When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through
Page 5
While standing in the wind our hair gets wavy
But, just the same, we right face, and march to gravy.
Now this may sound like going a fishing,
But this is my only industrial position.
GERALD VIZENOR (1934–), Anishinaabe–White Earth Nation, has published more than thirty books in genres that include poetry, fiction, literary scholarship, and cultural studies. Known for unique depictions of Trickster, his haiku, and his “re-expressions” of Anishinaabe dream songs and stories, Vizenor is also responsible for inciting new critical approaches to Native literary studies and creating terms to better characterize the “postindian” “survivance” of contemporary mixed-bloods. A White Earth tribal member, Vizenor’s accolades include a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas and a Distinguished Achievement Award from the Western Literature Association.
Seven Woodland Crows
seven woodland crows
stayed all winter
this year
among the white earth trees
down around us on the edge of roads
passing in the eyes of strangers
tribal land wire marked
fox runs under rusting plows
stumps for eagles
white winter savages
with brackish blue eyes
snaring their limbs on barbed wire
brackish winter blood
seven woodland crows
stayed all winter
this year
marking the dead
landmen who ran the woodland
out of breath
Family Photograph
among trees
my father was a spruce
corded for tribal pulp
he left the white earth reservation
colonial genealogies
taking up the city at twenty-three
telling stories
sharing dreams from a mason jar
running
low through the stumps at night
was his line
at twenty-three
he waited with the old men
colorless
dressed in their last uniforms
reeling on the nicollet island bridge
arm bands adrift
wooden limbs
men too civilized by war
thrown back to evangelists and charity
no reservation superintendents there
no indian agents
pacing off allotments twenty acres short
only family photographs ashore
no catholics on the wire
tying treaty money to confirmations
in the city
my father was an immigrant
hanging paper flowers
painting ceilings white for a union boss
disguising saint louis park
his weekend women
listened to him measuring my blood at night
downtown rooms were cold
half truths
peeling like blisters of history
two sizes too small
he smiles
holding me in a photograph then
the new spruce
half white
half immigrant
taking up the city and losing at cards
Fat Green Flies
fat green flies
square dance across the grapefruit
honor your partner
PETER BLUE CLOUD (ARONIAWENRATE) (1935–2011), Mohawk, was a poet, painter, sculptor, and carpenter who was born on the Caughnawaga Reserve in Kahnawake, Quebec, Canada. Blue Cloud, who won an American Book Award for Back Then Tomorrow, was influenced by the Beat culture of California and also worked as a writer and editor for the influential Akwesasne Notes. In addition to producing complex and often playful creative work, Blue Cloud clocked time as a steelworker, logger, ironworker, archaeological field worker, and ranch hand.
The Old Man’s Lazy
I heard the Indian agent say,
has no pride, no get up
and go. Well, he came out
here and walked around my
place, that agent. Steps
all thru the milkweed and
curing wormwood; tells me
my place is overgrown
and should be made use
of.
The old split cedar
fence stands at many
angles, and much of it
lies on the ground like
a curving sentence of
stick writing. An old
language, too, black with
age, with different
shades of green of moss
and lichen.
He always
says he understands us
Indians,
and why don’t
I fix the fence at least;
so I took some fine
hawk feathers fixed
to a miniature woven
shield
and hung this
from an upright post
near the house.
He
came by last week
and looked all around
again, eyed the feathers
for a long time.
He didn’t
say anything, and he didn’t
smile even, or look within
himself for the hawk.
Maybe sometime I’ll
tell him that the fence
isn’t mine to begin with,
but was put up by
the white guy who used
to live next door.
It was
years ago. He built a cabin,
then put up the fence. He
only looked at me once
after his fence was up,
he nodded at me as if
to show that he knew I
was here, I guess.
It was
a pretty fence, enclosing
that guy, and I felt lucky
to be on the outside
of it.
Well that guy
dug holes all over his
place, looking for gold,
and I guess
he never
found any. I watched
him grow old for over
twenty years, and bitter,
I could feel his anger
all over the place.
And
that’s when I took to
leaving my place to do
a lot of visiting.
Then
one time I came home
and knew he was gone
for good.
My children would
always ask me why I
didn’t move to town
and be closer to them.
Now, they
tell me I’m lucky to be
living way out here.
And
they bring their children
and come out and visit me,
and I can feel that they
want to live out here
too, but can’t
for some reason, do it.
Each day
a different story is
told me by the fence,
the rain and wind and snow,
the sun and moon shadows,
this wonderful earth,
this Creation.
I tell my grandchildren
many of these stories,
perhaps
this too is one of them.
Rattle
When a new world is born, the old
Let us shake
turns itself inside out, to cleanse
the rattle
and prepare for a new beginning.
to call back
It is
a rattlesnake
told by some that the stars are
to dream back
small holes piercing the great
the dancers.
> intestine
of a sleeping creature. The earth is
When the wind
a hollow gourd and earthquakes are
sweeps earth
gas rumblings and restless dreaming
there is fullness
of the sleeping creature.
of sound,
What
we are given
sleeping plant sings the seed
a beat
shaken in the globe of a rattle,
to dance by
the quick breath of the singer warms
and drum
and awakens the seed to life.
now joins us
The old man rolled fibres of
and flutes
milkweed across his thigh, softly
are like gentle
speaking to grandchildren, slowly
birds and
saying
the thanksgiving to a sacred plant.
crickets on
branches,
His left hand coiled the string as it
swaying trees.
grew thin and very strong; as he
The fan of
explained the strength of a unity
winged hawks
of threads combined.
brush clouds like
He took his
streaks of
small basket of cocoons and poured
white clay upon
grains of coarse sand, poured from
a field
his hand the coarse sand like a
of blue sky
funnel
of wind, a cone between hand and
water base.
cocoon.
The seeds in
Then, seven by seven, he bound
the pod
these nests to a stick with the
of a plant
string,
and took the sap of white blood
are children
of the plant, and with a finger,
of the sun
rubbed
the encircling string.
of earth
And waited, holding
that we sing
the rattle to the sun for drying. And
we are
when
he shook the first sound, the
a rainfall voice
children
sucked in their breaths and felt
a plumed
strange
stirrings in their minds and
and sacred bird
stomachs.
And when he sang the first song of
we are
many,
the leaves of the cottonwood joined
shadows come back
in,
and desert winds shifted sand.
to protect
And the
the tiny seedlings
children closed their eyes, the better
we are
to hear tomorrow.
a memory in
What sleeping plant sings the seed
single dance
in the gourd of night within the
which is all
hollow moon, the ladder going down,
dancing forever.
down into the core of this good earth
We are eyes
leads to stars and wheeling suns
looking about
and
planets beyond count.
for the children
What sound
do they
is that in the moist womb of the sea;
run and play
the softly swaying motion in a
our echoes
multitude of sleeping seeds.
our former joys
Maybe it
in today?
is rattlesnake, the medicine singer.
Let us shake
And
the rattle
it is gourd, cocoon, seed pod, hollow
for the ancients
horn,
shell of snapping turtle, bark of
who dwell
birch,
hollowed cedar, intestines of
upon this land
creatures,
rattle
whose spirits
is an endless element in sound and
joined to ours
vibrations, singing the joys of
guide us
awakening
shushing like the dry stalks of corn
and direct us
in wind, the cradle songs of night.
that we
Hail-heavy wind bending upon
may ever walk
a roof of elm bark,
a harmony
the howling song
that our songs
of a midwinter blizzard heard by
be clear.
a people sitting in circle close to
Let us shake
the fire. The fire is the sun, is the
the rattle
burning core of Creation’s seed,
for the fliers
sputtering
and seeking the womb of life.
and swimmers
When someone asked Coyote, why
for the trees
is there loneliness, and what is the
and mushrooms
reason and meaning of loneliness:
for tall grasses
Coyote
took an empty gourd and began
blessed by
shaking
it, and he shook it for a long time.
a snake’s passage
Then
for insects
he took a single pebble and put it
keeping the balance,
into the gourd, and again began to
and winds
shake the gourd for many days, and
which bring rain
the pebble was indeed loneliness.
and rivers
Again
going to sea
Coyote paused to put a handful of
and all
pebbles into the gourd.
Things of Creation.
And the sound
Let us
now had a wholeness and a meaning
shake the rattle
beyond questioning.
always, forever.
JIM NORTHRUP (CHIBINESI) (1943–2016), Anishinaabe, of the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior, was vocal about his early boarding school experience and advocated for Indigenous language revitalization. A marine who served in the Vietnam War, he drew from that experience in his poetry and prose and often worked with veterans. The author of the frequently humorous syndicated column the Fond du Lac Follies, Northrup was also known for his plays and stage performances. His work was gathered in several collections including Walking the Rez Road (1993).
Shrinking Away
Survived the war but
was having trouble
surviving the peace
Couldn’t sleep more than two hours
was scared to be without a gun
nightmares, daymares
guilt and remorse
wanted to stay drunk all the time
1966 and the VA said
Vietnam wasn’t a war
They couldn’t help
but did give me a copy
of the yellow pages
picked a shrink off the list
50 bucks an hour
I was making 125 a week
We spent six sessions
establishing rapport
Heard about his military life
his homosexuality
his fights with his mother
and anything else he
wanted to talk about
At this rate, we would have
got to me in 1999
Gave up on that shrink
couldn’t afford him
wasn’t doing me any good
Six weeks later my shrink
killed himself—great
Not only guilt about the war
but new guilt about my dead shrink
If only I had done a better job
I could have kept on seeing him
I thought we were making real progress
maybe in another six sessions
I could have helped him
That’s when I realized that
surviving the peace was up to me
Rez Car
It’s 24 years old.
It’s been used
a lot more than most.
It’s louder than a 747.
It’s multicolored and none
of the tires are brothers.
I’m the 7th or 8th owner
I know I’ll be the last.
What’s wrong with it?
Well, the other day
the steering wheel fell off.