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Mike Amado

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Member Since: Jul, 2008

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Test
by Mike Amado

Monday, July 11, 2011
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Mike Amado
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           >> View all 5

from The Book of Arrows

Test

 

I had a teacher who was a weekend archeologist.

She brushed the ground for Native leftovers . . .

 

a form of human interaction.   She affirmed:

“I don’t study any Indian under three hundred years old.”

 

I told her I was a poet. Her eyes subdued by inquisition,

her question scraped me slightly . . .

 

“You mean like Byron, Shelley or Keats?”

“No, not quite,” I said . . .  “I’m alive.”

 

My sole proof of humanness is that I create.

I can’t determine what will be smothered, what will erode

 

or resist burial and rise from the soil protruding

like noncurrent bones forming fingers,

 

fingers of swimming hands,

swimming in soil-waves.

 

Can’t say if brushes will dust my words

as proof of signs of life and standing the test of time.

 

Like my Native blood,

poetry is a live fish, un-caught.

 

The watchers around me are Baudelaire, Blake and Bly;

Shaman and Storyteller.   Just to be alive with a found soul

 

is all the test I have time for.

 

We are bones swimming in soil-waves,

 

we emerge with a sunken jewel -

 

that’s all the test we have time for.

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