LIBRARY BLOG
The Poetry Nook
Celebrating Native American Poetry
The experiences of Native American people in the United States is one that is often left out of the story of American literature. They have been here, on this land, for thousands of years before colonists and explorers ever stepped foot on a ship. Yet, despite their time spent growing and nurturing this land, their stories, their songs, their voices, are often overlooked and unconsidered.
Since November is National Native American Heritage Month, that I wish to amplify indigenous voices by sharing a selection of poetry by Native Americans. I urge you to hear their stories and seek out more. All these poems are included in the book When the Light of the World was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through: A Norton Anthology of Native Nations Poetry edited by Joy Harjo. This book, along with other titles that I’ve recommended below are all available through Terrebonne Parish Library at www.mytpl.org.
Indian Singing in 20th Century America
We wake; we wake the day,
the light rising in us like the sun–
our breath a prayer brushing
against the feathers in our hands.
We stumble out into streets;
patterns of wires invented by strangers
are strung between eye and the sky
and we dance in two worlds,
inevitable as seasons in one,
exotic curiosities in the other
which rushes headlong down highways,
watches us from car windows, explains
us to its children in words
that no one could ever make
sense of. The image obscures
the vision and we wonder
whether anyone will ever hear
our own names for the things
we do. Light dances in the body,
surrounds all living things —
even the stones sing
although their songs are infinitely
slower than the ones we learn
from trees. No human voice lasts
long enough to make such music sound.
Earth breath eddies between factories
and office buildings, caresses the surface
of our skin; we got to jobs, the boss
always watching the clock to see
that we’re on time. He tries to shut
out magic and hopes we’ll make
mistakes or disappear. We work
fast and steady and remember
each breath alters the composition
of the air. Change moves relentless,
the pattern unfolding despite their planning —
we’re always there – singing round dance
songs, remembering what supports
our life – impossible to ignore.
Gail Tremblay (1945–) Onondaga and Mi’Kmaq
Oh, Give Me Back My Bended Bow
Oh, give me back my bended bow,
My Cap and feather, give them back,
To chase o’er hill the mountain roe,
Or follow in the otter’s track.
You took me from my native wild,
Where all was bright, and free and blest;
You said the Indian hunter’s child
In classic halls and bowers should rest.
Long have I dwelt within these walls
And pored o’er ancient pages long.
I hate these antiquated halls;
I hate the Grecian poet’s song.
William Walker Jr. (1800-1874) Wyandot
Advice to Myself
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic – decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it will all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
that closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in through the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
Louise Erdrich (1954 –) Anishinaabe-Turtle Mountain Band
Weaving
for Margaret Jim-Pennah and Gladys McDonald
Weaving baskets you twine the strands into four parts.
Then, another four. The four directions many times.
Pairs of fibers spiral around smaller and smaller sets of threads.
Then, one each time. Spirals hold all this design
airtight and pure. This is our house, over and over.
Our little sisters, Khoush, Sowitk, Piaxi, Wakamu,
the roots will rest inside.
We will be together in this basket.
We will be together in this life.
Elizabeth Woody (1959 –) Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs
Bury Me with a Band
My mother used to say, “Bury me with a band,”
and I’d say, “I don’t think the grave will be big enough.”
Instead, we buried her with creosote bushes,
and a few worldly belongings.
The creosote is for brushing her footprints away as she leaves.
It is for keeping the earth away from her sacred remains.
It is for leaving the smell of the desert with her,
to remind her of home one last time.
Ofelia Zepeda (1952 –) Tohono O’odham
.jpg "Creosote Bush")
Recommended Books and Documentaries
– Naomi Hurtienne Magola, Youth Services Librarian