Inspiration can hit you from many sources. A simple word or phrase can spark an idea, a thought.
I was part of a group of young adults back in 1997-98 - "The Young Writers' Association". We met on weekends and discussed poetry, music, the written word. We did creativity exercises to help stimulate our writing. It was a fun bunch and we had a great time.
One such day, we had to write a poem or short story based on the phrase "like anthills..." For the life of me, I couldn't think of what to write then! I wrote a few lines about "spreading like 'anthills' - only faster - over our fair land". It wasn't much, but it was something that triggered me. I think I had just watched the animated movie, Pocahontas and I was re-reading "The Last of the Mohicans" by James Fenimore Cooper. I had also discovered MS Paint on my office PC (Windows 95!).
The poem and the drawing happened together. The Turtle tattoo of the Delaware tribe, "Chingachgook", the Chief of the Mohicans and his son, "Uncas", as well as "Nakoma" from Pocahontas provided inspiration for the drawing. The poem? Take a read and see:
The Lament of a Native American
My people, beware! I fear they come,
The Pale face, his squaws and papoose – they come!
Manitou is not pleased, I feel his anger,
As they destroy his creations – I sense danger.
We stood in awe of brother Sun and sister Moon,
Danced in the rivers, rested ‘neath the oak at noon,
We ran with deer, fought mighty bear,
Wo took from Mother Earth – but we always did share.
But those days are gone… and I am sad,
For though their faces are pale, their eyes are mad,
An axe rises, a forest falls,
No tree is spared, not one at all,
In their place now stands a thing of white man,
Spreading like “anthills” – only faster – o’er our fair land,
And like ants they scurry, no thought for the dead,
Be it tree or beast – the grass is now red,
Behold! Their wigwams – grey columns greet the sky,
Whence stood majestic oak and maple, where eagles soared so high,
No time have they for the songbird’s tune,
To see the dance of the wind – hear the wolf cry to the moon,
My children, you may ask “how can this be”,
Are they not Braves as us, though two colors, are we?
‘tis true, we are one – they are our kin,
Yet differences are deep, far deeper than skin,
My children, I fear we now dance in WAR!
Our people will fight, as did our fathers of yore,
Yet, in the end it will be in vain,
For the hurt we feel is Earth Mother’s pain,
So, I cry alone, the damage is done,
No one left – not Pale Face, not my Red son,
Not the last of a race, but… the first of a dying one.
20th January 1998.