Against the hinterland sky, a chrome horse

'What I knew from day one is that money had nothing to do with it.” - Charles Simic, poet

Akin to an artist who creates sculptures from scrap auto parts, I collect words from the English lexicon, a second language, and attempt laboriously thereafter to assemble them in a creative, meaningful way. Whereas bumpers, hub caps, and assorted engine parts make the sculptor's horse look real from afar, some of the words I've whittled into quasi-poetic messages occasionally find homes in books.

While 'word-collecting” has taken me to places, the financial returns are minimal. Fortunately, that factor has never thwarted the poetry-writing zest. Such an interest may be rooted in my late grandmother's storytelling. But there are vast differences: her Atesotakanani or Winter Stories animated how the Meskwaki (Red Earth People) world came to be; my writings reflect composites of modern tribal life - real or imagined. In either, for Gods and humans, there are trials and tribulations.

Since 1980, in 10-year intervals, three books of my poetry have been published, with the latest collection taking 14 years. The latter took longer due to my duties as an adoptive parent. In the 1990s, two novels were also published. All efforts were hard-fought. When I used to compare myself to other poets who wrote books prolifically, I'd wonder and then fret why my output wasn't the same. Fortunately, those thoughts were brief. Eventually I resolved that wishful thinking can't alter history, that my 'word-collecting” efforts - from a particular time and place - were the best that could be given. After 45 years, that‘s the most this Meskwaki poet can expect.

Today, as the third-oldest elder of Kisko Creek, having the sixth book published is a rarity. Creative writing is a lone, arduous task. Once the computer is turned off, the Geppetto-like product albeit unseen and unheard stands in its poeticized form. In a regimen that's ledger-recorded, the work is then submitted to literary periodicals. Typically, it takes a year or longer to publish a poem in a magazine or to release a new book. A fisherperson's patience wears thin because some editors have hard-set preferences, while others are visionaries, those who make my contributions possible.

Snow-capped mountains don't exist in Iowa nor is there a forest at my doorstep. Yet, to my east and west are the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. Ttewineki-ina-netowiki, In the middle therein I live. Absent are arts group to share one's latest with. It must be nice, I can only imagine, interacting with others over coffee, cookies and learning from such constructive exchanges. Of course, some who have such access might disagree, saying some people just wave banners. In fact, one said, 'You're better off writing about grasshoppers at home, Ray.” And I have.

The closest writing community is Iowa City.

With miles of farmland hills between us, however, we're like two planets going at different speeds to the same place. It is upon these craggy shores of American literature where my 'word-collecting” ambles along at a cautious pace. Like a geographically-displaced wolverine who stops frequently to scan the landscape, I know sooner or later destination will be reached.

Thus, when the sculptor welds the last scrap metal pieces together and gazes at the chrome horse on a hill, glimmering against the hinterland sky, my poems are nearby also.

Out here, where inhabitants sometimes get curious, an armadillo once asked, 'Is there much money in poetry?” No, I answered whilst updating my file. After handing the clipboard back, I imparted fiction yields the most promise for income, adding loquaciously if a check from the New Yorker arrives, including an invitation from the Princeton Poetry Festival, it's appreciated. Being an adoptive parent at 64, poetry can equal sports shoes and 30-mile round trips to McDonalds. Only then does the armadillo opine things are 'costly.” The fact is, I postscript, since doniya (shoe-nee-yah) wasn't an incentive at 18, it never became an objective. To me, that's dope - meaning cool. I write creatively because I enjoy it.

' Ray Young Bear lives on the Meskwaki Settlement. His next book, Manifestation Wolverine, will be released in October. Comments: blackeagle@iowatelecom.net