by Joy Harjo
[Contemporary Anishinaabemowin spelling]
It is certain they land on me the thunderbirds across my existence
[Literal traslation by Margaret Noodin]
“This literal translation shows you that Mary was creating a new English version with different syntax and she or Densmore either erased a line break or inserted all the other line breaks. I would view the entire song as one sentence. You would have to listen for breath spaces or find rhyme patterns to catch the actual breaks in a line.” (Margaret Noodin)
ELEAZAR (?–1678), tribal affiliation unknown. Beyond his name, Eleazar, not much is known, though he most likely would have been an East Coast tribal member. He entered Harvard in 1675 and later contracted smallpox and died before he could graduate. Eleazar is listed on a plaque unveiled at the university on May 3, 1997, in honor of the early Native Harvard students. “Eleazar’s Elegy,” written in 1678 in Latin, models itself after the classical form, drawing on language from Ovid, among other authors. Cotton Mather published this poem in Magnalia Christi Americana, his ecclesiastical history of New England. The translation offered here is by Cassandra Hradil, based on earlier translations by Sally Livingston and Vanessa Dube, and in consultation with Lisa Brooks.
Eleazar’s Elegy for Thomas Thacher
In death of a man to be truly
honored, D. Thomas Thacher, who
to the lord from this life passed,
18.8.1678.
I will try to remember and retell,
with sad grief,
him, whom with tears the times
reclaim, our bright man.
Thus the mother mourned
Memnon, mourned Achilles,
with just tears, and with heavy
grief
the mind is struck senseless, the
lips are silent,
now the palm refuses funeral rites;
Duty: what? Does sad Apollo deny
help?
But I will try to speak your praises,
Thacher,
praises of your virtue, which flies
above the stars.
To masters consulted about
important affairs, and to men of
the cloth
your virtue was known, and sacred
was your faith.
You live after death; you are happy
after your fate; do you lie at ease?
But surely among the stars in glory
you rest.
Your mind now returns to the sky; victory has been shared:
now Christ is yours, and what he has earned yours.
This will be the end of the cross; the end of the great evil;
beyond which it will not step further.
You, cross, remain in vain; the bones lie silent in the grave;
death is ended; lovely life returns to life.
To whom the final trumpet will give sound through the dense clouds,
when, returning to the lord, you bear the iron scepters.
Then you will ascend the skies, where the fatherland of the pious truly is;
now Jesus approaches you before this fatherland
there you truly will rest; there bounty without end;
joys and music not borne back to humans.
The dust holds your body, but upon the earth your name will not end,
renowned in the days and times that will be,
your soul having flown from your limbs, it walks the steep heavenly vault,
deathless, intertwined with immortal winds.
JANE JOHNSTON SCHOOLCRAFT (BAMEWAWAGEZHIKAQUAY) (1800–1842), Ojibwe, was born to an Ojibwe mother and a Scots-Irish father. She grew up speaking both Ojibwemowin and English, and at fifteen, she began writing poetry in both languages. Jane’s poems were published in the magazine she coedited with her husband, Henry Schoolcraft, The Muzzeniegun, or Literary Voyager. Schoolcraft is considered to be the first known Native woman writer.
Like others writing in Ojibwemowin, Jane Johnston Schoolcraft created an Ojibwemowin version and an English version of her poems. The English version takes on the characteristic rhyme and meter of poetry published during her era, which is distinctly different from her writing of Ojibwemowin verse. Schoolcraft’s Ojibwemowin and English versions of the poems below were published in Robert Dale Parker’s The Sound the Stars Make Rushing Through the Sky: The Writings of Jane Johnston Schoolcraft. The literal translations following each line are provided by translator Margaret Noodin.
To the Pine Tree
on first seeing it
on returning from Europe
Zhingwaak! Zhingwaak! Ingii-ikid,—Pine! Pine! I said,
Weshki waabamag zhingwaak—the one I see, the pine
Dagoshinaan neyab, endanakiiyaan.—I return back, to my homeland.
Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa!—The pine, the pine my father!
Azhigwa gidatisaanan—Already you are colored
Gaagige wezhaawashkozid.—Forever you are green
Mii sa naa azhigwa dagoshinaang—So we already have arrived
Bizindamig ikeyaamban—Listen to him/her in that direction
Geget sa, niminwendam—Certainly I am happy
Miinwaa, waabandamaan—And I see
Gii-ayaad awiiya waabandamaan niin—He was there I saw it myself
Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa!—The pine, the pine my father!
Azhigwa gidatisaanan.—Already you are colored.
Gaawiin gego, gaa-waabanda’iyan—Nothing, you did show me
Dibishkoo, ezhi-naagwasiinoon—like it, the way it looks
Zhingwaak wezhaawashkozid—Pine you are green
Wiin eta gwanaajiwi wi—he is only that beautiful
Gaagige wezhaawashkozid.—Forever he is the green one
[Translation by Margaret Noodin]
The pine! The pine! I eager cried,
The pine, my father! See it stand,
As first that cherished tree I spied,
Returning to my native land.
The pine! The pine! Oh lovely scene!
The pine, that is forever green.
Ah beauteous tree! Ah happy sight!
That greets me on my native strand
And hails me, with a friend’s delight,
To my own dear bright mother land
Oh ’tis to me a heart-sweet scene,
The pine—the pine! That’s ever green.
Not all the trees of England bright,
Not Erin’s lawns of green and light
Are half so sweet to memory’s eye,
As this dear type of northern sky
Oh ’tis to me a heart-sweet scene,
The pine—the pine! That ever green.
On leaving my children John and Jane
at school, in the Atlantic states, and
preparing to return to the interior
Nii’aa nindinendam—Oh I am thinking
Mikawiyanin—I am found by you
Endanakiiyaan—My place of origin
Waasawagamig—A faraway place
Endanakiiyaan—My place of origin
Nindaanisens e—My little daughter
Ningwizisens e—My little son
Izhi-nagadawaad—Oh I leave them
Waasawekamig—In a faraway place
Zhigwa gosha wi—Now
Beshowad e we—It is near
Nazhikeweyaan—I am alone
Izhi-izhayaan—As I go
Endanakiiyaan—My homeland
Endanakiiyaan—My homeland
Nazhikeweyaan—I am alone
Izhi-giiweyaan—I am going home
Nii’aa ningashkendam—Oh I am sad
[Translation by Margaret Noodin]
Ah! When thought reverts to my country so dear,
My heart fills with pleasure, and throbs with a fear:
My country, my country, my own native land,
So lovely in aspect, in features so grand,
Far, far in the West. What are cities to me,
Oh! Land of my mother, compared unto thee?
Fair land of the lakes! Thou are blest to my sight,
With thy beaming bright waters, and landscapes of light;
The breeze and the murmur, the dash and the roar,
That summer and autumn cast over the shore,
They spring to my thoughts, like the lullaby tongue,
That soothed me to slumber when youthful and young.
One feeling more strongly still binds me to thee,
There roved my forefathers, in liberty free—
There shook they the war lance, and sported the plume,
Ere Europe had cast o’er this country a gloom;
Nor thought they that kingdoms more happy could be,
White lords of a land so resplendent and free.
Yet it is not alone that my country is fair,
And my home and my friends are inviting me there;
While they beckon me onward, my heart is still here,
With my sweet lovely daughter, and bonny boy dear;
And oh! What’s the joy that a home can impart,
Removed from the dear ones who cling to my heart.
It is learning that calls them; but tell me, can schools
Repay for my love, or give nature new rules?
They may teach them the lore of the wit and the sage,
To be grave in their youth, and be gay in their age;
But ah! My poor heart, what are schools to thy view,
While severed from children thou lovest so true!
I return to my country, I haste on my way,
For duty commands me, and duty must sway;
Yet I leave the bright land where my little ones dwell,
With a sober regret, and a bitter farewell;
For there I must leave the dear jewels I love,
The dearest of gifts from my Master above.
New York, March 18th 1839
WILLIAM WALKER JR. (HÄH-SHÄH-RÊHS) (1800–1874), Wyandot, was a Wyandot rights advocate, who served as principal chief of the Wyandot tribe from 1835 to 36 and as the first provisional governor of Nebraska Territory. Educated in Greek, Latin, French, Wyandot, English, Delaware, Shawnee, Miami, and Potawatomi, he was published widely in newspapers throughout the Midwest.
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.
EMILY PAULINE JOHNSON (TEKAHIONWAKE) (1861–1913), Mohawk. As the daughter of a Mohawk chief and his English wife, Emily grew up learning both English and Mohawk language and literature. An author of fiction as well as poetry, she published in journals and anthologies in Canada, the United States, and Great Britain as well as in volumes of her own work such as The White Wampum (1895) and Flint and Feather (1912). Johnson toured Canada giving dramatic persona performances in which she addressed the dichotomous stereotypes of the Native and European woman.
Marshlands
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mold,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.
Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.
The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.
Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the nearing night.
And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.
Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,
Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.
The Song My Paddle Sings
West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! Be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
OLIVIA WARD BUSH-BANKS (1869–1944), Montaukett, was a poet and a historian who had both Native and African ancestry. In addition to publishing two poetry collections, she contributed to journals, such as the Boston Transcript, Voice of the Negro, and Colored American Magazine, and she served as historian for the Montaukett Nation. She also established a private drama school in her name.
On the Long Island Indian
How relentless, how impartial,
Is the fleeting hand of Time,
By its stroke, great Empires vanish,
Nations fall in swift decline.
Once resounding through these forests,
Rang the war-whoop shrill and clear;
Once here lived a race of Red Men,
Savage, crude, but knew no fear.
Here they fought their fiercest battles,
Here they caused their wars to cease,
Sitting round their blazing camp-fires,
Here they smoked the Pipe of Peace.
Tall and haughty were the warriors,
Of this fierce and warlike race.
Strong and hearty were their women,
Full of beauteous, healthy grace.
Up and down these woods they hunted,
Shot their arrows far and near.
Then in triumph to their wigwams,
Bore the slain and wounded deer.
&nbs
p; Thus they dwelt in perfect freedom,
Dearly loved their native shores,
Wisely chose their Chiefs or Sachems,
Made their own peculiar laws.
But there came a paler nation
Noted for their skill and might,
They aroused the Red Man’s hatred,
Robbed him of his native right.
Now remains a scattered remnant
On these shores they find no home,
Here and there in weary exile,
They are forced through their life to roam.
Just as Time with all its changes
Sinks beneath Oblivion’s Wave,
So today a mighty people
Sleep within the silent grave.
ANONYMOUS CARLISLE STUDENT (“ANONYMOUS POET FROM ROOM 8”) . The military-style Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, was founded by Lieutenant Colonel Richard Henry Pratt in 1879 as a tool of assimilation. Known for its infamous motto—“Kill the Indian . . . and save the man”—the school recruited more than ten thousand children from 141 tribes. Many suffered and died from poor conditions at the school. One hundred eighty-six graves can be found there, and more are still being located. This anonymous poem is noted as written in 1913.
My Industrial Work
At half past two in the afternoon
You can find me in the twenty-eight room,
About three of four covers deep;
You turn them back and you’ll find me asleep.
And there I lie and patiently wait
For the final exams we have in Room Eight.
When the whistle blows at half past five,
Once more I am up and still alive.
Then I run down and wash my face,
Then comb my hair and I’m ready for grace.
In fifteen minutes there’s a bugle call,
The troops fall in and the roll is called.
Then out in front the troops all stand,
Saluting the flag with our hats in our hand.
