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Dream Drawings: Configurations of a Timeless Kind
From Pulitzer Prize winner and celebrated American master N. Scott Momaday, a beautiful and enchanting new poetry collection, at once a celebration of language, imagination, and the human spirit.
He must be ranked among the greatest of our contemporary writers. -- American Scholar
We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake. (from the preface)
A singular voice in American letters, Momaday's love of language and storytelling are on full display in this brilliant collection comprising one hundred sketches or dream drawings--furnishings of the mind--as he calls them. Drawing on his Native American heritage and its oral storytelling traditions, here are poems about nature, animals, warriors, and hunters, as well as poems that explore themes of love, loss, and mortality. Each piece, full of wisdom and wonder, showcases Momaday's extraordinary lyrical talent and his own intimate connection to the natural world. The collection is also illustrated with a selection of black and white paintings by Momaday that capture the spirit of his prose.
Poignant, imaginative, and inspired, these are poems that will nourish the soul.
He must be ranked among the greatest of our contemporary writers. -- American Scholar
We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake. (from the preface)
A singular voice in American letters, Momaday's love of language and storytelling are on full display in this brilliant collection comprising one hundred sketches or dream drawings--furnishings of the mind--as he calls them. Drawing on his Native American heritage and its oral storytelling traditions, here are poems about nature, animals, warriors, and hunters, as well as poems that explore themes of love, loss, and mortality. Each piece, full of wisdom and wonder, showcases Momaday's extraordinary lyrical talent and his own intimate connection to the natural world. The collection is also illustrated with a selection of black and white paintings by Momaday that capture the spirit of his prose.
Poignant, imaginative, and inspired, these are poems that will nourish the soul.
128 pages, Paperback
First published May 3, 2022
24 people are currently reading
1807 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 72 reviews
September 5, 2022
There is powerful magic in "Dream Drawings: Configurations of a Timeless Kind,” a sphere where author N. Scott Momaday weaves dreams, imagination and language to conjure up a potent vision of life. Here are written sketches of dreams and the significance they hold for us. The poetic essays draw from the author's Native American perspective, but run the gamut from our kindred bear spirits to King Philip of Macedonia and his son Alexander. Georgia O'Keefe and Tolstoy make cameos... but those bears seem to shine best. There are moving meditations on mortality, on the nature of time, and of man's role in the world. We have parables and myths and the supernatural all eliminating the distinction between the imagined and the real.
Despite never having developed an adequate appreciation for poetry I was still immediately immersed and felt connected in this world. Passages became underlined, sections to be visited again-- until it was evident there were more lines highlighted than not. I can envision having a beat up copy of this book on me to pull out and reflect on. One favorite is "Ownership." Two men discuss the breathtaking beauty of the canyon they are in and one remarks, "It belongs to me, I don’t own it, but it’s mine.” The other man understands. "True ownership does not consist in titles and deeds. It is assumed by a claim made in the heart, and it is purchased with love and respect. The cliff is his, as it is mine."
Again, I am so impressed by this work that I could just copy out selection after selection. N. Scott Momaday has a true power to spill these ideas onto the page. His intention, quoted in the Preface: "Language and the imagination work hand in hand, and together they enable us to reveal us to ourselves in story. That is indeed a magical process, and it is the foundation of art and literature. We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake."
Momaday won the Pulitzer Prize in 1969 for his novel "House Made of Dawn," a book often credited with starting the Native American Renaissance. I have ordered a copy and am excited to further explore this man's vision. There are rare times to celebrate the personal discovery of an artist who has been out there all along and I consider myself incredibly fortunate to add this man's gifts to my awareness.
Thank you Harper Perennial and Paperbacks, NetGalley, and N. Scott Momaday for the advance reader copy in exchange for an honest review. #DreamDrawings #NetGalley. @NSMomaday @HarperPerennial
"IN THE TELLING The story does not end. Rather it revolves on a wheel of telling. It begins again. That is the way of story and storytelling; it is an endless way. In like manner, dreams do not end. They dissolve into infinite possibility. The story and the dream cannot be told apart." -- N. Scott Momaday
Despite never having developed an adequate appreciation for poetry I was still immediately immersed and felt connected in this world. Passages became underlined, sections to be visited again-- until it was evident there were more lines highlighted than not. I can envision having a beat up copy of this book on me to pull out and reflect on. One favorite is "Ownership." Two men discuss the breathtaking beauty of the canyon they are in and one remarks, "It belongs to me, I don’t own it, but it’s mine.” The other man understands. "True ownership does not consist in titles and deeds. It is assumed by a claim made in the heart, and it is purchased with love and respect. The cliff is his, as it is mine."
Again, I am so impressed by this work that I could just copy out selection after selection. N. Scott Momaday has a true power to spill these ideas onto the page. His intention, quoted in the Preface: "Language and the imagination work hand in hand, and together they enable us to reveal us to ourselves in story. That is indeed a magical process, and it is the foundation of art and literature. We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake."
Momaday won the Pulitzer Prize in 1969 for his novel "House Made of Dawn," a book often credited with starting the Native American Renaissance. I have ordered a copy and am excited to further explore this man's vision. There are rare times to celebrate the personal discovery of an artist who has been out there all along and I consider myself incredibly fortunate to add this man's gifts to my awareness.
Thank you Harper Perennial and Paperbacks, NetGalley, and N. Scott Momaday for the advance reader copy in exchange for an honest review. #DreamDrawings #NetGalley. @NSMomaday @HarperPerennial
"IN THE TELLING The story does not end. Rather it revolves on a wheel of telling. It begins again. That is the way of story and storytelling; it is an endless way. In like manner, dreams do not end. They dissolve into infinite possibility. The story and the dream cannot be told apart." -- N. Scott Momaday
March 17, 2022
Very short read, but packed full of beauty and all the feels. It takes you to another place. Just gorgeous and mesmerizing. Each work is meaningful. Just lovely.
May 6, 2022
**Thanks to NetGalley, N. Scott Momaday, and Harper Perennial for this ARC**
We roll on wheels of words and dreams
Dream Drawings: Configurations of a Timeless Kind by N. Scott Momaday is a gorgeous collection of poetry that honor the power of words to tell stories, paint pictures, and create dreams. An homage to storytelling, this collection covers a variety of topics with a commitment to honoring the power of language to create or reveal what is.
N. Scott Momaday concludes this collection with the reflection:
I have suggested elsewhere that there is only one story, that it is timeless and universal, and that it is composed of many stories in the one. That is true, I believe, and here are fragments of the original story, that which is told in the landscape of words and dreams.
It was a pleasure and a gift to read these fragments of the original story. I feel as though I glimpsed brief moments of light flashing off the facets of the whole. A gorgeous read.
We roll on wheels of words and dreams
Dream Drawings: Configurations of a Timeless Kind by N. Scott Momaday is a gorgeous collection of poetry that honor the power of words to tell stories, paint pictures, and create dreams. An homage to storytelling, this collection covers a variety of topics with a commitment to honoring the power of language to create or reveal what is.
N. Scott Momaday concludes this collection with the reflection:
I have suggested elsewhere that there is only one story, that it is timeless and universal, and that it is composed of many stories in the one. That is true, I believe, and here are fragments of the original story, that which is told in the landscape of words and dreams.
It was a pleasure and a gift to read these fragments of the original story. I feel as though I glimpsed brief moments of light flashing off the facets of the whole. A gorgeous read.
August 8, 2022
Favorite poems in this collection: "The Original Storyteller", "The Realization of Nothing", "A Spell for Setting Out", and "The Intruder".
January 8, 2023
Dream Drawings is not your typical book of poetry; I was very much reminded of Fantastic Fables by Ambrose Bierce. The poetic nature of these short meditations is very dreamlike, a deeper truth must be uncovered after time is spent thinking about them. N. Scott Momaday is a master storyteller who understands our collective desires.
April 19, 2022
Now one of my all-time favorite poetry collections 🥰
__
✨ Review ✨ Dream Drawings by N. Scott Momaday
I've long heard of Momaday's work but this is the first time I've ever picked one of his books up. Momaday (Kiowa) is a novelist, storyteller, teacher, artist, and more, and this book contains a collection of poetry that celebrates his love of language and storytelling.
When reading poetry, I usually feel like most of the meaning is going over my head, and while that's probably still true here, I felt like Momaday's poetry was exceptionally accessible and meaningful. I really loved the themes he wove throughout -- themes of love, loss, time, storytelling, memory, and identity.
He frequently draws on a sense of knowing inherent to us that goes beyond the lives we've lived - the inherited stories of those who have come before us, sense of intuition of the lives others have led. Some might crudely describe it as ghost stories, but instead it felt like something more meaningful.
"We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake." (preface)
This book beautifully reflects on life, and while I want to excerpt more here, its poems are perhaps best consumed together in this volume. Finally, its Southwest US vibe is woven unmistakably throughout, and in a sense, felt like coming home.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Genre: Poetry
Pub Date: May 3, 2022
Thanks to Harper Perennial for an advanced copy of this book!
__
✨ Review ✨ Dream Drawings by N. Scott Momaday
I've long heard of Momaday's work but this is the first time I've ever picked one of his books up. Momaday (Kiowa) is a novelist, storyteller, teacher, artist, and more, and this book contains a collection of poetry that celebrates his love of language and storytelling.
When reading poetry, I usually feel like most of the meaning is going over my head, and while that's probably still true here, I felt like Momaday's poetry was exceptionally accessible and meaningful. I really loved the themes he wove throughout -- themes of love, loss, time, storytelling, memory, and identity.
He frequently draws on a sense of knowing inherent to us that goes beyond the lives we've lived - the inherited stories of those who have come before us, sense of intuition of the lives others have led. Some might crudely describe it as ghost stories, but instead it felt like something more meaningful.
"We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake." (preface)
This book beautifully reflects on life, and while I want to excerpt more here, its poems are perhaps best consumed together in this volume. Finally, its Southwest US vibe is woven unmistakably throughout, and in a sense, felt like coming home.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Genre: Poetry
Pub Date: May 3, 2022
Thanks to Harper Perennial for an advanced copy of this book!
August 4, 2022
The reason behind reading this collection was one of the unexpected surprised and blessings from the 2022 Santa Fe Literary Festival. We got tickets to this event as it was a celebration of New Mexico authors and, ironically enough, mostly to see Kirsten Valdez Quade as we had both read and enjoyed her debut novel "The Five Wounds." But alas, the other featured author was N. Scott Momaday who I am now embarrassed to say I had never heard of before but quickly learned in was the first Native American to win the Pulitzer Prize for his novel "House Made of Dawn" in 1969. To say the 88-year old Momaday was impressive is an understatement. His quiet and gentle voice and wise words had us leaning in, sitting at the edge of our seats and moved us to tears (well, okay more accurately... eye mistiness). Definitely one of the highlights of our literary weekend, which was not lacking for highlights time and time again.
So we got this book as part of the event (you could attend/pay for events without buying a book, but why do that??!) and while I have not been a big fan of poetry figured this slim volume would not be too much of a burden. And while there is some, what most folks would consider, "traditional" (verse) poetry here, most our random one-page stories or reflections. There is a lot to ponder here, but I have to admit most of the time this was operating on another cerebral plane that I was incapable of digesting and fully enjoying. Just a lot of "Well, hmmmm" and turning the page. Again, this was totally outside my comfort level/box, so it's definitely a case where it's "me" not Momaday.
I was grateful that one of the moving moments Momaday spoke about was one that was included in this collection. I'll share a part of it here so you can get a sense of this incredible man. This is from a piece called "Ownership":
I live in a house in a canyon. Great cliffs rose up on either side, and one of them, sheer, white, and dun and rose-colored was especially beautiful ... There was a young man, a drifter, who worked for me one summer. We spoke of the cliff, and he said, "It belongs to me, I don't own it, but it's mine." I thought about this, and I came to see the wisdom in it. True ownership does not consist in titles and deeds. It is assumed by a claim made in the heart, and it is purchased with love and respect. The cliff is his, as it is mine.
Again, not a collection I often "got" and I'll gladly give all the stars to Momaday, but a Goodreads round-up to 4 stars for my overall reading experience here.
March 28, 2022
Normally, I don't read poetry but this collection of poems was one of the best that I read in my life. I'm glad that NetGalley introduced me to this poet and I hope to read more poems about life, traveling, grief, and anything else from her in the future.
January 5, 2025
frankly, in one word: disappointing
i am no stranger to Momaday’s work, we studied some of his stronger, more inspired work in class, but i find him more compelling as an orator and character than i do as a poet.
this collection of poetry, where 90% of the poems are prose-poems, comes across as one-note, surface-level, and generally like the half-baked ideas from a writer that i know has the skills to make a beautiful collection, but refuses.
the prose-poems that Momaday writes here, which seem possibly inspired by fable and myth, instead succeed as tiny fragments of larger essays, rather than complete pieces of poetry. these poems are formulaic, void of emotion, and lack the depth i so desperately wanted Momaday to explore, impelling them to all blend and bleed together.
very disappointed, i’m giving two stars because of Momaday’s few brief poems that are not just paragraphs, those were quite lovely, and speak to the great talent that i know he has.
at its best, an interesting interpretive measure on dreams, of ancestry and time. at its worst, a blended together mishmash of ideas not fully realized into their true potential.
i am no stranger to Momaday’s work, we studied some of his stronger, more inspired work in class, but i find him more compelling as an orator and character than i do as a poet.
this collection of poetry, where 90% of the poems are prose-poems, comes across as one-note, surface-level, and generally like the half-baked ideas from a writer that i know has the skills to make a beautiful collection, but refuses.
the prose-poems that Momaday writes here, which seem possibly inspired by fable and myth, instead succeed as tiny fragments of larger essays, rather than complete pieces of poetry. these poems are formulaic, void of emotion, and lack the depth i so desperately wanted Momaday to explore, impelling them to all blend and bleed together.
very disappointed, i’m giving two stars because of Momaday’s few brief poems that are not just paragraphs, those were quite lovely, and speak to the great talent that i know he has.
at its best, an interesting interpretive measure on dreams, of ancestry and time. at its worst, a blended together mishmash of ideas not fully realized into their true potential.
June 12, 2022
Just a handful of drawings, mostly rough and gestural (which I like), but I think my favorite was the one on page 76, illustrating "The Ghost of Adam Meagre." But I very much liked the writing in this book, which ranges somewhat surprisingly and enjoyably across style and content. My particular favorite is "The Dark Amusement of Bears," which goes like this:
"Bears are amused by the concept of reality. They sit around imagining they are real, and they laugh."
Decided to take a quick turn through the library yesterday, just to see what was there, and this was one of the gems I found. I always enjoy letting the library surprise me, and the library here in Worthington never fails me. However many books I bring home, there were always many more I had to leave on the shelves, because there are only so many hours in the day for leisure reading.
"Bears are amused by the concept of reality. They sit around imagining they are real, and they laugh."
Decided to take a quick turn through the library yesterday, just to see what was there, and this was one of the gems I found. I always enjoy letting the library surprise me, and the library here in Worthington never fails me. However many books I bring home, there were always many more I had to leave on the shelves, because there are only so many hours in the day for leisure reading.
November 4, 2022
Ah. So. Beautiful.
Momaday's poetry is a gift to us all. When reading, you will feel the resonance behind his thoughts.
Scattered throughout the text, the author's accompanying drawings echo his thoughts.
Read this book.
Momaday's poetry is a gift to us all. When reading, you will feel the resonance behind his thoughts.
Scattered throughout the text, the author's accompanying drawings echo his thoughts.
Read this book.
June 16, 2025
This little book of poems is fantastic. I loved it!
December 25, 2025
Packed with genuine beauty and the power of people and place. 🤎
November 14, 2023
The only person who can compete with this author is this author
February 3, 2024
It is said that one can compare a grain of sand to the desert or a drop of water to the ocean, but one cannot compare time to eternity.
April 20, 2022
It’s National Poetry Month in the U.S. I do not gravitate towards poetry naturally, but over the past 9 years of homeschooling, I have learned to appreciate. It was not taught well to me in school so I was very intimidated to read it. While I know my education is still lacking in the art form, I’m no longer scared to dive in to a poetry collection.
In Dream Drawings, Momaday draws on his Native American heritage to give us 100 poems about everything from memory and aging to nature. There are also some sketches scattered throughout the collection.
In Dream Drawings, Momaday draws on his Native American heritage to give us 100 poems about everything from memory and aging to nature. There are also some sketches scattered throughout the collection.
January 1, 2024
Language is magical. Nothing in our world has been so instrumental in determining the history of our species. When we speak or read or write we are transformed into an intelligence made of words. It is our human being. We became human when we acquired language. Language and the imagination work hand in hand, and together they enable us to reveal us to ourselves in story. That is indeed a magical process, and it is the foundation of art and literature. We imagine and we dream, and we translate our dreams into language. This book is an enactment of that creative process. It is a celebration of words for their own sake.
Fascinating as Momaday is always, I treasure the stories and songs and prayers that Momaday continues to give to us. His voice and vision just encompass so much wisdom and power and I am not sure who will take up the reins when he is done. These are all short paragraphs and poems but he takes you to the moon and back and you feel it all, breathe in the air, feel the sun and rain and snow, and know the people he encounters in life and dreams.
THE SCOP
My imagination turns upon words. I am certain that I was there in the forest when a storyteller recited Beowulf to a gathering of villagers in Anglo-Saxon England, common folk for whom such a performance was magical. And I have heard the thunder of King Lear’s voice on the boards of the Globe Theatre in Elizabethan London. I was spellbound. Emily Dickinson read to me a poem she had written about crickets in which she realized a precision of statement that defies description. Czeslaw Milosz read his magnificent “Esse” to an audience in Ohio. I was there. I know these voices as well as I know my own, for I have heard them in my dreams. Dreams are the language of the imagination, and words are the conceptual symbols of our dreams. The scop, the actor, the writer, the storyteller draw with words. All of human history and all that can be dreamed of the future is contained in such drawings. I hear ancient voices striving for meaning and art, and I see crude and beautiful images on the walls of caves. Deo gratias.
THE SPIRITUAL GRAVITY OF PLACE
There are places in the world that lay claim to you, though you have been to them only once or not at all. They are places that you know imperfectly in your recollection or unaccountably in your dreams. Once, I visited the ancient city of Samarkand. I was there a few days, but it seems to me that I lived there throughout some years of my life. There I stepped out of time and into the vortex of cellular memory. Samarkand absorbed my whole being. And in my dreams I have come to Tintagel, or rather the mythic city of Camelot, which holds for me the same spiritual gravity. I have been there, though I have not, and there I have heard someone say, “Ah, you have returned. Welcome!”
OBSERVATIONS
I have observed the whorls of geology on a canyon wall, a splinter of the sun at my window, the far end of time on the desert, a butterfly alighting on a leaf, an old man praying, sunrise on the Great Plains, ravens playing with a young fox, wind whipping the sea, the look of wonder on a child’s face, a snowfield in moonlight, and a small blue stone. Why should I fear death?
OWNERSHIP
Great cliffs rose up on either side, and one of them, sheer, white and dun and rose-colored, was especially beautiful. When the slanting light of the afternoon sun ascended on the face of it, I was made to hold my breath. It is simply good to reside in the presence of such a thing. It sustains the spirit.
MERGER
It is said that one can compare a grain of sand to the desert, or a drop of water to the ocean, but one cannot compare time and eternity. What could have inspired the poet Frederick Goddard Tuckerman to write, “the moments take hold of eternity”? It is a brilliant figure in literature, a figure in the balance of which lies an insoluble equation. It is an image that is not an image, for it cannot be seen. It might suggest ship lights taking hold of the fog or smoke dissolving among leaves, but these are at last wide of the mark. What can be determined is this: On a day in Greenfield, Massachusetts, more than a century ago, a poet strove with the concept of evanescence and the merger of time and timelessness. In one singular and profound expression he might seem to have achieved the inexpressible. It is a thing to ponder.
ON THE IMAGINATION
From mere reality these words become
And we are left to calculate the sum.
But quest beyond reality and see
Into a corner of infinity.
PAI-MAHTONE
She bore the sacred name of Pai-mahtone, Sun Woman, and she was indeed a sacred being. Her spirit was a brilliant reflection of the sun’s light and warmth. It is said that her spirit will live as long as the sun lives, and she will never be forgotten. She was a great storyteller. It was she who told the story of Aila, who brought color to the world. You see, once there was only black and white in the world. The child Aila played by the river. She mixed sand and soil and leaves and grass with water, and she brushed the mixture upon the plane of the things about her—the trees, the rocks, the hills, everything. And where she brushed there emerged radiant bands of color. From that time on, the earth has been touched with beauty. And in telling the story of Aila, Pai-mahtone has given to her people the splendor of the sun.
THE MEADOW
There is a meadow.
It is a place of grasses
Whispering of rain,
Of bluebells and buttercups.
I will meet you there
In summer when a music
Drifts among the hills.
There is a meadow,
A saucer of the green earth.
I will meet you there
When clouds lay moving shadows
On the rolling plain.
Among the distant mountains
Is the smoke of dreams.
There is a meadow.
In the surround of seasons,
In the turn of time
And memories of delight,
I will meet you there,
And we will touch our being
To the velvet wind.
There is a meadow.
On a carpet of colors
I will meet you there.
PRINTS
So many prints have I left in the sand,
I look back, and age clouds my vision,
And memory is no longer true. Was it you
Who spoke the words that I hear now,
Or do I hear the wind? There are echoes.
Did we see eagles hold still in the clouds
Above the hills of Umbria? Were we there,
You and I? I would walk with you again
Among the groves and hedges, the houses
Drawn with pastels on a plane of sunlight.
I would know again the precise touch,
The mere impression of your hand in mine.
Did the moon shine on trellises of leaves
Where we sat over biscotti and vin santo?
Do I now inhabit a dream of these things?
On my crooked way are prints in the sand.
There is a glitter on the smoldering path
And the burn of loss in the vagrant mind.
PRAYER TO THE SUN
O Great Deity, I sing this prayer in your praise. Hear my honor song! My words quiver in your presence. You appear each day on the dark rim. You rise in water and you set in fire. You touch a brilliance to the hills, and they smolder. You clarify the plain, and you make crystalline the wind. You lay seams across the mountains. They are ribbons of azure in the dawn, and they are pools of umber in the dusk. Your burning blinds me, and yet you give me to see beauty in all the corners of Creation. I will sing the glory of your radiance, and my breath will become that of the eagle that hies above the meadows and cries the mystical center of your being. In devotion I sing, and my feet strike the ground as does the rain. O Great Deity, you give splendor to the earth and sky. Hear me, and place a luster on the echo of my words. Aho!
THE BREATH OF THE INFINITE
It is a wind, they say, that blows from the dunes or the snowfields. And somewhere on the spectrum of its course there is a point. It is known to some, not many. There is a canyon, and in the canyon a crevasse. The walls are steep and vertical. At the far end of the crevasse the walls converge on the sky. At night the stars can be seen in a narrow ribbon at the zenith. Nowhere on earth are the stars brighter or more scintillant. And through the canyon on such a night there flows a silent wind. Just there is the point of time. There is drawn the breath of the infinite.
TO A CHILD THIS GIFT
I would give you this,
The recognition of your innocence,
Your sacred being.
I would give you what delights you,
A ribbon, a taste of honey.
I would give you a seashell
And my hand to hold.
I would give you mornings in mist
And the sun setting on the sea.
I would give you kittens and puppies
And blackbirds over fields of snow.
I would give you songs and stories,
Calm and quiet in which to dream.
These gifts are one: the wish
That you take hold of the earth
Not as I have made it
but as you deserve it,
That you go in goodness
All the days of your life.
The landscape of words and dreams is vast. In the far distance are horizons that bank upon the heavens. The middle distance is a wilderness in which are the things that are barely within our reach, the oceans, mountains and forests, deserts and wildlife. And in the foreground are the properties of our daily lives, the neighborhood that is most familiar to us. And in the whole of this landscape is the intricate web of language and the imagination. These sketches or “dream drawings,” as I have named them, are furnishings of the mind.
They are random and self-contained, and they are the stuff of story, and story is a nourishment of the soul. I have suggested elsewhere that there is only one story, that it is timeless and universal, and that it is composed of many stories in the one. That is true, I believe, and here are fragments of the original story, that which is told in the landscape of words and dreams.
Fascinating as Momaday is always, I treasure the stories and songs and prayers that Momaday continues to give to us. His voice and vision just encompass so much wisdom and power and I am not sure who will take up the reins when he is done. These are all short paragraphs and poems but he takes you to the moon and back and you feel it all, breathe in the air, feel the sun and rain and snow, and know the people he encounters in life and dreams.
THE SCOP
My imagination turns upon words. I am certain that I was there in the forest when a storyteller recited Beowulf to a gathering of villagers in Anglo-Saxon England, common folk for whom such a performance was magical. And I have heard the thunder of King Lear’s voice on the boards of the Globe Theatre in Elizabethan London. I was spellbound. Emily Dickinson read to me a poem she had written about crickets in which she realized a precision of statement that defies description. Czeslaw Milosz read his magnificent “Esse” to an audience in Ohio. I was there. I know these voices as well as I know my own, for I have heard them in my dreams. Dreams are the language of the imagination, and words are the conceptual symbols of our dreams. The scop, the actor, the writer, the storyteller draw with words. All of human history and all that can be dreamed of the future is contained in such drawings. I hear ancient voices striving for meaning and art, and I see crude and beautiful images on the walls of caves. Deo gratias.
THE SPIRITUAL GRAVITY OF PLACE
There are places in the world that lay claim to you, though you have been to them only once or not at all. They are places that you know imperfectly in your recollection or unaccountably in your dreams. Once, I visited the ancient city of Samarkand. I was there a few days, but it seems to me that I lived there throughout some years of my life. There I stepped out of time and into the vortex of cellular memory. Samarkand absorbed my whole being. And in my dreams I have come to Tintagel, or rather the mythic city of Camelot, which holds for me the same spiritual gravity. I have been there, though I have not, and there I have heard someone say, “Ah, you have returned. Welcome!”
OBSERVATIONS
I have observed the whorls of geology on a canyon wall, a splinter of the sun at my window, the far end of time on the desert, a butterfly alighting on a leaf, an old man praying, sunrise on the Great Plains, ravens playing with a young fox, wind whipping the sea, the look of wonder on a child’s face, a snowfield in moonlight, and a small blue stone. Why should I fear death?
OWNERSHIP
Great cliffs rose up on either side, and one of them, sheer, white and dun and rose-colored, was especially beautiful. When the slanting light of the afternoon sun ascended on the face of it, I was made to hold my breath. It is simply good to reside in the presence of such a thing. It sustains the spirit.
MERGER
It is said that one can compare a grain of sand to the desert, or a drop of water to the ocean, but one cannot compare time and eternity. What could have inspired the poet Frederick Goddard Tuckerman to write, “the moments take hold of eternity”? It is a brilliant figure in literature, a figure in the balance of which lies an insoluble equation. It is an image that is not an image, for it cannot be seen. It might suggest ship lights taking hold of the fog or smoke dissolving among leaves, but these are at last wide of the mark. What can be determined is this: On a day in Greenfield, Massachusetts, more than a century ago, a poet strove with the concept of evanescence and the merger of time and timelessness. In one singular and profound expression he might seem to have achieved the inexpressible. It is a thing to ponder.
ON THE IMAGINATION
From mere reality these words become
And we are left to calculate the sum.
But quest beyond reality and see
Into a corner of infinity.
PAI-MAHTONE
She bore the sacred name of Pai-mahtone, Sun Woman, and she was indeed a sacred being. Her spirit was a brilliant reflection of the sun’s light and warmth. It is said that her spirit will live as long as the sun lives, and she will never be forgotten. She was a great storyteller. It was she who told the story of Aila, who brought color to the world. You see, once there was only black and white in the world. The child Aila played by the river. She mixed sand and soil and leaves and grass with water, and she brushed the mixture upon the plane of the things about her—the trees, the rocks, the hills, everything. And where she brushed there emerged radiant bands of color. From that time on, the earth has been touched with beauty. And in telling the story of Aila, Pai-mahtone has given to her people the splendor of the sun.
THE MEADOW
There is a meadow.
It is a place of grasses
Whispering of rain,
Of bluebells and buttercups.
I will meet you there
In summer when a music
Drifts among the hills.
There is a meadow,
A saucer of the green earth.
I will meet you there
When clouds lay moving shadows
On the rolling plain.
Among the distant mountains
Is the smoke of dreams.
There is a meadow.
In the surround of seasons,
In the turn of time
And memories of delight,
I will meet you there,
And we will touch our being
To the velvet wind.
There is a meadow.
On a carpet of colors
I will meet you there.
PRINTS
So many prints have I left in the sand,
I look back, and age clouds my vision,
And memory is no longer true. Was it you
Who spoke the words that I hear now,
Or do I hear the wind? There are echoes.
Did we see eagles hold still in the clouds
Above the hills of Umbria? Were we there,
You and I? I would walk with you again
Among the groves and hedges, the houses
Drawn with pastels on a plane of sunlight.
I would know again the precise touch,
The mere impression of your hand in mine.
Did the moon shine on trellises of leaves
Where we sat over biscotti and vin santo?
Do I now inhabit a dream of these things?
On my crooked way are prints in the sand.
There is a glitter on the smoldering path
And the burn of loss in the vagrant mind.
PRAYER TO THE SUN
O Great Deity, I sing this prayer in your praise. Hear my honor song! My words quiver in your presence. You appear each day on the dark rim. You rise in water and you set in fire. You touch a brilliance to the hills, and they smolder. You clarify the plain, and you make crystalline the wind. You lay seams across the mountains. They are ribbons of azure in the dawn, and they are pools of umber in the dusk. Your burning blinds me, and yet you give me to see beauty in all the corners of Creation. I will sing the glory of your radiance, and my breath will become that of the eagle that hies above the meadows and cries the mystical center of your being. In devotion I sing, and my feet strike the ground as does the rain. O Great Deity, you give splendor to the earth and sky. Hear me, and place a luster on the echo of my words. Aho!
THE BREATH OF THE INFINITE
It is a wind, they say, that blows from the dunes or the snowfields. And somewhere on the spectrum of its course there is a point. It is known to some, not many. There is a canyon, and in the canyon a crevasse. The walls are steep and vertical. At the far end of the crevasse the walls converge on the sky. At night the stars can be seen in a narrow ribbon at the zenith. Nowhere on earth are the stars brighter or more scintillant. And through the canyon on such a night there flows a silent wind. Just there is the point of time. There is drawn the breath of the infinite.
TO A CHILD THIS GIFT
I would give you this,
The recognition of your innocence,
Your sacred being.
I would give you what delights you,
A ribbon, a taste of honey.
I would give you a seashell
And my hand to hold.
I would give you mornings in mist
And the sun setting on the sea.
I would give you kittens and puppies
And blackbirds over fields of snow.
I would give you songs and stories,
Calm and quiet in which to dream.
These gifts are one: the wish
That you take hold of the earth
Not as I have made it
but as you deserve it,
That you go in goodness
All the days of your life.
The landscape of words and dreams is vast. In the far distance are horizons that bank upon the heavens. The middle distance is a wilderness in which are the things that are barely within our reach, the oceans, mountains and forests, deserts and wildlife. And in the foreground are the properties of our daily lives, the neighborhood that is most familiar to us. And in the whole of this landscape is the intricate web of language and the imagination. These sketches or “dream drawings,” as I have named them, are furnishings of the mind.
They are random and self-contained, and they are the stuff of story, and story is a nourishment of the soul. I have suggested elsewhere that there is only one story, that it is timeless and universal, and that it is composed of many stories in the one. That is true, I believe, and here are fragments of the original story, that which is told in the landscape of words and dreams.
April 28, 2022
In the end note it is mentioned that these poems are all stories that are part of the one big story of the world. I like that indeed, this poetry book is a book of stories, pertaining especially to spirituality and emotion. The stories are vivid and yet written so briefly! Excellent work!
I'm grateful to have received an ARC through a Goodreads Giveaway.
I'm grateful to have received an ARC through a Goodreads Giveaway.
March 14, 2024
I love the term “dream drawing” now because it’s not just about dreams but about language and stories and how each individual story comes together as one. A fantastic collection of prose and poetry.
March 12, 2024
An amazing series of prose poems about the ghosts and nature of a man looking inward to his mind. Momaday is an author who takes time with his words, these various sketches in monochrome and earthy hues where strange occurrences mix with ominous visions of the past and present. I wonder if Momaday has one more novel left in him to tell, though, given how much I admire his capacity here to create entirely new layers to minimalist canvases called dreaming. Would love to see it.
May 7, 2022
Atmospheric poems and stories from a Pulitzer Prize winning Native American author. This storyteller speaks of the land; animals; spirits and souls; nature; the sun; the moon; and the stars; fluidity of time - time that was, and time that is to come. A quick and treasured read from a skilled word Master!
My thanks to Harper Perennial for permitting me to access an e-copy of this book via NetGalley. All opinions expressed in this review are my own and are freely given.
My thanks to Harper Perennial for permitting me to access an e-copy of this book via NetGalley. All opinions expressed in this review are my own and are freely given.
April 26, 2024
My personal poet Scout gave me this book, and I’m grateful. Momaday has a great voice that reminds me in some ways of Calvino while remaining distant enough from the European to write in a way that, while not intentionally ironic, constantly subverted my expectations; similar to the feel in some Japanese novels I’ve read. E.g. from the final line of ‘Madness’ -
“It is said that when the mind is so deeply wounded, madness sets in.”
This after a tale focused on Owen Chase, a sailor on the Essex and influence of Moby Dick. I can’t do justice here, but there’s a beautiful and refreshing succinctness to this work, and I recommend it.
Favorites:
The scop
Merger
Observations
The shadow of a name
The close
Guests
The gravity of place
the Hollow log
Pai-mahtone
The ice woman
The shout
The meadow
A stroke upon the earth
The tyranny of time
The wall
A woman’s voice
The griever
End note
“It is said that when the mind is so deeply wounded, madness sets in.”
This after a tale focused on Owen Chase, a sailor on the Essex and influence of Moby Dick. I can’t do justice here, but there’s a beautiful and refreshing succinctness to this work, and I recommend it.
Favorites:
The scop
Merger
Observations
The shadow of a name
The close
Guests
The gravity of place
the Hollow log
Pai-mahtone
The ice woman
The shout
The meadow
A stroke upon the earth
The tyranny of time
The wall
A woman’s voice
The griever
End note
June 7, 2022
This is a fascinating collection of poems, prose poems, stories, memories, comments on literature. Each work is only one page, but this book rewards reading slowly, and re-reading specific pieces that speak to you. Some of it feels like a peek inside the writer's journal or notebook, some of it sessions with native storytellers, some of it brilliant poetry.
Highly recommended for the thoughtful reader.
Highly recommended for the thoughtful reader.
February 25, 2025
This, Momaday’s last book, of lyrical poems is beautifully written. They moving and provocative with a spiritual soul. You can’t help but read them, love them, enjoy them, contemplate them, and read them again and again. He is a poet who will indeed be missed.
April 2, 2025
I remember clearly when (early February while on a SD trip with friends), where (Bluestocking Blues; still have their bookmark) and why I bought this book: I wanted to see how someone could transform their dreams into literature.
The style of this book was even more scattered than 'Disquiet' - each new story on each new page stood on its own and was seemingly disconnected from each story on either side of it. It mirrored the incoherence of dreams; our dreams don't care about making sense or telling a complete or even coherent story - they just are, in the same way that these passages just are. I cannot decipher a common theme across all the passages. They really are, as was stated in the preface, "a celebration of words for their own sake", though I am also fond of the idea outlined in the End Note; the idea that all these random stories are really part of the same original story. In that sense, I guess All stories are part of that universal human story...
Out of about 100 passages, I marked about 10% or so whose prose I found to be the most beautiful and inspiring; some inspire the way in which I write about nature in my poetry, others flow through me the same way that fresh air from the mountain top flows through my lungs, there are some I would like to think have influenced my own dreams, there are some that are soothing to the tongue to recite, and there are others that I would only want to recite to my love...
I wish I could see more direct effects of this book on my writings, but I've gone through a terrible writer's block this past month and a life. In any case, I'm sure this book will continue to subconsciously influence my writing in the same way that all my books have (or even more...).
Some golden lines:
"It ran at great speed, and the strength that informed its whole body was under perfect control. Light rippled on its flanks, its blue-black hooves struck like rapid drumbeats on the earth, and its chiseled head lunged like the point of a spear into the crystal air." (Centaur, p3)
"Why should I fear death?" (Observations, p20) [Read the WHOLE passage]
"To look into her eyes is to discover a depth equal to the sky itself." (Chivalry, p29)
"There is the case of a man who dreams he is a butterfly. Or is he a butterfly who dreams he is a man." (Confusion, p78)
"It may be that I can indicate these things in art, but I cannot render your center and your soul. So be it, the very intention, futile and arrogant, is not entirely without virtue." (A Moral Equation in Art, p93)
"Somehow he must get past the wall; he must run on the mere energy of his will...his whole being was concentrated on the extreme edge of his effort." (The Wall, p99)
I didn't include it in the golden lines because there was no individual line that did the whole piece justice, but "The Poet's Muse" (p55) was by far the most resonant passage for me...
The style of this book was even more scattered than 'Disquiet' - each new story on each new page stood on its own and was seemingly disconnected from each story on either side of it. It mirrored the incoherence of dreams; our dreams don't care about making sense or telling a complete or even coherent story - they just are, in the same way that these passages just are. I cannot decipher a common theme across all the passages. They really are, as was stated in the preface, "a celebration of words for their own sake", though I am also fond of the idea outlined in the End Note; the idea that all these random stories are really part of the same original story. In that sense, I guess All stories are part of that universal human story...
Out of about 100 passages, I marked about 10% or so whose prose I found to be the most beautiful and inspiring; some inspire the way in which I write about nature in my poetry, others flow through me the same way that fresh air from the mountain top flows through my lungs, there are some I would like to think have influenced my own dreams, there are some that are soothing to the tongue to recite, and there are others that I would only want to recite to my love...
I wish I could see more direct effects of this book on my writings, but I've gone through a terrible writer's block this past month and a life. In any case, I'm sure this book will continue to subconsciously influence my writing in the same way that all my books have (or even more...).
Some golden lines:
"It ran at great speed, and the strength that informed its whole body was under perfect control. Light rippled on its flanks, its blue-black hooves struck like rapid drumbeats on the earth, and its chiseled head lunged like the point of a spear into the crystal air." (Centaur, p3)
"Why should I fear death?" (Observations, p20) [Read the WHOLE passage]
"To look into her eyes is to discover a depth equal to the sky itself." (Chivalry, p29)
"There is the case of a man who dreams he is a butterfly. Or is he a butterfly who dreams he is a man." (Confusion, p78)
"It may be that I can indicate these things in art, but I cannot render your center and your soul. So be it, the very intention, futile and arrogant, is not entirely without virtue." (A Moral Equation in Art, p93)
"Somehow he must get past the wall; he must run on the mere energy of his will...his whole being was concentrated on the extreme edge of his effort." (The Wall, p99)
I didn't include it in the golden lines because there was no individual line that did the whole piece justice, but "The Poet's Muse" (p55) was by far the most resonant passage for me...
May 24, 2022
Thank you to NetGalley and Harper Perennial for a copy of “Dream Drawings” in exchange for an honest review!
This poetry collection is on par with what N. Scott Momaday has released previously, though it does have a unique and fresh approach. He is consistent with his preference for prose poems, as most of these poems are, and it works as his signature style. It is a very quick read with each poem giving you a story, and an inkling of knowledge that he has to share.
What I liked about this collection was the storytelling that connects people and nature, as well as dreams and storytelling in itself. I don’t think everyone will appreciate this type of poetry (because not everyone is consistent in their feelings on any type of writing in the first place) but I know this collection will speak to the hearts of plenty of people.
As far as a collection goes, I have marked the most poems at once that I enjoyed than I have for any other collection I have read. And I’m a frequent poetry reader. I really liked “The Shadow of a Name,” “Ownership,” “Dreaming Bear Speaks,” “The Hollow Log,” “In the Telling,” “Passage,” and “The Burning.” All of these poems spoke to me or made me stop and think instead of moving along to the next page/poem.
As for why I did not give a full five stars, I am not so fond of prose poems unless there is a lot of alliteration/half rhymes/etc. I likes the context/stories of the poems, but often felt like musings rather than poems to me. It is a non-issue for me because at the end of the day, I enjoyed the poems, just only wanted to note that.
This poetry collection is on par with what N. Scott Momaday has released previously, though it does have a unique and fresh approach. He is consistent with his preference for prose poems, as most of these poems are, and it works as his signature style. It is a very quick read with each poem giving you a story, and an inkling of knowledge that he has to share.
What I liked about this collection was the storytelling that connects people and nature, as well as dreams and storytelling in itself. I don’t think everyone will appreciate this type of poetry (because not everyone is consistent in their feelings on any type of writing in the first place) but I know this collection will speak to the hearts of plenty of people.
As far as a collection goes, I have marked the most poems at once that I enjoyed than I have for any other collection I have read. And I’m a frequent poetry reader. I really liked “The Shadow of a Name,” “Ownership,” “Dreaming Bear Speaks,” “The Hollow Log,” “In the Telling,” “Passage,” and “The Burning.” All of these poems spoke to me or made me stop and think instead of moving along to the next page/poem.
As for why I did not give a full five stars, I am not so fond of prose poems unless there is a lot of alliteration/half rhymes/etc. I likes the context/stories of the poems, but often felt like musings rather than poems to me. It is a non-issue for me because at the end of the day, I enjoyed the poems, just only wanted to note that.
May 28, 2023
Each poem conveys a dreamlike quality, a way of viewing the world that is logical in a dream sense. I enjoyed hearing stories I had not yet heard and reinterpretations of ones I had.
The main thing it made me think of was the importance of the spaces between moments. How each seemingly normal thing could have a supernatural origin, and how we are connected in the small things. Crows connect cities. Winds connect continents.
The idea that a man is half a centaur was neat. The second poem expounded on that. The boy who identified as half a centaur becomes a warrior with a horse, and the horse saves him. His warrior name is “One Man” and he is now seen as a centaur. It was a way of looking at things that made the idea of a centaur finally make sense to me.
I will say that as a woman, how woman are perceived in these stories isn’t something I’d agree with. However, how men are perceived in women’s stories also is not how they perceive themselves. To both of us, there is the mystery of otherness and the fear and wonder associated with it, and that is conveyed clearly.
The stories make me want to write, which is a good thing.
The main thing it made me think of was the importance of the spaces between moments. How each seemingly normal thing could have a supernatural origin, and how we are connected in the small things. Crows connect cities. Winds connect continents.
The idea that a man is half a centaur was neat. The second poem expounded on that. The boy who identified as half a centaur becomes a warrior with a horse, and the horse saves him. His warrior name is “One Man” and he is now seen as a centaur. It was a way of looking at things that made the idea of a centaur finally make sense to me.
I will say that as a woman, how woman are perceived in these stories isn’t something I’d agree with. However, how men are perceived in women’s stories also is not how they perceive themselves. To both of us, there is the mystery of otherness and the fear and wonder associated with it, and that is conveyed clearly.
The stories make me want to write, which is a good thing.
January 6, 2026
Read for school. I got whiplash from reading this book, because most of the stories/poems were really not good in my opinion, or just were pointless or stupid or really sad for no reason at all, but there were a few that were incredibly beautiful.
Quotes:
“The wish that you take hold of the earth not as I have made it but as you deserve it, that you go in goodness all the days of your life.”
“ true ownership does not consist in titles and deeds. It is assumed by a claim made in the heart, and it is purchased with love and respect. The cliff is his, as it is mine.”
“ I have observed the whorls of geology on a canyon wall, a splinter of the sun at my window, the far end of time on the desert, a butterfly, a lighting on a leaf, an old man praying, sunrise on the Great Plains, ravens playing with a young fox, wind whipping the sea, the look of wonder on a child’s face, a snowfield in the moonlight, and a small blue stone. Why should I fear death?”
“I am left to calculate the sum of meaning. Rather would I gather dreams and find in dreaming more than meaning seems.”
Quotes:
“The wish that you take hold of the earth not as I have made it but as you deserve it, that you go in goodness all the days of your life.”
“ true ownership does not consist in titles and deeds. It is assumed by a claim made in the heart, and it is purchased with love and respect. The cliff is his, as it is mine.”
“ I have observed the whorls of geology on a canyon wall, a splinter of the sun at my window, the far end of time on the desert, a butterfly, a lighting on a leaf, an old man praying, sunrise on the Great Plains, ravens playing with a young fox, wind whipping the sea, the look of wonder on a child’s face, a snowfield in the moonlight, and a small blue stone. Why should I fear death?”
“I am left to calculate the sum of meaning. Rather would I gather dreams and find in dreaming more than meaning seems.”
April 14, 2022
I just love National Poetry Month and I have Harper Perennial to thank for sending me a finished copy of Dream Drawings: Configurations of a Timeless Kind long before its release date (May 3, 2022.)
I get effortlessly swept away in the pages of prose like this one. N. Scott Momaday takes the reader on a trip throughout the inner findings of dreams and spiritual connections with the many villages, passages, and memories upon Planet Earth. Owning interactions and land in a way that they don't mean to harm or frighten, but rather understand is perfectly conveyed throughout the course of these 100 or so pages.
I feel like I've just been resting on a lush silk blanket in the warmth of the afternoon sun after digesting these lyrics. I am awestruck and at peace all at once and am so thankful for the marvelous minds that go behind poetry readings.
5/5 I thoroughly recommend.
I get effortlessly swept away in the pages of prose like this one. N. Scott Momaday takes the reader on a trip throughout the inner findings of dreams and spiritual connections with the many villages, passages, and memories upon Planet Earth. Owning interactions and land in a way that they don't mean to harm or frighten, but rather understand is perfectly conveyed throughout the course of these 100 or so pages.
I feel like I've just been resting on a lush silk blanket in the warmth of the afternoon sun after digesting these lyrics. I am awestruck and at peace all at once and am so thankful for the marvelous minds that go behind poetry readings.
5/5 I thoroughly recommend.
January 19, 2023
"...here are fragments of the original story, that which is told in the landscape of words and dreams"
Momaday's book of short prose poems parables blurs the borders between story and fact. Is the symbolic only a representation of an idea, or is it sometimes the truth that is dismissed because it fails to fit the preconceived structures of our world-view? Who is to say that the place we visit when we dream is not also real? or that what we label a "vision" is not an actual but parallel world?
"I was made to hold my breath", Momaday says about the light on a cliff. That feeling runs throughout these words--wonder, respect, the idea that everything is alive.
Scattered beside the text are Momaday's spontaneous brush drawings, full of movement, that help to illuminate and expand the words.
Momaday's book of short prose poems parables blurs the borders between story and fact. Is the symbolic only a representation of an idea, or is it sometimes the truth that is dismissed because it fails to fit the preconceived structures of our world-view? Who is to say that the place we visit when we dream is not also real? or that what we label a "vision" is not an actual but parallel world?
"I was made to hold my breath", Momaday says about the light on a cliff. That feeling runs throughout these words--wonder, respect, the idea that everything is alive.
Scattered beside the text are Momaday's spontaneous brush drawings, full of movement, that help to illuminate and expand the words.
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