1Joy Harjo is a Mvskoke (Creek) poet, singer, and saxophone player. In 2019, she became the twenty-third Poet Laureate of the United States. She is the author of ten books of poetry, including her first major publication She Had Some Horses (1983), now considered a classic, and An American Sunrise (2019), her most recent and historically grounded collection. She has also written several children’s books, memoirs, plays, and prose collections. Among the many honors she has received are the Ruth Lilly Prize for Lifetime Achievement from the Poetry Foundation, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and a 2022 U.S. National Humanities Medal. In addition to her literary work, Joy Harjo has released eight award-winning music albums and edited three anthologies of Native American literature. Her poetic vision weaves together the mythical, the historical and the ecological through a voice which is at once urban, pantribal and rooted in her Mvskoke heritage. Harjo writes from a deeply sensorial relationship to specific lands marked by red earth, ranging from the former Creek Confederacy in Alabama and Georgia to Oklahoma, New Mexico, and the island of O'ahu in Hawai'i. Her lyricism resonates with the voices of tricksters, animals, plants, winds, and ancestors, as well as with those of contemporary Native men and women, including individuals facing homelessness, neocolonial oppression, and the enduring effects of historical trauma. In her writing, Harjo intertwines the deep affliction and extraordinary resilience of Indigenous peoples, while foregrounding the performative power of poetry as a means of healing her community.

2This conversation took place at Bordeaux Montaigne University on November 24, 2025, during a symposium focused on her latest poetry collection. The event brought together French students working on the translation of An American Sunrise by Héloïse Esquié, published in French as L’Aube américaine, in preparation for the 2026 Agrégation de lettres modernes.

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Anne Pélabon: I thought we could start this conversation by going back to your calling towards poetry. You have written on how you once saw a shaman perform on TV and become the poem he was singing. How do you think back on that moment today?

Joy Harjo: Yes, I was a student then, much like you are. And I was drawing while I was watching a public television program. It showed a shaman–I don't remember from which country now–and they were translating and he was speaking poetry to heal. Then, I was working towards my Bachelor of Fine Arts in studio art. But hearing, watching that, and watching how language, and language spoken lyrically like poetry, could have such an effect on someone made a singular impression on me. And the plants were involved; he was singing and speaking with the plants. This gave me an insight towards what poetry, language, and the energy of speaking can do.

A.P.: Following this, I would like to turn to another one of your gifts: your ability to travel in dreams. How does this movement between worlds inform or influence your poetry?

J.H.: We all travel in dreams. We're traveling in a dream right now. It’s true. So it's not special. It's something that we all do. It's just that I speak of it when most people don't. You know, we sleep and we can learn things. Some dreams are: I ate too much and drank too much wine dreams. Some are: I'm anxious about speaking in front of a lot of people dreams. And other dreams, they have a light, and they teach you something or they show you something; or someone you lost will come and speak to you and tell you that they're okay. So there's all kinds of dreams. I actually had a dream recently, just a few hours ago and I was here. It was a dream, not in French, but it was in France. I was watching this whole scenario take place with a grandmother waiting and it wasn't me. I was in the story and her granddaughter and her granddaughter's friend came in and they didn't want to talk to her because she was too old. And they left and the grandmother was heartbroken. And when I woke up later I thought, what in the world? Because I wasn't familiar with the people or the place. So I've had dreams like that. One time I was in Germany, in an old medieval town, and I dreamed about a girl catching fire, I knew that it happened. Her dress caught fire. But most dreams, you know, I learn things, I go into the story. We're in the story field together. And I know people have spoken about reincarnation, but sometimes I think it's that we live every story, even plant stories, even the stories of the stones and the trees, and each other. We live each other's stories so that we have compassion, or vnoketckv in the Muscogee language, for what everybody, everyone, every living being goes through.

A.P.: Speaking about vnoketckv, compassion, your poetry confronts deep-rooted pain from the story of the Mvskoke people, and the different Trails of Tears, and even about the destruction of the planet. Yet, your poems often seem to open on compassion and renewal. I was wondering if that could be related to your idea of a "poet warrior" as a champion for healing.

J.H.: Probably. Actually, I didn't come up with that title. My editor at my publishing house did. But I think it works. I mean, I think it works. I think about what it means to be a warrior, and at the root is vnoketckv. And working towards harmony which is sometimes a very challenging and difficult process as we see in the political realm right now, as we see in the world of climate change, as we see in the world of coming to terms with diversity: diversity of culture, diversity of sexuality, diversity of belief system.

A.P.: As you know, the students here today are studying An American Sunrise in its French translation. This book is especially powerful in its depiction of the Battle of Horseshoe Bend and the Trail of Tears as turning points for the Mvskoke Nation. We also get to follow your ancestor, Monahwee, during these pivotal times. I was wondering: what do you think poetic language and its emotional power can bring to the relating of historical events? How does it differ from a more academic or more official narrative?

J.H.: There's a lot of power in metaphor. And think about political speech versus poetic speech. I think with poetry, one of the main tools (that's not the right word for poetry), is time. Because in poetry you can exist, or the poem can exist, with many different kinds of time. Politics doesn't change. It seems the same. And political speech seems to have a different kind of impetus. Every once in a while you get someone who is aware of community and compassion. We need those kinds of people. About emotional power, I've heard people say: "well, I'm a scientist, and all the rest of this is emotional or just what, you know, women think…" But what is it that charges a mathematical scholar to keep searching? It's the same thing, there is a deep emotional urgency that gets translated into something called science; emotional power is in all of us. Maybe it's in the light that was planted in all of us. We all have gifts from this light, and emotion is involved, even if you use these gifts towards empirical, scientific, or historical knowledge. Even poetry involves this kind of exacting knowledge, though it often appears as metaphor. There is an exactness to architecture. There is an exactness to rhythmic elements. Metaphor is about exactness as well as nuance. I mean, politicians, doctors, economists can all be metaphorical. Although in these times with texting, we often lose that. We lose the immense power that is possible in language, even everyday language.

A.P.: Earlier today, someone asked me about your knowledge of the Mvskoke language. I know you started learning it through songs, you also know Navajo, and I was wondering if you felt something specific about using these languages, that perhaps differ from your use of English…

J.H.: Yes, because the language, I think for any people, the language carries so much. I remember sitting at the ceremonial grounds when we were on a break and people were just hanging out, and listening to one of the leaders, the elders, talking, taking the word “Osceola” and breaking the word down. And that took several hours, because the name is rooted in place. I imagine that is so for every French word, especially nouns, and so too in English, that a word’s roots will take you back into those origin places. What I like about learning my Mvskoke language is it connects me to our genealogy. There's a genealogy of language, there's a familial genealogy, there's a genealogy of knowledge. And it's all in the language. The language gives me an understanding of a way of life in which all of us, all plant life, are connected, and there is no hierarchy. That we are all here together. And about the Navajo language, I was a student at the University of New Mexico and I took French one semester. I obviously didn't do very well. And I got special permission to take Navajo language as a, this was funny, “foreign language requirement.” That was also when I started writing poetry, and then became involved with Native rights movements through our Native student club, which was mostly made up of Navajo and Pueblo students. And so that's all intertwined with starting to write poetry, and learning about the power of language to teach us a very different way of seeing and being in the world.

A.P.: Nevertheless, even in English, your poetry attempts to show the web of relations that connects us to each other, and it can make a fleeting moment feel deeply interrelated. You tend to shift between scales of time, of space, between perspectives, even across species. Do you keep adding these layers gradually or do they arrive together in your imagination or your sensibility?

J.H.: They teach me. I mean, I think about what it means to be a poet, a researcher, an artist, and that there are tools that you acquire, there's knowledge that you acquire. In playing saxophone, for example, there's knowledge and technique that you require. So what makes someone an artist? It's taking the tools, knowledge, and technique, and then listening. I'll be writing along and something will occur that I hadn't thought of and where does that come from? I always say, Mvto, thank you for that, because I hadn't thought of it like that. Sometimes even speaking like this, something will come to me that I had not thought of before. And I think it's all bound up with the question: why is it that each of us has certain predilections or are drawn to certain paths or practices, where does that come from? For me, becoming a poet was not something part of the everyday. And yet, coming up at the university and at Indian School, we had poets. And that made a huge difference. But even then, being a woman and pursuing poetry, I came across great opposition, especially with family members who saw that I was doing poetry. I was working jobs, I was lucky I got jobs teaching at universities and I got to teach poetry and Native literature, and they still saw that I was being selfish because I was following poetry. And it's like, why am I following poetry? It makes no sense. But we have to listen to our spirit, our soul. It made no sense to me either; except that I was finding something there that was needed not just for me. But I didn't understand, I still don't understand the whole thing. I think it goes back to how poetry can be part of healing and dealing with conflict. Because yes, even though we are all related and we are connected, there is conflict, you know. We are all who we are. So, you know, the trick or the challenge for all of us is then, how do we move through conflict to connection all while still allowing the conflict. I mean, conflict makes the story. We would have no stories without conflict. There would be no story. Because conflict can grow our spirits. It can make us, grow us, into a larger and deeper imaginary field with each other. The Mvskoke Nation has been called one of the oldest democracies in the world. And democracy works according to how people come together in conflict. We might disagree but we all have a place and a voice, we sit down together, we listen, we reason with each other, and then we eat together or dance together, we share, and in this way we can find a way to move through this immense story field.

A.P.: Many studies show that suicide and mental health-related issues are skyrocketing, especially among young people. And it is also the case in indigenous communities. It has been called a suicide epidemic. Earlier you connected poetry to healing and in certain poems, you address your reader directly. Your poetic voice seems to want to provide help or comfort. And I was wondering if it made sense to perhaps see yourself as a form of medicine woman poet for our contemporary societies.

J.H.: Well, I wouldn't call myself that because those people have very specific training. And you don't call yourself that.

A.P.: Yes, of course.

J.H.: I just see myself as a connector. I mean, how do I know how to write the poems I do? I don't know. I bring in what I have and I take care of what comes through, what's given to me. I think of it as making a place for it to live. And I do it because, you know, it was given to me to do. It was not my plan.

A.P.: Yes, through your ability to use words to provide help.

J.H.: And that was surprising, the ability to use words, because I would not talk. I didn't like it. I was not a speaker. I did not speak in school very much at all. I was very quiet. But I was paying attention. I was paying attention to what was going on and trying to make sense of it, as we all do.

A.P.: And perhaps it explains your ability to listen, which, as your poetry reminds us, is essential.

J.H.: I think that gift didn't just emerge with me, it comes through my parents, it comes through grandparents, great-grandparents, and then my soul, and I don't know the genealogy of my soul. Maybe in my dreams I catch parts of it, you know, but it's something that is just part of the story I said I would take care of.

A.P.: Concerning silence and how you relate to your own voice, there is a power that your poetry seems to get from the way it appears across the page, through silences and enjambments. Does it appear as you are writing or do you find the structure later on?

J.H.: It's rhythm. It's line breaks. It’s how the beat ends, the quality of the sound at the end of the beat, or at the beginning of the beat, and how it lands in terms of a whole phrase or line, and so on and so on. But it’s also visual when I write poetry. There's just a period when I write prose poems, so I don’t have to deal with the line. But it's there. And sometimes when I read prose, like from Catching the Light, people think I'm reading a poem, because I write prose as a poet. I mean, even painting, now, I paint as a poet; I play saxophone as a poet. And again, the same thing is there: rhythm and phrasing. It has to do with a love for the spiritual realm and for the people. And just listening.

A.P.: Your poetry also depicts very important rituals for the Msvkoke Nation such as the Green Corn Festival, or the Stomp Dance, but you also seem to give room, and a form of spiritual power, to more everyday gestures. Do you think poetry might have a way of highlighting these everyday gestures?

J.H.: I think that depends on the poet. Every poet is different in their focus or their realm of poetry-ing. It's different for everyone, but I think, with poetry, that you learn that there's no hierarchy, that spirituality doesn't just live in a church. And for some of us, it doesn't. We find it's in the earth, and it's all around us, and it's inside us, and we are a part of it. I grew up as a poet with feminism, at the same time as Native rights and civil rights. And I remember even within feminism people saying, well, it is demeaning to be a woman, to be associated with the kitchen… There is great power in being a cook. It's true. There is tremendous power. You are dealing with fire. It might come through electricity, or it might come through gas or wood, but it's fire, and it’s transformation. You use fire as a transformational element, as with any of them, water, air, so on. And you do so to make something, and you guys know about cooking around here. Cooking is transformational. You can heal people with food. You can hurt them too, a bad cook can. But it's transformational. There is power in that. I think the problem, of course, is that women have been systematically degraded, even though we would not be here without female power. There would be no life. And what kind of system of people would keep women out of the story of creation?

A.P.: This reminds me of the myth of The Woman Who Fell from the Sky and the importance that many indigenous cultures give to female figures. What role do you think the writing and rewriting of myths can play, for example, in our contemporary societies?

J.H.: Oh man, that's one I'd have to think about. I guess what I will say is that the mythological realms are constantly with us. Our lives are informed by whatever mythological realm where we find the roots of our belief system. That realm is always there, and it is always changing. I think even the past changes. Because it's interactive. Each generation comes in and adds something and leaves something behind. The past, present, and future do not exist in a linear fashion, they exist in timelessness. These mythological realms give us a deep sense of overall meaning and connection.

A.P.: What do you think a nonlinear perception of time can bring, how could it help us to find better ways of living on Earth? Similarly, what could we learn about the stories that are shared by many cultures depicting a time when humans, animals, and plants could understand each other, share a pact that humans broke?

J.H.: Addressing non-linearity, we're in it right now. The animals and the plants are still speaking, and you can hear them. But you have to move into that kind of space, which is very difficult to do if you're on TikTok. I went on TikTok like everyone else. But it started interfering with my dreams. And when my dreams started being short, short, short, short, I realized I was losing metaphor. I was losing an ability to travel into deeper ways of thinking and being in the world, of listening. You know, animals communicate. They're like people, some of them want nothing to do with you and some of them want to communicate. When I was at the Eiffel Tower, my granddaughter was climbing the Eiffel Tower, and she came back with some amazing images on her phone. And I was sitting there and this little bird, it doesn't happen all the time—sometimes I want to talk to them and I'm thinking too much—but this little bird, there were all these ducks, pigeons, and this one, I don't know what kind of bird, he was sitting there and I started talking to him. I was where no one else could hear me, you can talk to them you don't have to speak out loud, and he was taken that I was actually directly addressing him. And he climbed up, flew up onto the bench and started singing to me. He started singing to me, that was one of the best blessings. There's just so much cacophony in the world right now, so much cross-signaling. It's about paying attention and listening. The trees communicate, too. You know, I had one of them come to me in a dream and talk to me and bend down, and then I saw the tree later. I didn't expect that. Most of my dreams are just like everyday dreams, except now and then. And those dreams happen when I move out of anxiety, and not with pharmaceuticals, but I have to move out of that into a different kind of space.

A.P.: You have said that certain poems could not exist without certain presences, like the javelina, the crow, the cedar tree. At times, it feels like your poetry mirrors the way every being contributes to life, just as they seem to contribute to the poem.

J.H.: Yes, because we're in that realm. I mean, think about the space human beings take up, and then the space of the trees, and how they perceive what's happening. I mean, it's a very dynamic world. I've often wondered what use humans are in this world. You know, how are we useful to the environment?

A.P.: Some of your readers might feel anxious about the future, yet your poetry seems to say that the end of this world might not be such a bad thing, and that the next world or a new story might emerge. It can be perceived as reassuring.

J.H.: Yes, but I don't want to get into that Christian thing that, you know, well, after this realm, we're all going to heaven, and a heaven of gold streets, which, you know, I'd rather go to hell, if it's the Earth.

A.P.: Yes.

J.H.: So much of theology has said that, well, the Earth and the body is sinful. And transcending the body means that you're heavenly. And I think it’s the reverse. In our way of understanding, which is not religion, we were created by someone who loved us, and there is an honor in being a physical human being, that these processes, these human processes of sexuality, of what the body goes through, are not shameful but something to be celebrated, they are a part of living. And so there's beauty here, there's a deep, deep spiritual existence that comes from the stories that we move through here. And the beauty, even the beauty in challenges, the beauty that overtakes us, like at sunset around this time when the light turns golden, and I know there's words for that. And we enjoy it together. We are part of it together. You know, the night sky and the mystery there. And there's such mystery. There's night sky mystery in everybody.

A.P.: Yes, I think you said the holy walks with the profane. And that there is no separation between them. I also was wondering, as you have mentioned the role your granddaughter Krista has played in your writing, what insights or changes becoming a grandmother might have brought to your writing.

J.H.: It did, because, well, she was my first grandchild. And that's very important, you know, the grandmother, the mother, that female line is very potent. And I remember, it was then that I started thinking that when the mother's milk is released, that it releases the need for the grandmother to tell stories. Before that I didn't talk so much. I'd get up and just read poems, and things would start coming to me. I was, and I'm still, very happy about her being here. It's so profound. Being a parent, giving birth, and then the grandchild. I mean, it's profound. There's such a profound and deep connection that's beyond words. And so for me it began like telling more stories. My first children's book came about because of thinking about stories and how to bring children into the story and having them know how deeply important they are, and how much you love them.

A.P.: Yes, the children’s book Remember is powerful in this way. And it's refreshing to see birthing and mothering depicted in such a way, honored as you've done, for example, in the poem “For Alva Benson and for Those Who Have Learned to Speak” (She Had Some Horses 8-9). Going back again in the past, you have said that during your time at the Institute of American Indian Arts, and as a member of the Kiva Club, you have witnessed the rise of a giant waking consciousness. Nowadays, we see many Native people entering spaces which used to erase them, like the Library of Congress, Hollywood, or even the former president's cabinet, and I was wondering what kind of future you imagine for the next Native generations.

J.H.: I also want to give a shout out to Naiomi Glasses, the Navajo designer. I used to see her on social media on a skateboard wearing her traditional outfit. She's a very fine weaver. And she collaborated with Ralph Lauren. And I'm wearing one of her dresses that she gave to me to wear for this trip. So I'm going to tell her that we went to the Ralph Lauren store today and they had sold out of her clothing. But yes, we're occupying, you know, you're seeing us more and more in these other kinds of spaces. What I used to hear when I was Krista's age and younger, when the older people would gather together to talk, I realize now some part of me must have been listening because a lot of what I'm saying is not me. It's, I'm going to start crying because I miss them, it's their words. It's how they were thinking and what they taught me that comes through. It's not me as, you know, some big poet. It's because I'm carrying what they gave me. And they gave with great love and affection. But one thing they would say is that these days would come, these days of environmental disaster, these days where there was flooding where there was never flooding. Like it flooded in North Carolina in the mountains, and who would have thought there would have been floods there? Who would have thought there'd be a tornado in Tahajuli or New York City? I mean, there's things we're not done with yet, because we need to learn who we are. We need to learn how to take care of the planet and each other. And so they taught us that these kinds of times were coming.

A.P.: Is that reassuring?

J.H.: Well, we will also make it through. They didn't say that's the end of the world. It's just that we go through tests to grow human spirit. And that's what I tell young people, my last book Girl Warrior was written especially for young people: you came at a time not to despair. Again, looking at this, it's not a time to despair. Yes, there's governments toppling, we're seeing the truth behind what has been held up. Even knowledge, we're watching that collapse. But you, every one of you, came in at a time and you brought something that was needed. And you came in specifically to walk through this, to understand, and to bring and to develop your gifts and use them. It's important. In fact, they probably picked some of the strongest souls to come in at this time, because you have what we need, and it will continue.

A.P.: That's really inspiring. You've also mentioned the inspiration you find in the West African griot. I'm interested in this figure of the oral historian as a guardian of memory. How do you feel about this mission of sharing Mvskoke history both with future generations and perhaps with other people who do not belong to your nation?

J.H.: Well, history is part of all of us. I mean, I think if you are a French poet, you're dealing with French history profoundly. You know, the same with any other, the same with anyone else. And then how it connects and how it moves in the world.

A.P.: Poetry is an interesting place for history. It is something we tend to separate, I guess, in Europe.

J.H.: Yes, the first class I taught was at Iowa in American Studies, and I taught American Studies and History with Literature. Because it's embedded, you know, whether it's prose or poetry, it's embedded with history and story.

A.P.: Today, we have talked a lot about the Trail of Tears because of its evocations in An American Sunrise, and you spoke about the importance of accepting conflict. So I was wondering: to what extent do you think that the tragedy of the Trail of Tears has not been fully acknowledged in the American imagination and still needs to be reckoned with?

J.H.: Well, it's still going on. That conflict, the civil war is still going on, you know. I'm trying to remember, one of our family members said, well, we're still in the civil war, the civil war is happening right now. Only it's happening in social media and on the political stage. And that's part of it. A lot of that Trail of Tears has to do with greed. With people coming in and assuming that they had a right by God to take over our lands, to steal our children, to kill our warriors with gun power, with massive gun power. And what kind of empowerment is that? That is not going to hold. That falls. We're watching that. Because it's built on violence. And one day we will all see it. But that's what that is. Remind me the question again?

A.P.: It was about the need for the United States to face its past, the “angry ghosts” you have written about.

J.H.: But American history is also connected to Europe.

A.P.: We have our own ghosts, definitely.

J.H.: It's also connected to France and the story of France. It's connected to the story of England and Portugal and Spain. Which is connected to African countries. We're in this immense story, which can get overwhelming. But each of us, we have to reckon personally with this story as well as in communities, whether it's in a classroom community or a familial community.

A.P.: But this reckoning doesn't seem to end with only pain and anger. You seem to want to confront it...

J.H.: To move from it. We want to live our lives and not be constantly, you know, destroyed every day. I mean, there's great joy in children. Some of my greatest joy has been in my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And that's why we continue and why we do what we do. The story does need to be reckoned with, and we are reckoning with it. We are going to have to do it. Just like in a family, you reckon with it. Or it will emerge and set up some kind of destruction. But most people, we want to live. We want to have our families, enjoy our homes, and have a home. A lot of people don't have homes. I've seen homelessness here even in Bordeaux. If I look back to a lot of the indigenous beliefs, we didn't have homelessness. You don't let somebody have to survive without a home. And we didn't have prisons or jails or those kinds of institutions. And now what we're seeing, you know, is the Trail of Tears continuing. The Mexican-American people being picked up by the Gestapo, who is especially picking up Native-looking people. I saw on Facebook that the actress, Elaine Miles, who was in Northern Exposure, was pulled over by ICE. And she said, hey, I'm Native. They've told us to carry our tribal ID cards. And she said, here's my card. I'm a member of this Nation. Well, this looks fake to us, they told her. It looks fake. And so she said, call the number here and they will tell you... and they said, well how do we know it's true, and she said, well we'll go over there, and they finally let her go. But she told one of the ICE people who was Mexican-American, you are shameful to your people. What they're doing is picking up people and transporting them into jails and prisons far away, and nobody knows where they are and no one has contact with them. And again, that's a continuation of the Trail of Tears, because they're brown-skinned. They're Native, they're brown-skinned.

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