Woman On The River

Hey everyone,

  This is a native-themed poem I wrote in March 2005.  I've been writing poetry since I was 13 and the bulk of my writing is pre-dominantly non-native in subject matter.  The story behind this one is that I had a dream about this woman.  Overnight, I visualized nearly this whole story.  I vividly remembered it when I awoke and thought about it all day.  I had some quiet time at work in the afternoon so I got this whole thing down in about 30 minutes.  Like most of my poetry, I always feel as if it 'fell out of me.'  John Lee Hooker had a similar concept in Boogie Chillun', "It's in 'im and it's gotta come out 'im."  So until my poetry book is published, this is the only place I can boogie woogie.

Woman on the River

In the last three years I’ve come of age

As our people moved north along the river

An annual rite of spring following the buffalo

Has become a vision of the woman on the river

In the spring of the early harvest

In the cold water I bathed one morn

I didn’t notice until I walked from the water

You watching from the edge of a field of corn

You did not look like one of our women

And I feared you a scout of a warring nation

Then as the seasons passed and weather changed

Your big brown eyes fueled an imagination

In the year of the late spring and plentiful hunt

I followed the buffalo with my bow and quiver

The buffalo surrounded me as I spotted

Those big brown eyes of the woman on the river

In the lonely year that passed

I thought of your dress and the way it moves

Now seeing you once again, into the river I jump

This time to escape the approaching hooves

This past winter had been really cold

But the spring was warm and came early

The elder women fussed I was without a bride

So they picked one out, the one with the hair curly

My mind is sharpened though, as is my knife

Keen on the hunt, plenty meat I will deliver

I hunt more than my brothers and smoke the meat to share

Share with that doe-eyed buckskin woman on the river

As our people move with the turning of the moon

We arrive at the opposite bank of the river each spring

You and me, separated by the rushing waters

I will brave them and see what the next moon will bring

With an extra hide on my belt for the buckskin maiden

I traverse the cold waters until I begin to shake

The waters have tired me as I struggle for the shore

Short of breath, current strong, will the morrow see me wake

Her people help me while she tells them of my struggle

A dangerous human struggle against the river

A crazy courageous brave, a friend of the buffalo

All for the love of a maiden, their woman on the river

In the next three years our children wander the range

As our tribes move north along the river

An annual rite of spring following the buffalo

A tradition for this man and woman on the river