Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when fulfilling a project for school or work.

These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of storytelling.

You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my childhood imaginings.

© Denver, 2013

Magic Fan

By Phillip E. Hoyle

The clutch of feathers worked magic, at least for the boy

Who slid them over the back of his hand,

Between his fingers,

On the skin of his face

Transporting him to a world of freedom

Where he was one of the Indians he had read,

Who moved freely through the life

Of prairie and forest,

Of hunt and survival,

Through the endless tracks of his mind.

His room, his lodge festooned with portraits

And costumes of leather and feather

Faithful companions in his world of flight,

This fullness of fancy barely

Tethered by nearness of family.

There in his lodge, he worked his feathers

Formed into headdress, bustle, and fan,

Costume for his great dream

Of being an Indian dressed up in style

That spoke of tribal belonging.

The basement, the space for a dance

Of adoption, the footwork of fancy,

Steps made real by the presence of

Feathers that moved air and spirit

Through ceremonial smoke of love and desire.

His dances were brief, three minutes or less

—sad frontier of 78s—but

He practiced the joy

Shown in dip, turn, and stomp;

The movement expressing the life he could feel.

His fan led the way as he pranced,

Swift feet moving in moccasins that

Circled the room of ceremony and smoke.

Bustles shimmering, bells resounding

Sisters worrying, ‘He’s at it again.’

In echoing basement his beads bounced

His body the drum, the people, the dream

Of roach and shirt, breechclout and leggings.

Of such transportation:

The magic of feather and fan.

© Denver, 2012 

About the Author 

 Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com