Biography of Linda Hogan
Linda K. Hogan (born 1947 Denver) is a Native American poet, storyteller, academic, playwright, novelist, environmentalist and writer of short stories. She is currently the Chickasaw Nation's Writer in Residence.
Linda Hogan Poems
There is nothing more innocent than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil, neither of us knowing what it will become
Song for the Turtles in the Gulf
We had been together so very long, you willing to swim with me just last month, myself merely small in the ocean of splendor and light,
This is the word that is always bleeding. You didn't think this until your country changes and when it thunders you search your own body
The History of Red
First there was some other order of things never spoken but in dreams of darkest creation.
When the Body
When the body wishes to speak, she will reach into the night and pull back the rapture of this growing root which has little faith in the other planets of the universe, knowing only one, by the bulbs of the feet, their branching of toes.
The Way In
Sometimes the way to milk and honey is through the body. Sometimes the way in is a song. But there are three ways in the world: dangerous, wounding, and beauty.
Walking with My Father
In the dark evening, my father and I walk down the road to the old house where my grandmother lived, and we see through the door an old woman's feet
The weight of a man on a woman is like falling into the river without drowning. Above, the world is burning and fighting. Lost worlds flow through others.
Trail of Tears: Our Removal
With lines unseen the land was broken. When surveyors came, we knew what the prophet had said was true, this land with unseen lines would be taken.
To Be Held
To be held by the light was what I wanted, to be a tree drinking the rain,
It was the time before I was born. I was thin. I was hungry. I was
The language of cranes we once were told is the wind. The wind is their method,
Lost in the Milky Way
Some of us are like trees that grow with a spiral grain as if prepared for the path of the spirit's journey to the world of all souls.
How something is made flesh no one can say. The buffalo soup becomes a woman who sings every day to her horses
There is nothing more innocent
than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil,
neither of us knowing what it will become
in the abundance of the planet.
It makes a living only by remaining still
in its niche.
One day it may struggle out of its tender
pearl of blind skin
with a wing or with vision