Mammoth Publishes Navajo author Diane Willie's SHARP ROCKS, fiction chapbook

These short stories collect the contemporary and mythic experiences of a young woman seeking identity in the American Southwest. Diane Willie, enrolled Dine (Navajo), moves among cultures, geographies, and time frames to renew stories of the Navajo Long Walk, La Llorona, and contemporary women who survive with courage and dignity. From "Garcia," a short story in Sharp Rocks:

"Sadie Garcia saw two shadows near the river, one covered in tattered white wrap and the other slumped against a tree. La Llorona wailed in the distance waiting for the two shadows to come to her. The crickets were silent, and the frogs hummed a death song, a song that extended itself to Sadie Garcia’s heart.

        "Sadie Garcia rolled up her sleeves and bargained with La Llorona for her little sister’s life. Countless moon hours passed while two women haggled. In the end, La Llorona accepted a half bag of coffee grounds and a whole bag of sugar. Afterwards, the owl screeched resolution. Coyote and La Llorona sat near the Rio Grande sipping coffee. "

Diane Willie is an instructor at the Native American Community Academy in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She graduated from Haskell Indian Nations University with an Associates degree and the University of Kansas with a Bachelor’s degree in Education. She has pursued graduate studies in Creative Writing and Education. She is from the Navajo tribe of New Mexico. Her favorite authors are Leslie Marmon Silko and Louise Erdrich.
“Diane Willie’s original voice adds depth to 21st century stories of the American Southwest. Her mythical tales draw upon Navajo, Pueblo, Spanish, and Anglo histories to create her own mélange.  Always, the Native viewpoint structures Willie’s narratives. Read these as rituals of healing. The final message is one of hope, esperanza.”    Denise Low, former Kansas Poet Laureate

$10.00, shipping included. ISBN 978-1-939301-68-0, Staple-bound paper, 5.5” X 8.5” 24 pages.  + Kansas tax. Discounts for multiple copies. Order:  mammothpubs@gmail.com or 1916 Stratford Rd. Lawrence KS 66044

"Striking Bone" Illustrates an American Renga

A renga is a five-line poem--haiku of 3 lines + 2 line couplet. Japanese has a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable count for the five lines. American English varies this with some liberties, as shown below. The poem then is passed to the next person (sake is included in the traditional Japanese setting but not here), who composes a poem that responds to previous verse (word, sound, image, or idea). And then the poem is passed to the next writer, to build a  conversation. In this renga, seven poets participate: Denise Low, Ken Eberhart, Barbara Montes, GeneAnn Newcomer, Diane Willie, Erika Zeitz, and Alan Proctor. Feel free to send me more verses and join in:

STRIKING BONE: A RENGA
*
Lost? Yes, again the stars fall
on 13th Street where a house, now demolished,
was my home. I was young.
Funeral dirges sound from the new building
and hearses ferry the dead to and from. I was young

and swung on the backyard tire swing

one late October afternoon under red leaves
drifting like red stars to my feet.
I was young and then I was gone like the house.
An old woman remains in my place.
     Denise Low
 *
When I remember you,
my thoughts do not bring
you back from the dead; no
amount of nostalgia could
reanimate your body.

You were a just a thought

once: mother’s eyelashes,
father’s cigarette smoke.
Memory cannot make you
again, like their lust once did.
     Ken Eberhart
*
But 89 years
should have been enough
to leave a trail, an imprint
stronger than birds' feet on sand,
or mice darting from baseboards.
     Barbara Montes
*
Still this does not mean
I will stop looking for you,
everywhere.
You are in my sheets
I pull back at night,

my dreams, even before I fall asleep.

At my breakfast table you are
the drink that touches my lips.
As I leave home each day,
the breath I can't quite catch.
     GeneAnn Newcomer
*
Yet, only the aura of its frame
Pulses and gives life with a heartbeat
Breathe, Breathe, Breathe, I say.
Don’t live among the memories
Death is no place to be, I say.
     Diane Willie
*
As old as the stars,
My eyes wash the empty space,
Tears for memory.
What was lost, I fight to find again,
Slow, slow my breath and sight.
Wherever I sit, back and forth,
I swing.
     Erika Zeitz
*
You are there in the heart's
echo, the blood's ping striking bone,
memory's temple where the magpie
settles on my shoulder
after a long flight from home.
     Alan Proctor

© 2013 Denise Low. Reprint permission may be granted for non-commercial uses. Please contact Mammoth Publications for further information--mammothpubs [at] gmail.com