Poetry and politics are opposite spheres of human knowledge. Each orbits problems which, while sometimes permeated, belong to what are essentially separate areas. Poetry, throughout its history, has often been tempted to offer its own evanescence to the fray of war, sacrificing its substance to the common good and then drying in the inhospitable glare of ideology. It’s quite possible, as Octavio Paz once stated, that no poet has ever seen his poetry strengthened by putting it to the service of a political idea. It happens that poetry sometimes shows an unusual mobilizing potential, and its evocative force unexpectedly destabilizes some rigid utilitarian structure. The letter below is a clear example of this.

It was written in 1854. The 14th president of the United States, Franklin Pierce was a territorial expansionist and a supporter of slavery. He sent a letter to Chief Seattle of the Suwamish tribe seeking to purchase the Northwest Territories, those which today make up Washington state. The chief’s response was sent without delay. That same year, he gave a speech to the territorial Governor, Isaac I. Stevens. That speech is known today as Chief Seattle’s Response.

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Although there are reasonable doubts about the accuracy of the translation, we can infer from the general tone a deep knowledge of life and humankind, emanating from the deepest reserves of wisdom in the human heart. In the 1970s, the document was turned into a kind of manifesto of the environmental movement, it emphasizes, through perfect humility, a primary connection between humankind and nature and alerts us, in its nearly prophetic way, to the consequences of the Western attitude.

What should have been a simple answer to a purchase offer took on the character of a poetic text that is read today with delectation and even stupor by all those who come across it. Chief Seattle’s concerns remain our concerns. A nostalgia for a lost world is revealed in his claims and continues to be our own. His words offer a lesson to be learned:

The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you sell them? Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadow, the body heat of a pony, and man, all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each ghostly reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The waters murmur in the voice of my father’s father. The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give to the river the kindness you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow Flowers.


Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our Mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.


This we know: The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: Our God is your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted by talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.


When the last red man has vanished with his wilderness and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?


We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children and love it, as God loves us all.


As we are a part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you. One thing we know: There is only one God. No man, be he Red Man or White Man, can be apart. We are all brothers.

  1. Noah Seathl, Chief of the Suwamisu Tribe. SEATTLE (U.S.A.)—

 

 

Image: 1) Museum of Photographic Arts – flickr 2) Public Domain

Poetry and politics are opposite spheres of human knowledge. Each orbits problems which, while sometimes permeated, belong to what are essentially separate areas. Poetry, throughout its history, has often been tempted to offer its own evanescence to the fray of war, sacrificing its substance to the common good and then drying in the inhospitable glare of ideology. It’s quite possible, as Octavio Paz once stated, that no poet has ever seen his poetry strengthened by putting it to the service of a political idea. It happens that poetry sometimes shows an unusual mobilizing potential, and its evocative force unexpectedly destabilizes some rigid utilitarian structure. The letter below is a clear example of this.

It was written in 1854. The 14th president of the United States, Franklin Pierce was a territorial expansionist and a supporter of slavery. He sent a letter to Chief Seattle of the Suwamish tribe seeking to purchase the Northwest Territories, those which today make up Washington state. The chief’s response was sent without delay. That same year, he gave a speech to the territorial Governor, Isaac I. Stevens. That speech is known today as Chief Seattle’s Response.

>

Although there are reasonable doubts about the accuracy of the translation, we can infer from the general tone a deep knowledge of life and humankind, emanating from the deepest reserves of wisdom in the human heart. In the 1970s, the document was turned into a kind of manifesto of the environmental movement, it emphasizes, through perfect humility, a primary connection between humankind and nature and alerts us, in its nearly prophetic way, to the consequences of the Western attitude.

What should have been a simple answer to a purchase offer took on the character of a poetic text that is read today with delectation and even stupor by all those who come across it. Chief Seattle’s concerns remain our concerns. A nostalgia for a lost world is revealed in his claims and continues to be our own. His words offer a lesson to be learned:

The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you sell them? Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadow, the body heat of a pony, and man, all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each ghostly reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The waters murmur in the voice of my father’s father. The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give to the river the kindness you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow Flowers.


Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our Mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.


This we know: The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand of it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: Our God is your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator. Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted by talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.


When the last red man has vanished with his wilderness and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?


We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children and love it, as God loves us all.


As we are a part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you. One thing we know: There is only one God. No man, be he Red Man or White Man, can be apart. We are all brothers.

  1. Noah Seathl, Chief of the Suwamisu Tribe. SEATTLE (U.S.A.)—

 

 

Image: 1) Museum of Photographic Arts – flickr 2) Public Domain