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Best Famous War Paint Poems

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Hiawathas Fishing

 Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 
On the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
With his fishing-line of cedar, 
Of the twisted bark of cedar, 
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 
In his birch canoe exulting 
All alone went Hiawatha.

Through the clear, transparent water 
He could see the fishes swimming 
Far down in the depths below him; 
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 
Like a sunbeam in the water,
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 
Like a spider on the bottom, 
On the white and sandy bottom.

At the stern sat Hiawatha, 
With his fishing-line of cedar; 
In his plumes the breeze of morning 
Played as in the hemlock branches; 
On the bows, with tail erected, 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses.

On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, 
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; 
Through his gills he breathed the water, 
With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 
With his tail he swept the sand-floor.

There he lay in all his armor; 
On each side a shield to guard him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and shoulders
Plates of bone with spines projecting 
Painted was he with his war-paints, 
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 
Spots of brown and spots of sable; 
And he lay there on the bottom, 
Fanning with his fins of purple, 
As above him Hiawatha 
In his birch canoe came sailing, 
With his fishing-line of cedar.

"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha, 
Dawn into the depths beneath him, 
"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma! 
Come up from below the water, 
Let us see which is the stronger!" 
And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent water, 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamor, 
His unnecessary tumult, 
Till he wearied of the shouting; 
And he said to the Kenozha, 
To the pike, the Maskenozha, 
"Take the bait of this rude fellow, 
Break the line of Hiawatha!"
In his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten, 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood endwise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit.

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
And he shouted through the water, 
"Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!"
Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
"Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha!"
Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins.

But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
"Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!"
Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult, 
Ringing far across the water.

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha.

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness, 
Groped about in helpless wonder, 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness.

And he smote it in his anger, 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary.

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, 
Forth he might be hurled and perish.
 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chatted very gayly, 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed.

Then said Hiawatha to him, 
"O my little friend, the squirrel,
Bravely have you toiled to help me; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you; 
For hereafter and forever 
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin.

Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
As of many wings assembling, 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending, 
Saw a gleam of light above him, 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls, 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening, 
Heard them saying to each other, 
"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
And he shouted from below them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns: 
"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; 
Make the rifts a little larger, 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water, 
They released my Hiawatha.

He was standing near his wigwam, 
On the margin of the water, 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him.

"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
Slain the King of Fishes!" said he' 
"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls; 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great peril 
In the body of the sturgeon, 
Wait until their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feasting, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 
To their nests among the marshes; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter.
"
And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 
From their banquet rose with clamor, 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands, 
To their nests among the rushes.

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor, 
Toiling patient in the moonlight,
Till the sun and moon changed places, 
Till the sky was red with sunrise, 
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet.

Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones, 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma.

Written by Robert Lowell |

Man and Wife

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.

At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five days' white.

All night I've held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad--
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye--
and dragged me home alive.
 .
 .
 .
Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in our twenties, and I,
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet--
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.


Now twelve years later, you turn your back.

Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child;
your old-fashioned tirade--
loving, rapid, merciless--
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |

The Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face

 In that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs
And the menace of their wrath.
 

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
"Revenue upon all the race
Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags re-echoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.
 

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing a of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.
 

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,
In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful! 

Into the fatal snare
The White Chief with yellow hair
And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant band
Not one returned again.
 

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,
They lay in their bloody attire.
 

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight
Uplifted high in air
As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.
 

Whose was the right and the wrong?
Sing it, O funeral song,
With a voice that is full of tears,
And say that our broken faith
Wrought all this ruin and scathe,
In the Year of a Hundred Years.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |

The Peace-Pipe

 On the Mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
He the Master of Life, descending,
On the red crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together.

From his footprints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.

And the Spirit, stooping earthward,
With his finger on the meadow
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, "Run in this way!"
From the red stone of the quarry
With his hand he broke a fragment,
Moulded it into a pipe-head,
Shaped and fashioned it with figures;
From the margin of the river
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem,
With its dark green leaves upon it;
Filled the pipe with bark of willow,
With the bark of the red willow;
Breathed upon the neighboring forest,
Made its great boughs chafe together,
Till in flame they burst and kindled;
And erect upon the mountains,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,
As a signal to the nations.

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,
Through the tranquil air of morning,
First a single line of darkness,
Then a denser, bluer vapor,
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,
Like the tree-tops of the forest,
Ever rising, rising, rising,
Till it touched the top of heaven,
Till it broke against the heaven,
And rolled outward all around it.

From the Vale of Tawasentha,
From the Valley of Wyoming,
From the groves of Tuscaloosa,
From the far-off Rocky Mountains,
From the Northern lakes and rivers
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
Saw the distant smoke ascending, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.

And the Prophets of the nations 
Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana! 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
Bending like a wand of willow, 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Calls the tribes of men together, 
Calls the warriors to his council!"
Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear, 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other;
In their faces stem defiance, 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred,
The ancestral thirst of vengeance.
 
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
The creator of the nations, 
Looked upon them with compassion, 
With paternal love and pity; 
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling
But as quarrels among children, 
But as feuds and fights of children!
Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 
To allay their thirst and fever, 
By the shadow of his right hand; 
Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses, 
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise :
"O my children! my poor children! 
Listen to the words of wisdom, 
Listen to the words of warning, 
From the lips of the Great Spirit, 
From the Master of Life, who made you!
"I have given you lands to hunt in, 
I have given you streams to fish in, 
I have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 
I have given you brant and beaver, 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl, 
Filled the rivers full of fishes: 
Why then are you not contented? 
Why then will you hunt each other?
"I am weary of your quarrels, 
Weary of your wars and bloodshed, 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings and dissensions; 
All your strength is in your union, 
All your danger is in discord; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward, 
And as brothers live together.

"I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations, 
Who shall guide you and shall teach you, 
Who shall toil and suffer with you.
 
If you listen to his counsels, 
You will multiply and prosper;
If his warnings pass unheeded, 
You will fade away and perish!
"Bathe now in the stream before you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces, 
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, 
Break the red stone from this quarry, 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you, 
Deck them with your brightest feathers, 
Smoke the calumet together,
And as brothers live henceforward!"
Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin, 
Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river, 
Washed the war-paint from their faces.
 
Clear above them flowed the water, 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending; 
Dark below them flowed the water, 
Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, 
As if blood were mingled with it!
From the river came the warriors, 
Clean and washed from all their war-paint; 
On the banks their clubs they buried, 
Buried all their warlike weapons.
 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the creator, 
Smiled upon his helpless children!
And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry, 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river, 
Decked them with their brightest feathers, 
And departed each one homeward, 
While the Master of Life, ascending, 
Through the opening of cloud-curtains,
Through the doorways of the heaven, 
Vanished from before their faces, 
In the smoke that rolled around him, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!