I wake up thinking
I am the rakish Captain John Smith,
the left side of my bearded face
resting on a large stone.
Towering above me,
a heavy club in his powerful hands,
a narrow lock of hair down
the center of his scalp,
my executioner awaits his signal
from the chief of the Powhatan tribe,
the Kikotan werowance,
Wahunsonacock,
to beat my brains out, a savage ritual
not dissimilar to that of my civilized England
which prefers the axe.
Wahunsonacock,
in a regal robe of raccoon skins,
is ringed by a personal guard of fifty
of the tallest warriors in his realm
and flanked by his two dozen wives, their
proud bodies stained with the juice
of Virginia plants that yield red and yellow dyes,
wearing necklaces of clam shell beads,
some adorned with copper pendants in their ears,
others display a live green or yellow snake
or dead rat, and in their long hair a bird’s wing
or the hand of an enemy.
Children, with horrid shrieks and turkey feathers
in their bonnets, dance around logs burning
in open ceremonial pits, shaking rattles
made of gourds filled with pebbles.
And I am thinking the colony will not survive
my death, the settlers talk only of
digging gold, washing gold, refining gold,
hoarding gold, when there is no gold.
The club poised to strike,
my life is spared
by the king’s fourteen-year-old daughter,
his favored Pocahontas,
who utters a cry, drops quickly to her knees,
and places her painted face
next to mine.
I slip into a stupor with her small kiss,
the sweet taste of berries
from the native passion flower
on my lips.
Source: Of the Sea and Skies, Gene Williamson, 1993
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Peace,
Bill :-)
This Is Fantastic & I Know Amber Loves It!
You Have Many Feathers Poet :)
Embraced ~ Embrassé
Vickie
Poor Gianetta! And I agree with her - a grand poet indeed!
Blessings ...
Seriously, your writing is always a pure pleasure to read, Gene, and I'm happy to be back and getting the chance to catch up on all the lovely work you've created. You are a grand poet.
Well, we seem to be connecting on this same Native American wave length. I loved your descriptive verses about what they looked like, and how Smith was spared. We should talk about this, we have much to decipher.
I hope you haven't been staying up late on my behalf, I could wait for this poem, you didn't have to sacrifice sleep for this...but I thank you kind Sir, you are amazing.
Peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
Newfie hugs, Rose
John
I am puzzled by the title, however...did it all happen at three in the morning? Maybe I am missing something obvious...I am tired... hee, hee...
Cryssa
Be always safe,
Karen
only you could conjure this. ...
goodness.
> <
stan
"to beat my brains out, a savage ritual
not dissimilar to that of my civilized England
which prefers the axe."
"And I am thinking the colony will not survive
my death, the settlers talk only of
digging gold, washing gold, refining gold,
hoarding gold, when there is no gold."
These poor, stupid gold chasers miss the real wealth that is summed up in the kiss at the end of the poem. If I was given a choice between a pile of gold and the kiss from a lovely woman that loved me, I'd go with the kiss. That's probably why I'm not wealthy today.
The legend of Pocahontas and John Smith retold in living lines of history - beautifully imaged, written and felt. Well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Mary