools of illusion.
I am a man of the ancient earth
For I have known the desert at dawn."
Having said that, I've never really connected with NSM's poetry and reading the collected poems didn't really change that. He often chooses a diction, syntax and poetic form that feel slightly archaic in the Norton Anthology of Renaissance Poetry sense. There's an oracular quality to much of his work that reads as statement rather than exploration, and my aesthetic tends strongly towards explorations of the un- or barely known (which is precisely what I love about House and Way). The best of NSM's short lyrics recall the lyrical descriptions of nature in the novels and the title sequence stands absolutely on its own as an engagement with colonialism on the personal and national levels.
Favorite poems: "Division," "Visitation at Amherst" (nice tribute to Emily Dickinson); Dichos, Appearances," "Pigments," "Torrent," and "A Woman Working." A taste of NSM at his best from "la tierra encanto":
"I have seen in the twist of wind
The landscape severed and heard
The edged cries of screaming hawks,
First light is a tapestry on canyon walls,
And shadows are pools of illusion.
I am a man of the ancient earth
For I have known the desert at dawn."
March 6, 2020
"I believe poetry is the highest form of verbal expression."
N. Scott Momaday is a well-known Kiowa writer whose tremendous career joined other the American Indian literary renaissance of the 1960s. His novels and poetry fill Native Literature required reading courses. I first read his work (The Way to Rainy Mountain and House Made of Dawn specifically) in such a course, but beyond that I've never engaged with his work. So when I was sent a review copy from Harper Books, I was excited to dig in.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a testament to Momaday's chosen craft: poetry. Throughout this volume's 165 pages Momaday offers precisely crafted poems about land, space, and life's loves, loss, and friendships. His imagery is so vivid that I could almost feel winds, the sun's heat, the dampness of dawn. I'm going to be honest here. I'm not the biggest fan of measured forms of poetry (those that use carefully measured out iambic pentameter or other defined rules). I prefer freeform or spoken word. This collection though had pieces that pulled at me and Momaday's ability to create a scene so powerful readers feel it while maintaining measured forms of poetry is incredible.
What I loved most about this collection is that it isn't "Indigenous Literature" as people might expect. Momaday's poems are, for the most part, not blatant in performing indigeneity the way a reader would expect. The poems are slices of life, seemingly mundane, certainly not full of the larger themes that are promoted in Indigenous literature: ceremony or culture loss or dispossession or violence and poverty. Those stories are so important, but they sometimes overwhelm me as an Indigenous reader. Though there are certainly those conversations happening there's so much more going on here that's about life in general.
If you're interested in poetry (and are willing to cast your expectations and assumptions at the door), I'd recommend checking this out.
N. Scott Momaday is a well-known Kiowa writer whose tremendous career joined other the American Indian literary renaissance of the 1960s. His novels and poetry fill Native Literature required reading courses. I first read his work (The Way to Rainy Mountain and House Made of Dawn specifically) in such a course, but beyond that I've never engaged with his work. So when I was sent a review copy from Harper Books, I was excited to dig in.
The Death of Sitting Bear is a testament to Momaday's chosen craft: poetry. Throughout this volume's 165 pages Momaday offers precisely crafted poems about land, space, and life's loves, loss, and friendships. His imagery is so vivid that I could almost feel winds, the sun's heat, the dampness of dawn. I'm going to be honest here. I'm not the biggest fan of measured forms of poetry (those that use carefully measured out iambic pentameter or other defined rules). I prefer freeform or spoken word. This collection though had pieces that pulled at me and Momaday's ability to create a scene so powerful readers feel it while maintaining measured forms of poetry is incredible.
What I loved most about this collection is that it isn't "Indigenous Literature" as people might expect. Momaday's poems are, for the most part, not blatant in performing indigeneity the way a reader would expect. The poems are slices of life, seemingly mundane, certainly not full of the larger themes that are promoted in Indigenous literature: ceremony or culture loss or dispossession or violence and poverty. Those stories are so important, but they sometimes overwhelm me as an Indigenous reader. Though there are certainly those conversations happening there's so much more going on here that's about life in general.
If you're interested in poetry (and are willing to cast your expectations and assumptions at the door), I'd recommend checking this out.
September 4, 2024
Audio read by the author.
I can't believe how much I liked this poetry. I never like poetry. Maybe listening to it on audio is the key.
Section 2 is 100 haiku poems. It was fun to listen to. Here's one I liked:
One hundred haiku
Elemental exercise
To nourish the mind.
Another one, a regular poem, not a haiku.
A Witness to Creation
If you could have that one day back, the one that
you have kept a secret in your soul, what day would it be?
What? One among the many? Well, let me make you this offering:
It would be the day on which I stood on the rim of Monument Valley and beheld
those ineffable monoliths for the first time. I was young, you see, like a fledgling
who leaves the nest and flies out over the earth. I saw beyond time, into
timelessness. It was the first and holiest of all days. On such a day—
on that original day—did the First Man behold the First World. It filled
him with wonder and humility. Then and there, looking for one enchanted
moment into eternity, I was the First Man. I was present at Creationl”
I can't believe how much I liked this poetry. I never like poetry. Maybe listening to it on audio is the key.
Section 2 is 100 haiku poems. It was fun to listen to. Here's one I liked:
One hundred haiku
Elemental exercise
To nourish the mind.
Another one, a regular poem, not a haiku.
A Witness to Creation
If you could have that one day back, the one that
you have kept a secret in your soul, what day would it be?
What? One among the many? Well, let me make you this offering:
It would be the day on which I stood on the rim of Monument Valley and beheld
those ineffable monoliths for the first time. I was young, you see, like a fledgling
who leaves the nest and flies out over the earth. I saw beyond time, into
timelessness. It was the first and holiest of all days. On such a day—
on that original day—did the First Man behold the First World. It filled
him with wonder and humility. Then and there, looking for one enchanted
moment into eternity, I was the First Man. I was present at Creationl”
October 5, 2020
Native American poet and author N. Scott Momaday came out with this new poetry collection on Audiobook, and it is fabulous and I commend it to you. Momaday has had a long and distinguished career as a novelist and poet. He is Kiowa from an Oklahoma family originally, but for most of his adult life has lived at Jemez Pueblo in northern New Mexico. The poetry is stunning, but what makes this work so well is that he has a wonderful voice, and reads poetry so skillfully. Momaday's work - this and others - is worth spending some time with. It opens the world of Native Americans to you in a deeper way than prose, perhaps. When he was teaching at the University of Arizona, he would leave Jemez in the morning, drive 1 1/2 hrs to Albuquerque, fly a couple hours, thru Phoenix to Tucson, teach his classes, then fly home. He said he promised himself to wake up every day in the Jemez Valley.
April 2, 2022
At first, this collection didn't work for me, but weirdly, when I hit the haiku portion of the book, it lifted me somehow. I'm not a haiku lover, always thought it was the easy poetic way to fill the page, but try it and you'll realize that it takes a special eye and heart. Momaday's A Century of Impressions is comprised of 100 haiku pieces, and when read aloud (which all poetry should be, sooner or later,) is masterful. No capital letters, no punctuation, but perfectly crafted 17-syllabled thoughts that individually can stand alone, but placed together on this centennial shelf, are inspiring.
I'm glad I bought this volume, but can't for the life of me remember who told me to order it. If it was you, thank you. It has a proud spot on my shelf.
a book of poems
arrived in the afternoon
a bound excitement
I'm glad I bought this volume, but can't for the life of me remember who told me to order it. If it was you, thank you. It has a proud spot on my shelf.
a book of poems
arrived in the afternoon
a bound excitement
July 10, 2023
Momaday's poems are subtly profound -- more than once, I found myself re-reading a poem to dive deeper into the language and structure. His approach of addressing a topic below the surface, and gradually lifting it to more direct discussion, is especially effective when probing the injustices that indigenous Americans experienced. An example is shown in "A Darkness Comes", in which the first lines foreshadow the impact of settlers on native territory: "And I have seen the raging of the skies, / The beating of fields in the raucous night, / And waited for the searing dawn and light, / The soaring sun, the swollen earth that dries." The poem is cleverly structured as sonnet, which is another comment on white peoples' imprint on native culture. Readers of this collection will likely want to explore more of Momaday's writing, whether poetry or prose.
January 9, 2026
PopSugar 2026 reading challenge #23 because PopSugar doesn't really include 'poetry' specifically in prompts anymore.
First thing first: If you have the opportunity to listen to N Scott Momaday read his own work, I would take that opportunity because he has an amazing reading voice. Also, I think poetry just "goes better" if you can hear it from the poet's voice.
Deep or shallow -- poetry is subjective. A lot of these poems can be 'simple' if you want them to be and can have a surface level meaning. Oh, this poem is just about a horse, cool. But they can also be deeply analyzed and read if you'd like. The deeper you go... *chef kiss* the better the words become.
Great collection.
First thing first: If you have the opportunity to listen to N Scott Momaday read his own work, I would take that opportunity because he has an amazing reading voice. Also, I think poetry just "goes better" if you can hear it from the poet's voice.
Deep or shallow -- poetry is subjective. A lot of these poems can be 'simple' if you want them to be and can have a surface level meaning. Oh, this poem is just about a horse, cool. But they can also be deeply analyzed and read if you'd like. The deeper you go... *chef kiss* the better the words become.
Great collection.
May 25, 2022
It's probably not fair to only give this book a 4 star rating. But, after you've written "The Way to Rainy Mountain" the reader has unreasonably expectations. It's also probably not fair for me to say that the poems I loved best in this book are the poems about his Kiowa heritage. He is certainly a more well-rounded and accomplished person than just being Kiowa. I try to justify my preference by telling myself it is because I grew up near the Kiowa Tribal headquarters and went to school with many Kiowa kids. That's probably not a good justification and if I am honest, there are many lovely poems in this book that are simply about longing and love and nature and just being human.
June 27, 2024
Just a beginner for poetry but I enjoyed this! The 100 haikus got a bit monotonous for my adhd but overall a nice relaxing read. This quote was a great setup to get immersed in the story “Story is the marrow of literature. The story does not end with the last word. It goes on in the silence of the mind, in that region in which exists the unknown, the mysterious, and that origin of the word in which all words are contained. I profess the conviction that there is only one story, but there are many stories in the one. Literature can be likened to a rolling wheel of language. It reinvents itself with every telling of the story, and in its timeless procession it has neither beginning nor end.”
April 19, 2021
I don’t think it is within the realm of the possible for Mr. Momaday to write anything that I would not find beautiful.
He brings the histories and legends of the Native peoples to the Europeans in ways accessible to them, whether in prose or poem or passage.
When one reaches a certain age To An Aged Bear strikes a ringing chord: “Hold hard this infirmity. / It defines you. You are old.”
His poetry of the land, of the people-whether us or of another culture, another country, are not to be missed.
He brings the histories and legends of the Native peoples to the Europeans in ways accessible to them, whether in prose or poem or passage.
When one reaches a certain age To An Aged Bear strikes a ringing chord: “Hold hard this infirmity. / It defines you. You are old.”
His poetry of the land, of the people-whether us or of another culture, another country, are not to be missed.
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