Clay Pots and Bones
Pka’wo’qq aq Waqntal
Lindsay Marshall
Clay Pots
and Bones
Pka’wo’qq
aq Waqntal
Lindsay Marshall
New Edition
Cape Breton University Press
Sydney, Nova Scotia
Copyright 2014 by Lindsay Marshall.
First edition published 1997.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Responsibility for the research and the permissions obtained for this publication rests with the authors. Cape Breton University Press recognizes fair dealing uses under the Copyright Act (Canada).
Cape Breton University Press recognizes the support of the Province of Nova Scotia, through Film and Creative Industries Nova Scotia, and the support received for its publishing program from the Canada Council for the Arts Block Grants Program. We are pleased to work in partnership with these bodies to develop and promote our cultural resources.
Cover design: Cathy MacLean, Chéticamp, NS.
Cover image: Mi’kmaw hand crafted basket (19th century). Courtesy Mi’kmaq Resource Centre #2012-15-3979, Cape Breton University.
Layout: Laura Bast, Sydney, NS.
eBook development: WildElement.ca
Marshall, Lindsay, 1960-, author
Clay pots and bones : poems / Lindsay Marshall.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927492-81-9 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927492-82-6 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-927492-83-3 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-927492-84-0 (mobi)
I. Title.
PS8576.A7573C52 2014 C811’.54 C2014-900530-X
C2014-900531-8
Cape Breton University Press
PO Box 5300, 1250 Grand Lake Road
Sydney, NS B1P 6L2 CA
www.cbu.ca/press
To My Father and Brothers
When this book was first published in February 1997, I dedicated it to my father, Thomas Alexander Marshall.
On April 19, 1997, my father passed away, leaving a gap in the lives of his family and all those who knew him.
Two thousand and thirteen has been a very difficult year for me and my family. We lost Gary Thomas Marshall and Stephen Joseph Marshall in February and October respectively.
I dedicate this edition of Clay Pots and Bones to the memory of Tommy Marshall, Gary Thomas Marshall and Stephen Joseph Marshall, a memory that will remain forever strong.
The passage below is an excerpt from a poem entitled “Sealing Secrets from All,” which I wrote for my father on his death:
and with a deep breath
that seemed to last forever,
like a wind
arriving on cue with a blessing
he spoke:
“Good Creator,
I am ready.”
The still man lay
surrounded by satin,
a single rose
and a tobacco leaf
sealing secrets from all.
Contents
Gentle Warrior Woman
Hello and Welcome
Kwe’ aq Pjila’si
Irony Invades the Few
Visitors
Brown Shoelaces
Alexander Standing in Tall Grass on Chapel Island
Forth and Back
A Man Who Drank Tea nad Told Tales
We Fight His Demons
Over Half a Century Ago
Mi’kmaw Maidens in Distress
Beyond Touch
For David
Your Eyes
They Took Your Word
My German Friend
For J. E. M.
I Scream the Cry
No Match for Steel
Welamsitew
For Ball and Shot
Mainkewin? (Are You Going to Maine?)
Shadows Dancing on the Edge
Ash and Flint Flying as One
Clay Pots and Bones
Dancing, Fasting and Praying
Kluskap and Mi’kmaw
Kluskap Aqq L’Nu
Leather, Stone and Bone
Save the Last Bullet
The Chain Remains Strong
Good Creator
Now It’s Your Turn
Questions for Great Grandfather
Matuesuey Kmtin (Porcupine Mountain)
Learned Elder
Fires of the Ancients
Our Nation World
Magic Steps
A Ball of Blue
On the Shore of Bras d’Or
Grey Skies, White Mist
Progress
From Wind and Prying Eyes
Shadow Dancers at Night
One More Night
My Paddle Does Not Sing
The Blackened Hole
The Church of the Council
Once, Only Once
Idling
Tasks and Demands
Our Hearts Were Beating One With Their Drum
Dreams Not Wanted
A Work in Progress
Dance Along the Ghost Highway
Skite’kemujewey Awti
Demasduit
Our Sisters
Foreword to the First Edition
The expression of one’s culture can take many forms. Lindsay Marshall, in this his first book, has chosen to interpret our Mi’kmaw way of life through his poetry.
Lindsay’s message is sometimes clear, as in the poem “Now It’s Your Turn,” but oftentimes the message is more cryptic, as in “Save the Last Bullet.”
Although much of the poetry in Clay Pots and Bones is very personal, Lindsay manages to express himself in such a way that even the personal has a universal appeal. For instance the poem “To David,” which Lindsay wrote for his son, could apply to my own son or daughter. Likewise, the experiences of Donald Marshall Jr. as related in the moving poem “They Took Your Word,” can be related to the pain and plight of many.
Lindsay sets out to interpret both the past and the present Mi’kmaw way of life, and although true understanding cannot come from one small book of poetry, Lindsay succeeds in defining the essence of his own being, which I believe is the true hallmark of a true poet.
Dr. Peter Christmas, 1997
Former Executive Director
Mi’kmaq Association for Cultural Studies
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all my brothers and sisters for their continued support and love; my son David for never failing to be at my side when times have been difficult; a woman with whom I first fell in love in grade 7, whose love sustains me and breathes life into my life. We see the world with new eyes and a brand new perspective. My friend, my partner; my Florie Sutherland.
Petroglyphs
The illustrations contained in this book are copies of rock engravings made many years ago by the Mi’kmaq at Lake Kejimkujik in Nova Scotia. These rock drawings are called petroglyphs. They provide for us a graphic glimpse of the customs, beliefs and everyday activities of the traditional Mi’kmaw way of life. They are not intended here to illustrate Lindsay Marshall’s poetry but merely to add another dimension to the poet’s own interpretation of his Mi’kmaw heritage.
Gentle Warrior Woman
for Dr. Rita J
oe
Sleep my gentle woman
Let all know you’ve won your battles
Using wisdom, spoken words and your gentle soul
You’ve moved me, taught me and given me
A love of words.
Step into your birch canoe
And push away from shore.
See the whirls as your paddle moves you
across land and water.
The sun in its orange and clear sky
Grows larger as you point your kwitn
Towards our Grandfather the sun.
When you reach the farthest shore
Remember us, speak of us
And pray for us
Gentle Warrior Woman
Hello and Welcome
We say in the Spirit of Mandela
At a sacred place where the tools
Of war remain buried
Stand the descendents
Of Henri Membertou.
For as long as the
Rivers flow free,
The winds caress the
Sea bound coast
Mi’kmaq have honoured
The Treaties with Monarchs;
Their successors and subjects.
In the Spirit of Jean Baptiste Cope
We open our arms like Eagle’s wings
We raise our voices as songbirds
We walk with pride and purpose
On the grounds of Peace and Friendship
In the land of Mi’kmaq
We say, Kwe’ aq Pjila’si
Translation courtesy of Bernie Francis
Kwe’ aq Pjila’si
Teli-wtunkatmek wijey aq Wjijaqmijl Mandela
Sape’wik maqmikew ta’n pukmaqnn
Matntimkewe’l me’j etl-utqutasikl
Kaqmultiek wetapeksultiek
Anli Maupltuo’q.
Teli-pkijitk sipu’l,
Wju’snn munsa’matk qasqi-kjikm
Mi’kmaq kepmite’tmi’titl
Ankumkamkewe’l wejiaql Eleke’wa’ki;
Napune’kwi’tiji aq wunaqapemua.
Wjijaqmijk wejiaq Sa’n-Patist Kopo’q
Wnaqa’tunen npitnokominal staqe kitpu wnisqi’
Wenaqintu’tiek staqe sisipaq
Kepmleketaiek aq kjitmiw
Wjit wantaqo’ti aq witaptimkewey
Ula maqmikek Mi’kma’ki
Aq telua’tiek “Kwe’” aq “Pjila’si”
Demasduit, why did you die
sad and alone?
Did they prod, test and
measure your spirit?
Did you see your family
hide and flee?
Irony Invades the Few
Irony Invades the Few
Who were they
peering through the fog
from clandestine
locations among rocks,
sand and shale?
English sport of hounds and
horses, the blood-sport of the
transplants, who found game
in this new lost land.
Eastern rain cries their name,
lunar solstice tides wash
the Royal sins away.
Demasduit, why did you die
sad and alone?
Did they prod, test and
measure your spirit?
Did you see your family
hide and flee?
Does a voice lose its purpose,
or eyes the prophetic view?
The tribal curse lives on in
the eyes of descendants.
How they suffer and weep
for what is forever lost.
Irony invades the few
while their numbers decline
and flee the hunters of
misery.
Visitors
A white cloud appears on the blue horizon off the shore of Unama’ki.
Strangers are coming in strange vessels.
The vessels come nearer and stop.
A splash is heard as the strangers
throw something from the front of the ship,
looks like a tree trunk with a long gnarly root.
The strangers speak in a foreign tongue.
Their skin is pale as the ghosts that haunt our camps at night.
Faces hairy like dogs, yet they stand upright like us, the People of the Dawn,
the first people to greet and get blessings
from the sun
as it rises each morn to bless the rest
who live to the west.
How the strangers cower on the shore.
Surely they must think there is no one here.
Come my brothers, let’s go away and tonight
we will return.
They have not ventured inland or moved
from the shore since morn.
Perhaps they have heard the spirits
who guard our sleep, protecting us.
It is time we made them welcome.
Let’s build a great fire that overlooks
their camp.
It is a good fire, the flames are the first
to dance.
See how high they jump and kick.
Now the drumming starts,
how we dance and sing.
But wait, something is wrong.
They’re leaving.
Wait! We welcome you.
Stop! We mean no harm.
They leave. We wonder if
they’ll be back.
They have left strange markings
on a piece of wood.
If this man, now a child, could
answer, I would ask him,
“Matchee, where did you
get those brown shoelaces?”
Brown Shoelaces
Brown Shoelaces
Standing at attention Master Corporal Matchee
doesn’t smile or say much anymore.
Didn’t he know that he, a Red man,
in their Aryan eyes is the low man?
We saw him meticulously polish and
assemble his FNC-1 through an
unblinking eye on foreign soil while
we saw his comrades regurgitate
words and bravado against their
unknowing, unwilling charges.
Long before the pin hit the casing
the finger was working its way
down his back.
Where did Matchee get those
brown shoelaces for his
black combat boots?
Wasn’t he under guard?
If this man, now a child, could
answer, I would ask him,
“Matchee, where did you
get those brown shoelaces?
Did someone help you onto a chair
so your new laces could make
you airborne forever?”
A final jump.
Silence from Master Corporal Matchee,
a temporary reprieve for those
higher up the totem with maroon
hats and hands that don’t come clean.
Alexander Standing in Tall Grass on Chapel Island
Every summer since his youth
he would make his way across by boat.
A red apparition in blue water.
Carrying his lunch in one hand,
a scythe in the other, he would
walk like a man with a mission.
His purpose to cut the tall grass
for the many who would arrive
to their Mecca.
A resting figure standing alone
on the lonely isle,
leaning with his elbow on the scythe,
chin in hand.
The scent of newly cut hay everywhere,
the light breeze carrying it away.
A bead of sweat running down his face
past the turquoise blue eyes,
the Indian nose, through the white
stubble and falling finally, quickly
evaporating to the air before
hitting the ground.
The once proud tall grass would fall
easily from the steady measured
swings of his scythe,
the slain grass resurrected to
serve as bedding for the
wi’kuoml.
Bunches and bundles to serve as
fire starters for tea and
fourcents.
Nothing will be wasted this day.
Forth and Back...
After all these years
Leonard, Leonard.
He walks with state-issued shoes
doing Mandela-like paces
back and forth,
forth and back.
Vertical bars dissect his form,
seen only by the population.
Brown eyes peer through iron.
Air moves freely across his
leather-bound hair, his breath
escapes through nooks and crannies,
while his lungs remain rooted,
and not really suited to be inside,
a permanent guest.
Lesser men would have
worn their last necktie or
stood with one shoelace
still tied to the state-issued
shoe while the other...
elsewhere.
Leonard is a worthy cause.
If there is to be one worthy cause.
let the cause be for this man
to walk free and take his place
beside ones who are wise.
Injustices visit each and
every hair above their high
cheekbones and earthy skin tone.
Leonard, Leonard. He walks
back and forth,
forth and back...
A Man Who Drank Tea and Told Tales
Clay Pots and Bones Page 1
