An American sunrise Poems

Harjo, a recipient of the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize and Wallace Stevens Award, is now the first Native American U.S. poet laureate. This momentous appointment will steer readers to her previous collections; her memoir, Crazy Brave (2012); and to this resplendent and reverberating new volume deeply rooted in tribal and family experiences, nature, land, and tradition. Harjo places swatches of history between her entrancing lyrics like specimens of poisonous plants in a naturalist's log, beginning with President Andrew Jackson's forced removal of Native Americans, including Harjo's ancestors; she then follows the subsequent Trail of Tears back to the White House where the current occupant has hung a portrait of Jackson in the Oval Office. Harjo's bracing political perspective is matched by timeless wisdom as she reflects on her life and lessons learned, and celebrates her time-bending grandfather, saxophone-playing grandmother (Harjo does the same), Earth's bounty, and the transcendent power of song and love. In clarion, incantatory poems that recalibrate heart and mind, Harjo conveys both the endless ripples of loss and the brightening beauty and hope of the sunrise.--Donna Seaman Copyright 2010 Booklist

Newly named poet laureate and Ruth Lilly prize--winner Harjo (Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings) intertwines verse with prose vignettes, oral histories, and flash memoirs in this expressive and generous book. In a fable about the origins of the saxophone that "made a rip in the sky," she writes: "Musicians are musicians, no trick will get by./ You either have it, or want it/ Nothing else will fly." Harjo exhibits this gift in the tight choreography of these pages, evoking the music of her Muskogee ancestors who were among the native peoples forcibly relocated by Andrew Jackson's Indian Removal Act of 1830. Music is "a sack that carries the bones of those left alongside/ The trail of tears," she writes. Harjo offers poems of lament and praise, pleas for patience and calls to action: "In the fog of thin hope, I wander this sad world/ We've made with the enemy's words." Harjo invites the reader to consider the "many migrations stacked within sky memory," including, most immediately, "the indigenous peoples who are making their way up from the southern hemisphere." "Nothing is ever/ forgotten says the god of remembering," she writes in tones that will speak to readers who are ready to remember, or to learn anew. (Sept.)