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Where Clouds Are Formed (Volume 63)
Ofelia Zepeda is a Native American poet who possesses a kind of double vision. She sees the contemporary world through her own highly observant eyes and, at the same time, through the eyes of her Tohono O’odham ancestors. Seeing this way infuses her poetry with a resonance and depth that makes it a delight to read—and re-read.
Zepeda is as clear-eyed about the past as she is about the present. She recalls waiting for the school bus on a cold morning inside her father’s truck, listening to the sounds of the engine, the windshield wipers, and the “soft rain on the hood.” She remembers celebrating Mass on the “cold dirt floor of the Winter Solstice.” In the present, she sees both the frustration and the humor in a woman she observes trying to eat pancakes with one hand while her other resides in a cast: “Watching her, I realize eating pancakes is a two-handed job.”
Whatever she sees, she filters through her second set of eyes, which keep the past always present. She tells of traveling to Waw Giwulig, the most sacred mountain of the Tohono O’odham, to ask for blessings—and forgiveness. She writes that one should always bring music to the mountains, “so they are generous with the summer rains.” And, still, “the scent of burning wood / holds the strongest memory. / Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper, . . . / we catch the scent of burning wood; / we are brought home.” It is a joy to see the world afresh through her eyes.
Zepeda is as clear-eyed about the past as she is about the present. She recalls waiting for the school bus on a cold morning inside her father’s truck, listening to the sounds of the engine, the windshield wipers, and the “soft rain on the hood.” She remembers celebrating Mass on the “cold dirt floor of the Winter Solstice.” In the present, she sees both the frustration and the humor in a woman she observes trying to eat pancakes with one hand while her other resides in a cast: “Watching her, I realize eating pancakes is a two-handed job.”
Whatever she sees, she filters through her second set of eyes, which keep the past always present. She tells of traveling to Waw Giwulig, the most sacred mountain of the Tohono O’odham, to ask for blessings—and forgiveness. She writes that one should always bring music to the mountains, “so they are generous with the summer rains.” And, still, “the scent of burning wood / holds the strongest memory. / Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper, . . . / we catch the scent of burning wood; / we are brought home.” It is a joy to see the world afresh through her eyes.
96 pages, Hardcover
First published September 15, 2008
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Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
July 8, 2022
Another beautiful collection of poems by the Tohono O'odham poet Ofelia Zepeda. She invokes the desert home of her people, the beauty of the natural world, the culture in which she was raised.
July 31, 2025
Who was there when I breathed my first breath?
Took in those dry particles from the cotton fields.
Who knew then that I would need witnesses of my birth?
The stars were there in the sky.
The wind was there.
The sun was there.
The pollen of spring was floating and sensed me being born.
They are silent witnesses.
They do not know of affidavits, they simply know.
"You need records," she said.
"Are there doctor's receipts from when you were a baby?
Didn't your parents have a family Bible, you know,
where births were recorded?
Were there letters?
Announcements of your birth?"
I don't bother to explain my parents are illiterate in the English language.
What I really want to tell her is they speak a language much too civil for writing.
It is a language useful for pulling memory from the depths of the earth.
It is useful for praying with the earth and sky.
It is useful for singing songs that pull down the clouds.
It is useful for calling rain.
It is useful for speeches and incantations
that pull sickness from the minds and bodies of believers. (excerpt)
I have been searching for more of Ofelia Zepeda's works for years, and so grateful I was able to find these. The Tohono O'odham people were my first large-scale work with Native Americans, when I was working on a kidney transplant floor, and I was inspired to start my journey of learning more about the original inhabitants of this land. They have the highest rates of Type II diabetes, which destroys kidneys, in the US and world, something like over half of people over 35 and their kidneys fail much faster than some other populations. In those days, there was too little known about the other contributing factors to kidney disease, so the health inequities and biases were strong. I was able to learn so much about families and culture and it was mind and heart opening.
Zepeda's poems encompass all of it, culture, changing time, oppression, childhood, loss of innocence, and most beautifully for me, the landscape and nature around her. Just beautiful.
The Other World
…
A clear dry night in the Kofa Mountains,
where stars are visible even on the horizon.
We sit with heads tilted and marvel at them
all evening long.
At one point we watch a satellite watching us.
We point out the Milky Way in its dense gray majesty
resting quietly on a massive carpet of black.
They call it the backbone,
the universe's nervous system.
If the Milky Way falters in its rhythm,
it is a sign of our violation of the rules of civilization.
Some of us will look at each other and wonder
which ones, some will begin selling alibis,
and others will find temporary shelter
in the land down under.
In the Midst of Songs
We hear the songs resounding.
They are resounding toward the sunset.
They are resounding toward the sunrise.
They are resounding toward the north.
They are resounding toward the south.
We are in the midst of songs.
Our heart is full of joy.
Our mind is good.
Our land is good.
The land is all beautiful, take a look.
There is light rain all around, take a look.
We hear the ocean in the distance.
Ir has come near us.
We hear the beautiful wind in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear the dust storm in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear a beautiful song in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear a beautiful song in the distance.
It has come upon us.
Cemamagi, Tumamoc
Babad Do'ag, Santa Catalina Mountains
Cuk Do'ag, Black Mountains, Tucson Mountains
Cew Do'ag, Rincon Mountains
Giho Do'ag, Kihotoa, Burden Basket Mountain
Waw Giwulig Do'ag, Baboquivari Mountain
It has been said before,
these mountains will not listen
if we simply speak words to them.
They will only hear us
if we come with melody, rhythm,
pitch, and harmony.
To these circling mountains
we must speak with voices
in songs, rhythmic speeches, orations, and prayers.
We must be prepared with repetition,
a singular, undisturbed beat.
That is the way of mountains.
This is what they want to hear.
We must come to them with music
so they are generous with the summer rains
that appear to start their journey from their peaks.
We must come to them with song
so they will be generous
with the winter snow that settles there.
We must come to them with a strong recognizable beat,
a beat that reaches the core of the mountain-
a core still molten and moving to its own sounds -
and simultaneously reaches
a core long frozen into submission
with only a memory of the heat of its birth.
For the mountains of Tucson
the sound of spoken word is not enough.
They will not hear us.
We must be prepared
with harmony,
a strong rhythm,
a beat.
Do'ag Weco
Ia 'ac gegok do'ag weco
kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We stand below the mountain and look upward.
We look upward in humility, in prayer.
From the tops of mountains come memories
of stories, songs, names of plants,
animals we have long forgotten.
Old people dream of days they walked
mountains paths.
They dream of their sturdy step,
lack of fear of a desolate mountaintop.
They see things there only rendered in song.
Lower parts of mountains are for all humans.
We walk along a mountainside knowing
ancestors' bones sit in the mountains.
They watch us as we pass. We are not afraid.
On an unusually cool July day we drive to Waw Giwulig.
Arriving at the foot of the mountain
I place a towel on the damp bench and sit down.
This place is green and moist.
The air is blue.
Light mist drifts, swayed by breezes.
For a few hours on a summer day
this mountain is in tune with the wet side of ocean islands.
Ia 'ac dadhă do'ag weco kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We sit here below the mountain and look upward.
Ia 'ac dadhă kc t-ho'igeid.
Tt amjed hab t-ju: mo hab a wua g O'odham
c am ha'icu ta:ñ g t-na:toikam.
T hab masma 'ab 'i-hi: 'i:da t-taccudag
mat hab masma o i-hi: g wi'inam su:dagi.
Ñia'a.
Before we do anything else, we open
our voices to a greater being.
We say we are grateful for being allowed
to be here in this wonder.
And like flooding water, the requests for gifts begin.
We ask for strength.
We ask for health.
We ask for goodness.
Finally we feel we need to justify
our requests; we begin again.
We ask for strength to complete the things
we have started to do with our lives.
We ask for health so that we may walk
with a sturdy step,
with good breath,
and clean light in our eyes.
We ask for goodness so that we may have open minds,
open hearts.
We ask for patience to deal with all those who require it,
and pass it on to those who are impatient.
We ask for forgiveness so we can forgive those who require it,
and pass it on to those who are unforgiving.
Ia 'ac dadhă do'ag weco kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We sit here below the mountain and look upward.
Aligning Our World
It is important to wake facing east.
Facing the sunrise,
The origin of the day,
The direction you pray.
A conference in Dallas.
A hotel room not in line with the east.
My roommate looks around,
"Which way is east? You have no mountains
So I can't tell."
A young black man, the bellhop,
Points in the direction he knows as east.
"Can we move our beds? We must wake facing east,"
She asks
He shrugs and begins to help us align our world.
We push beds, dressers, nightstands, and lamps.
We push the moon, the stars, and the earth.
Like the tumblers in a combination lock, we
Hear them roll, we can feel the anticipation of the
Right set of numbers, click, click.
The earth's axis makes this sound as we continue
Moving furniture.
The stars screech and scratch the sky -
A sound one wouldn't expect from stars.
I have heard this sound before when
Stars wake me from sound sleep with their movement.
The loudest is when one falls.
We hear that final familiar click when everything
Falls into its rightful place.
The young man starts for the door.
"We'll put it all back when we leave,"
We shout as he walks out the door.
Took in those dry particles from the cotton fields.
Who knew then that I would need witnesses of my birth?
The stars were there in the sky.
The wind was there.
The sun was there.
The pollen of spring was floating and sensed me being born.
They are silent witnesses.
They do not know of affidavits, they simply know.
"You need records," she said.
"Are there doctor's receipts from when you were a baby?
Didn't your parents have a family Bible, you know,
where births were recorded?
Were there letters?
Announcements of your birth?"
I don't bother to explain my parents are illiterate in the English language.
What I really want to tell her is they speak a language much too civil for writing.
It is a language useful for pulling memory from the depths of the earth.
It is useful for praying with the earth and sky.
It is useful for singing songs that pull down the clouds.
It is useful for calling rain.
It is useful for speeches and incantations
that pull sickness from the minds and bodies of believers. (excerpt)
I have been searching for more of Ofelia Zepeda's works for years, and so grateful I was able to find these. The Tohono O'odham people were my first large-scale work with Native Americans, when I was working on a kidney transplant floor, and I was inspired to start my journey of learning more about the original inhabitants of this land. They have the highest rates of Type II diabetes, which destroys kidneys, in the US and world, something like over half of people over 35 and their kidneys fail much faster than some other populations. In those days, there was too little known about the other contributing factors to kidney disease, so the health inequities and biases were strong. I was able to learn so much about families and culture and it was mind and heart opening.
Zepeda's poems encompass all of it, culture, changing time, oppression, childhood, loss of innocence, and most beautifully for me, the landscape and nature around her. Just beautiful.
The Other World
…
A clear dry night in the Kofa Mountains,
where stars are visible even on the horizon.
We sit with heads tilted and marvel at them
all evening long.
At one point we watch a satellite watching us.
We point out the Milky Way in its dense gray majesty
resting quietly on a massive carpet of black.
They call it the backbone,
the universe's nervous system.
If the Milky Way falters in its rhythm,
it is a sign of our violation of the rules of civilization.
Some of us will look at each other and wonder
which ones, some will begin selling alibis,
and others will find temporary shelter
in the land down under.
In the Midst of Songs
We hear the songs resounding.
They are resounding toward the sunset.
They are resounding toward the sunrise.
They are resounding toward the north.
They are resounding toward the south.
We are in the midst of songs.
Our heart is full of joy.
Our mind is good.
Our land is good.
The land is all beautiful, take a look.
There is light rain all around, take a look.
We hear the ocean in the distance.
Ir has come near us.
We hear the beautiful wind in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear the dust storm in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear a beautiful song in the distance.
It has come near us.
We hear a beautiful song in the distance.
It has come upon us.
Cemamagi, Tumamoc
Babad Do'ag, Santa Catalina Mountains
Cuk Do'ag, Black Mountains, Tucson Mountains
Cew Do'ag, Rincon Mountains
Giho Do'ag, Kihotoa, Burden Basket Mountain
Waw Giwulig Do'ag, Baboquivari Mountain
It has been said before,
these mountains will not listen
if we simply speak words to them.
They will only hear us
if we come with melody, rhythm,
pitch, and harmony.
To these circling mountains
we must speak with voices
in songs, rhythmic speeches, orations, and prayers.
We must be prepared with repetition,
a singular, undisturbed beat.
That is the way of mountains.
This is what they want to hear.
We must come to them with music
so they are generous with the summer rains
that appear to start their journey from their peaks.
We must come to them with song
so they will be generous
with the winter snow that settles there.
We must come to them with a strong recognizable beat,
a beat that reaches the core of the mountain-
a core still molten and moving to its own sounds -
and simultaneously reaches
a core long frozen into submission
with only a memory of the heat of its birth.
For the mountains of Tucson
the sound of spoken word is not enough.
They will not hear us.
We must be prepared
with harmony,
a strong rhythm,
a beat.
Do'ag Weco
Ia 'ac gegok do'ag weco
kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We stand below the mountain and look upward.
We look upward in humility, in prayer.
From the tops of mountains come memories
of stories, songs, names of plants,
animals we have long forgotten.
Old people dream of days they walked
mountains paths.
They dream of their sturdy step,
lack of fear of a desolate mountaintop.
They see things there only rendered in song.
Lower parts of mountains are for all humans.
We walk along a mountainside knowing
ancestors' bones sit in the mountains.
They watch us as we pass. We are not afraid.
On an unusually cool July day we drive to Waw Giwulig.
Arriving at the foot of the mountain
I place a towel on the damp bench and sit down.
This place is green and moist.
The air is blue.
Light mist drifts, swayed by breezes.
For a few hours on a summer day
this mountain is in tune with the wet side of ocean islands.
Ia 'ac dadhă do'ag weco kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We sit here below the mountain and look upward.
Ia 'ac dadhă kc t-ho'igeid.
Tt amjed hab t-ju: mo hab a wua g O'odham
c am ha'icu ta:ñ g t-na:toikam.
T hab masma 'ab 'i-hi: 'i:da t-taccudag
mat hab masma o i-hi: g wi'inam su:dagi.
Ñia'a.
Before we do anything else, we open
our voices to a greater being.
We say we are grateful for being allowed
to be here in this wonder.
And like flooding water, the requests for gifts begin.
We ask for strength.
We ask for health.
We ask for goodness.
Finally we feel we need to justify
our requests; we begin again.
We ask for strength to complete the things
we have started to do with our lives.
We ask for health so that we may walk
with a sturdy step,
with good breath,
and clean light in our eyes.
We ask for goodness so that we may have open minds,
open hearts.
We ask for patience to deal with all those who require it,
and pass it on to those who are impatient.
We ask for forgiveness so we can forgive those who require it,
and pass it on to those who are unforgiving.
Ia 'ac dadhă do'ag weco kc 'an 'u:gk ha'icu ñeid.
We sit here below the mountain and look upward.
Aligning Our World
It is important to wake facing east.
Facing the sunrise,
The origin of the day,
The direction you pray.
A conference in Dallas.
A hotel room not in line with the east.
My roommate looks around,
"Which way is east? You have no mountains
So I can't tell."
A young black man, the bellhop,
Points in the direction he knows as east.
"Can we move our beds? We must wake facing east,"
She asks
He shrugs and begins to help us align our world.
We push beds, dressers, nightstands, and lamps.
We push the moon, the stars, and the earth.
Like the tumblers in a combination lock, we
Hear them roll, we can feel the anticipation of the
Right set of numbers, click, click.
The earth's axis makes this sound as we continue
Moving furniture.
The stars screech and scratch the sky -
A sound one wouldn't expect from stars.
I have heard this sound before when
Stars wake me from sound sleep with their movement.
The loudest is when one falls.
We hear that final familiar click when everything
Falls into its rightful place.
The young man starts for the door.
"We'll put it all back when we leave,"
We shout as he walks out the door.
June 29, 2009
I love this book. It's simple and poignant--a beautiful collection.
October 26, 2012
Zepeda, honest and beautiful as always.
May 19, 2022
I didn't think this was wonderful poetry, or at least not most of it, but it was a very enjoyable and meaningful read. Ms. Zepeda's words ring true and her simple, mostly flat, speech opens the reader to her world and her truths. I appreciated that. She is clear and usually precise. You think you see what she sees. And when she's good, she's very good. In "Proclamation," she starts:
Cuk Son is a story.
Tucson is a linguistic alternative.
You almost don't need more to understand that there is a world of meaning in her peoples' southwest homeland and another world, a veneer, wrapping it somewhat like plastic on a warm baked good.
She is consistent in this. In "Lost Prayers" she beautifully contrasts religion as practice and religion as meaning. She says:
Passing below the sacred peak,
here prayers signified by rosary beads are futile.
Calling on the Virgin Mary is useless.
Instead, one must know the language of the land,
One must know the balance of the desert.
One must know how to pray
so that all elements of nature will fall into rhythm.
These are the kinds of prayers that will work...
Ms. Zepeda lets you know what it is to be of a place and what that means. And this is truly valuable writing, and impressive thinking. Writing and thinking that I am happy to have had the opportunity to witness.
Cuk Son is a story.
Tucson is a linguistic alternative.
You almost don't need more to understand that there is a world of meaning in her peoples' southwest homeland and another world, a veneer, wrapping it somewhat like plastic on a warm baked good.
She is consistent in this. In "Lost Prayers" she beautifully contrasts religion as practice and religion as meaning. She says:
Passing below the sacred peak,
here prayers signified by rosary beads are futile.
Calling on the Virgin Mary is useless.
Instead, one must know the language of the land,
One must know the balance of the desert.
One must know how to pray
so that all elements of nature will fall into rhythm.
These are the kinds of prayers that will work...
Ms. Zepeda lets you know what it is to be of a place and what that means. And this is truly valuable writing, and impressive thinking. Writing and thinking that I am happy to have had the opportunity to witness.
March 27, 2025
Read this immediately after finishing 'Ocean Power', and despite both holding powerful, mystical poetry, 'Where Clouds Are Formed' shows an incredible development in Zepeda's word-smithing.
A lot of this more recent collection leaves behind the at times ethnographic (though always personal and heart felt) entries of 'Ocean Power', and moves us into more abstract, even more fully-developed constructions of Zepeda's experiences as an O'odham woman and poet.
The connections between desert and ocean, heat/dryness and water hit really deep. We have much to learn from desert people, always.
This is a must read, it always will be.
A lot of this more recent collection leaves behind the at times ethnographic (though always personal and heart felt) entries of 'Ocean Power', and moves us into more abstract, even more fully-developed constructions of Zepeda's experiences as an O'odham woman and poet.
The connections between desert and ocean, heat/dryness and water hit really deep. We have much to learn from desert people, always.
This is a must read, it always will be.
July 4, 2020
These poems were lovely, thought-provoking, and deep-rooted. However, I found myself wishing for an Audible version whenever I came to parts written in the tongue of the Tohono O'odham Nation, though. There are several passages woven through a number of poems which I tried sounding out. Not having the first clue of exactly how the words ought to sound--well, I ultimately skipped the lines out of sheer frustration. Not a feeling I really want to experience from poetry.
October 22, 2024
Zepeda’s spiritual tether to the natural world speaks strongly through her writing, and her imagery brings me back to the strange and beautiful landscape of Tucson. This is one of two poetry collections I picked up while searching for indigenous artists in Arizona, and I am moved by the reflections on land and language that have shaped this book.
November 4, 2021
I came across this poet on a trip to AZ while traveling through/learning more about the Sonoran Desert. I know very little about the Tohono O’odham Nation, but reading these poems gave me a warm sense of place and people, culture and history, and took me back to the beauty of that desert.
April 26, 2019
Powerful and elemental poetry that speaks to deeper truths. I loved this book.
August 12, 2019
Ofelia Zepeda's timeless collection is strongly tied to the Arizona desert and the Tohono O'odham Nation.
December 27, 2020
Powerful and beautiful.
August 21, 2023
This is essential poetry from a truly gifted poet. Ofelia Zepeda shares her deep love of the Tohono O'odman language and the land of her ancestors in deceptively simple, evocative verse.
September 16, 2023
Loved "How to End a Season"
July 27, 2024
I bought this book at CoLang 2022, where Ofelia taught and spoke. Her poems are beautifully honest amd provide meaningful insight into the land and ways of knowing of the Tohono O'odham people.
January 4, 2025
Zepeda does it again.
September 26, 2025
I’m obsessed. My two favorites might be “Proclamation” — such a beautiful homage to Tucson — and “The Way to Leave Your Illness”, which are instructions I needed once.
August 23, 2016
A wonderful collection of poems by Tohono O’odham poet/professor Ofelia Zepeda that delve into what it means to be Tohono O’odham, give cultural background, and discusses contemporary issues/challenges/and insights regarding identity. Many of the poems are interested in language, and the way that language can shape and alter identity. In the poem “Birth Witness” the use of English and O’odham are juxtaposed, and Zepeda suggests that it is really English that is the uncivilized language. This poem, of course, alludes to boarding schools that attempted to remove all Indigenous languages from the mouths of young children. But the poem further suggests that O’odham is still being used (and it is used throughout this collection of poetry). Furthermore, the poem deals with a question of sovereignty—what documents can be accepted to verify the birth of a Tohono O’odham citizen?
Oral traditions and stories are discussed in “Words on Your Tongue,” a poem that is at its heard about stories being a part of a human’s identity. In a sense all of the poems themselves should be read aloud. They are oral themselves because of the cadence that has been added—the rhythm replicates speech and oral traditions.
The best poem in the collection has to be “Walking with Language.” In this poem, language is again the theme of the poem. Zepeda suggests that language changes, but that by mastering language stories can be told. By telling stories things are known. It is such a good poem, I have included it all:
Oral traditions and stories are discussed in “Words on Your Tongue,” a poem that is at its heard about stories being a part of a human’s identity. In a sense all of the poems themselves should be read aloud. They are oral themselves because of the cadence that has been added—the rhythm replicates speech and oral traditions.
The best poem in the collection has to be “Walking with Language.” In this poem, language is again the theme of the poem. Zepeda suggests that language changes, but that by mastering language stories can be told. By telling stories things are known. It is such a good poem, I have included it all:
Some have carried it, held it close, protected.
Others have pulled it along like a reluctant child.
Still others have waved it like a flag, a signal to others.
And some have filled it with rage
and dare others to come close.
And there are those who find their language
a burdensome shackle.
They continually pick at the lock. (64)
March 5, 2010
I didn't enjoy the poetry as much as I enjoyed the information contained within them (e.g. a history of SW locations according to O'odham culture).
Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews