Legends of Spider Woman


Spider Woman's Children by Navajo Poet, Hershman John


Each day she cards wool, Releasing aromas of wet lambs. She sings her song slowly for her sheep, For her rug, for her hands, for the sun above and for her mother who taught her the words so long ago... "House made of dawn House made of evening light House made of dark cloud House made of pollen..." M‡s‡ni, Grandma's hogan sits alone Near the lowly adobe bluffs. Loneliness overtakes the desert lands As the night crawls from the east. Her heart lingers for companionship. She soaks wool in the eyes of Spider Woman, The weaver of creation, weaving together Brown, yellow, black, white and red-- Shade of her soul-self. She pulls spindled threads Intertwining them through the web-loom And the desert storms are caught Within the geometric patterns, White clouds and black lightning and water beetles. None of her twelve children ever return Only when money asks them to. They come to take her hard work, her beauty. "In beauty it is finished, thank you, creator." Without ears, they are like prairie dogs, They don't understand her anymore and cry wants. Each has lost her teachings and tongue. Her mind wants to reach out "Please, stay...talk to me, my grandchildren." Coming from limbo beyond the Rainbow's blessings They smile as payment for robbing her And quickly return to their burrows Far to the cold north, Los Angeles and Phoenix... Into the night her weaving comb Locks her tears into the wefts of wool, The much needed rain in the storm pattern rug. Each night she cards wool, Releasing the aromas of wet lambs. Many thanks to the creator of this poem, Herschman John, for his kind permission to use it in our Folklore web pages. Please visit Mr. John's website for more of his poetry. Editorial note: While I was searching for information to put this page up, I was touched very deeply by this sad story; it happens all too frequently.

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This page last updated: 04 December 2007