LUCI TAPAHONSO [16.073]

Luci Tapahonso 

Nacida el 08 de noviembre 1953, es una poeta del pueblo Navajo y profesora de Estudios Nativos Americanos. Es la primera y actual poeta laureada de la Nación Navajo. 

Respetada poeta del pueblo diyin-dine’é, parte del pueblo navajo del sur de Estados Unidos, ha publicado seis colecciones de versos e historias que retratan, recrean y transmiten la vida de los diné, sus aromas, su pasado, su condición contemporánea entre reservaciones, ciudades y largas carreteras. El más reciente libro y grabación en cedé de Tapahonso, A Radiant Curve (Una curva radiante) apareció bajo el sello de la Universidad de Arizona, en la serie Sun Tracks, Tucson, en 2008.     

Works by the Author

Songs of Shiprock Fair (1999)

Blue Horses Rush In (1997)

Navajo ABC (1995)

Bah's Baby Brother Is Born (1994)

"Come into the Shade" in Open Places, City Spaces: Contemporary Writers on the Changing Southwest , edited by Judy Nolte Temple (1994)

"The Kaw River Rushes Eastward" in A Circle of Nations: Voices and Visions of American Indians , edited by John Gattuso (1993)

"Singing in Navajo, Writing in English: The Poetics of Four Navajo Writers," Culturefront 2:36-41 (1993)

Saanii Dahataal: The Women Are Singing (1993)

"The Way It Is" in Sign Language : Contemporary Southwest Native America (1989)

A Breeze Swept Through (1987)

One More Shiprock Night: Poems (1981)

Seasonal Woman (1981)

En-un-lado-del-agua

Casi todas las tardes en Nííst’ah, cuando el cielo es una brillante cerceta azul,

Hánaábaa’ está junto al horno iluminada de sol cuidando la moteada olla de esmalte.

El aire de la cabaña huele a sopa hirviente y pozol de maíz azul.

De niña, Hánaábaa’ aprendió a preparar la suave masa azul en las tranquilas

mañanas de la montaña, la cadenciosa parsimonia del cucharón girando le devolvió

la voz de su madre en los días de entonces cuando el cielo era una brillante cerceta azul.

Más tarde, cuando Tó’áhání vio al rojo sol hundirse en la cabellera de Hánaábaa’,

su memoria se encendió de antiguas coplas cantarinas de la infancia recobrada:

pan recién horneado, sopa hirviente y el pozol de maíz azul.

En el frío de las quietas noches, los viejos contaban cómo el pelo largo de las mujeres revela sabiduría perenne.

Cómo la cabellera de Mujer Cambiante previó la sequía

una polvorienta, calurosa tarde siglos atrás cuando el cielo era una cerceta azul.

Para Tó’áhání, la resplandeciente cabellera de Hánáaba’ recuerda el repicar

de los distantes truenos, cuando los tallos de la milpa se encrespan a la espera de la lluvia tibia.

Ahora su cabaña está impregnada de sopa hirviente y pozol de maíz azul.

Mientras Hánábaa’ menea la olla de esmalte en la tarde de invierno, sus coplas traen

el recuerdo de Tó’áhání: su resonante voz, sus ojos negros.

Las décadas enseñaron a Hánaábaa’ que esos atardeceres y los cielos como una cerceta azul

son la materia prima de las historias, de la sopa hirviente y el pozol de maíz azul.

 Versión: HB

Hills Brothers Coffee

Mi tío es un hombre pequeño.

En Navajo, lo llamamos, “shidá’í,”

es el hermano de mi hermana.

Él no habla inglés,

Pero su nombre blanco es Tom Jim.

Él vive a un kilómetro y medio de aquí

Al final del camino.

Una mañana se sentó en la cocina,

bebiendo café,

Acabo de llegar, dijo,

La tienda es a donde me dirijo.

Él me cuenta como mi madre parece desaparecer

cada vez que él llega.

Quizá ella me ve llegando

luego corre a su auto

¡y aprieta el acelerador!,

dice sonriendo.

Ambos nos reímos-tan solo imaginando a mi madre

saltando a su auto y yendo a toda velocidad.

Le sirvo más café

y él le agrega azucar y crema

hasta que parece como si fuera una malteada de chocolate.

Luego ve la lata de café.

Oh, ese es el café del hombre con un vestido,

que parece un cura. (*)

Ah-h, este es el que me gusta.

Muy buen café.

Me siento nuevamente y me dice,

Algunos cafés no tienen fuerza.

Pero este es único.

Me hace bien.

Nos sirvo una taza a ambos

Y mientras esperamos a mi madre,

Sus ojos se arrugan con una sonrisa y dice,

Sí, oh sí. Esto sí es café

(agregando más azúcar y crema)

Por eso siempre compro esta marca de café.

Una o tal vez dos veces al día,

tomo una taza de café

y me hace sentir muy bien.

Extraído del libro “Sáanii Dahataal The Women Are Singing” por Luci Tapahonso, Universidad de Arizona, 1993.

(*) Nota de la traducción: Hills Brothers Coffee es una conocida marca de café originaria de la ciudad de San Francisco. Desde 1906 hasta mediados del 2000 el logo que aparecía en los empaques tenía la imagen de un hombre turco, vestido con una túnica tradicional, bebiendo café.

Tsaile April Nights 

Earlier today, thin sheets of red dirt 

folded into the dark mountain 

blown up from the western desert floor. You know, 

the whole, empty Navajo spaces around 

Many Farms, Chinle, Round Rock. Later, light rain slanted into the valley. The female paused for an hour or so. She sat and watched us awhile, 

then clouds of mist waited until evening and left. The male rain must have been somewhere over the mountain, 

near Cove or Beclabito, chasing children and puppies indoors. But here, the quiet snow will move in 

a newborn breathing 

those first new nights. The lake is frozen, 

a glazed white plate suspended in the dark. I long to hear your voice. Hushed, deep murmurs in the cold quiet, 

and low laughter echoing in the still. I like to sleep with piñon smoke. The cold dry air chills my skin, my breath. Stories descend into the dark, 

warm, light circles. Oh these nights. My blessed bounty of dreams. 

— Blue Horses Rush In

Who Were You?

who were you that night

after all the beer you drank that long winter day

who were you?

angry at nothing and everyone

you drove too fast for the winding canal road

swerving to the very edge

where darkened weeds shivered in your rage

i followed you

my pleading a hardened ache

you took the night in shreds

white clouds of breath hung in between screams

the terror of a sudden billow of dust

not into the ditch     no

but the pickup spun and stopped crosswise

on the road     fading yellow light spilling out

dust and brakes causing dogs

to bark with a hoarse urgency

frozen mud glistening

crumbling as you stumbled

through cold, stinging bushes

and how did you fall

did you slip on a transparent beer bottle?

    (They catch the sharp light of the moon

    and at a certain angle, even the stars)

or did you slip on a rock

    flat and round

    slick with winter frost?

who were you that night?

who were you that night dying in angry drunkenness?

hard, winter stars

motionless in

the crisp dark night

the moon,     the white moon

A Whispered Chant of Loneliness

I awaken at 1:20 then sit in the dark living room.

Numbers click time on silent machines. 

Everyone sleeps. 

Down the street, music hums, someone laughs,

It floats: an unseen breath through the window screen

My father uses a cane and each day 

he walks outside to sit in the southern sunlight. 

He reads the National Geographic, the Daily Times, 

and the Gallup Independent. 

He remembers all this and minute details of my life, 

Sometimes he tells my children smiling.

His voice is an old rhythm of my childhood. 

He reads us stories of Goldilocks and the Three Bears 

and a pig named "Greased Lightning." 

He held us close and sang throaty songs, 

and danced Yei bicheii in the kitchen.

His voice is a steady presence in my mothering. 

Some years ago, he handed me a cup of coffee 

and told me that sometimes leaving a relationship 

was an act of abiding strength. 

He told me that my children would not be sad always.

Tonight I want to hear him speak to me. 

He thinks I look like my mother did at 38. 

Just last week, I heard her laughter in my own.

This winter, my life is a series of motions. 

Each morning, I get up and shower, 

have breakfast for my daughter, 

drink a cup of coffee, then warm the car for five minutes.

I continue. My days: an undercurrent of fear,

an outpouring of love, 

a whispered chant of loneliness.

What Danger We Court

For Marie

Sister, sister,

what danger we court 

without even knowing it. 

It's as simple as meeting a handsome man for lunch at midnight.

Last Friday night 

at the only stop sign for miles around, 

your pickup was hit from behind. 

That noise of shattering glass behind your head, 

whirl of lights and metal as two cars hit your pickup - 

that silent frenzy by tons of metal spinning you 

echos the desert left voiceless.

Sister, sister, 

what promises they must be for you 

when you walk the edges of cliffs - 

sheer drops like 400 feet - 

vacuums of nothing we know here. 

You turn and step out of the crushed car dazed 

and walk to help small crying children from another car 

and you come home, sister,

your breath intact, 

heart pounding, 

and the night is still the same.

Your children cry and cry to see you. 

Walking and speaking gently.

your voice gathers them in.

what danger we court.

It is the thin border of a miracle, sister, that you live. 

The desert surrounding your house is witness 

to the danger we court and

sister, we have so much faith.

They are Silent and Quick

We sit outside on the deck

and below, tiny flickers of light appear here and there.

They are silent and quick.

The night is thick and the air is alive with buzzing and humming insects.

"They're lightning bugs," Lori says. "Fireflies."

I wonder how I will get through another day.

"I think they are connected with magic," she says,

peering into the darkness. "Maybe people around here tell stories

about small bits of magic that appear on summer nights."

"Yes," I say. "it must be."

I walk inside the house and phone my mother.

From far away, she says, "I never heard of such a thing.

There's nothing like that in Navajo stories."

She is speaking from hundreds of miles away

where the night is dark and the sky, a huge, empty blackness.

The long shadows of the mesas stretch across the flat land.

"Someone is having a sing near here," she says. "We can hear

the drums all night long. Your father and I are all alone here."

Her voice is the language of my dreams.

I hang up the phone and walk out into the moist air.

My daughter sits there in the darkness, marveling at the little beings

filled with light, and I sit beside her.

I am hoping for a deep restful sleep.

In the woods below, teenagers are laughing

and the whine of the cicadas rises loudly.

"What is it?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

There are no English words to describe this feeling.

"T'áá 'iighisíí biniihaa shil hóyéé'," I say

Because of it, I am overshadowed by aching.

It is a heaviness that surrounds me completely.

"Áko ayóó shi"navl" hóyéé'." We are silent.

Early the next morning. I awaken from a heavy, dreamless sleep

and outside the window, a small flash of light flickers off and on.

Then I recall being taught to go outside in the gray dawn

before sunrise to receive the blessings of the gentle spirits

who gathered around our home. Go out, we were told,

get your blessings for the day.

And now, as I watch these tiny bodies of light,

the aching inside lessens as I see how

the magic of these lights precedes the gray dawn.