Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Two Acoma Pictures: Two Women at the Northern Cistern" is a portrait of two Indigenous women engaged in traditional work—one weaving, the other grinding corn. Through rich sensory details and the presence of ancestral memory, the poem honors the labor of women, the continuity of culture, and the deep connection between land, craft, and identity. Ortiz’s use of free verse, lyrical repetition, and invocation of Grandmother Spider reinforces the sacred nature of these acts, framing them not just as daily tasks but as expressions of history, community, and endurance.

The first section introduces a Navajo woman at her loom. The morning is early: "The sun is not far up, / but she has already prepared her husband's and sons' breakfasts, and they have eaten and left." This opening immediately situates the woman within a rhythm of labor—her day begins with caretaking, ensuring her family is fed before they go off to their respective tasks. The setting expands beyond her immediate space: "Today, her husband will pull the weeds from among the pumpkin, squash, and cornplants in their small field at the mouth of Redwater Wash. / The two sons have driven their sheep and goats to the Hill With White Stones." These details ground the poem in a specific landscape, reinforcing how family life is deeply tied to agricultural and pastoral work. The names of places—"Redwater Wash," "Hill With White Stones"—evoke an Indigenous way of knowing land, where geography is not abstract but meaningful, tied to sustenance and memory.

The woman is then left "in the calm of her work at the loom." Weaving, a traditional Navajo art form, becomes a spiritual act as Grandmother Spider is invoked: "Quickly, Grandmother, the Spider spins, quick flips and turns, the colors." In many Indigenous traditions, Grandmother Spider is a creator figure, a weaver of the world, symbolizing wisdom, storytelling, and connection. The speaker links this act of weaving to the colors of a recent rainbow: "O the colors, Grandmother, I saw in the two-days-ago rainbow. / O Grandmother Spider, the sun is shining through your loom." This moment elevates the woman’s work beyond its physical function—her weaving is an act of creation, mirroring the sacred weaving of the universe. The repetition of "O Grandmother Spider" gives the passage a prayer-like quality, reinforcing the sense of reverence.

The second section shifts focus to another woman, Desbah, grinding corn into meal. The shift is seamless—just as weaving is a sacred task, so too is the grinding of corn, a fundamental aspect of sustenance in Indigenous cultures. Ortiz captures the texture and sound of the work: "The kernels of the corn are blue with a small scattering of whites; they are hard and she can hear them crack sharply under the handstone she is using." The specificity of the blue and white kernels emphasizes the importance of traditional foods, as blue corn is a staple of Indigenous agriculture. The sharp cracking sound immerses the reader in the labor’s physicality, making the act tangible.

Memory enters through the figure of Desbah’s father, Silversmith, who brought her the grinding stone. Ortiz recounts the moment with quiet tenderness: "He had it tied on his horse with some rope, / and it was wrapped in some canvas cloth." The careful transport of the stone suggests its value, not just as a tool but as a gift, something meant to endure. His words—"This stone for the grinding of corn is for my child. / The man who gets her will be pleased but he will not like to carry this heavy thing around."—reveal his love and humor. The grinding stone, like weaving, represents continuity, inheritance, and survival. Yet, there is an unexpected turn—"Silversmith had gone on ahead many years ago, and she never did have a man get her." The expectation that a man would carry the stone with her is unfulfilled, but she continues her labor nonetheless.

The final line—"She can hear the blue and white kernels crack sharply on the heavy stone."—echoes the earlier description, but now it carries additional weight. The sound is no longer just part of the task; it holds memory, the voice of her father, the passage of time. The stone, given to her with love and a vision for her future, remains, even though life did not unfold as expected.

Ortiz’s structure—two portraits placed side by side—allows the reader to see the parallels between these women’s lives. Both are engaged in acts of creation: one weaving, one preparing food. Both are deeply connected to their ancestors—one through Grandmother Spider, the other through her father. And both persist, carrying forward traditions that sustain not just themselves but their communities. The poem does not romanticize their labor; rather, it dignifies it, showing how these seemingly simple tasks are acts of endurance, culture, and history.

"Two Acoma Pictures: Two Women at the Northern Cistern" is ultimately a poem about presence—presence in work, in history, in tradition. Ortiz honors the quiet, often overlooked labor of Indigenous women, demonstrating how their work is intertwined with memory, land, and the sacred. The poem leaves the reader with a sense of continuity—just as the loom stretches threads into patterns, just as the grinding stone breaks kernels into meal, these women’s lives are woven into something larger, something lasting.

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