When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through
Page 19
there is always this sense:
a wash of earth
rain, palm light falling
across ironwood
sands, fine and blowing
to an ancient sea
i hear them always:
with fish hooks and nets
dark, long
red canoes
gliding thoughtlessly
to sea
and the still lush hills
of laughter
buried in secret
caves, bones of love
and ritual, and sacred
life
a place for the manō
the pueo, the ‘ōʻō
for the smooth flat pōhaku
for a calabash of stars
flung over the Pacific
and yet
our love suffers
with a heritage
of beauty
in a land of tears
where our people
go blindly
servants of another
race, a culture of machines
grinding vision
from the eye, thought
from the hand
until a tight silence
descends
wildly in place
Night Is a Sharkskin Drum
Night is a sharkskin drum
sounding our bodies black
and gold.
All is aflame
the uplands a shush
of wind.
From Halema‘uma‘u
our fiery Akua comes:
E Pele ē,
E Pele ē,
E Pele ē.
Ko‘olauloa
I ride those ridge backs
down each narrow
cliff red hills
and birdsong in my
head gold dust
on my face nothing
whispers but the trees
mountains blue beyond
my sight pools of
icy water at my feet
this earth glows the color
of my skin sunburnt
natives didn’t fly
from far away
but sprouted whole through
velvet taro in the sweet mud
of this ‘āina
their ancient name
is kept my piko
safely sleeps
famous rains
flood down
in tears
I know these hills
my lovers chant them
late at night
owls swoop
to touch me:
‘aumākua
EARLE THOMPSON (1950–2006), Yakima, was born in Nespelem, Washington. His creative works have won writing competitions, such as the one held at Seattle’s annual Bumbershoot festival, and they have been included in various publications, including Blue Cloud Quarterly.
Mythology
My grandfather placed wood
in the pot-bellied stove
and sat; he spoke:
“One time your uncle and me
seen some stick-indians
driving in the mountains
they moved alongside
the car and watched us
look at them
they had long black hair
down their backs and were naked
they ran past us.”
Grandfather shifted
his weight in the chair.
He explained,
“Stick-indians are powerful people
they come out during the fall.
They will trick little children
who don’t listen
into the woods
and can imitate anything
so you should learn
about them.”
Grandfather poured himself
some coffee and continued:
“At night you should put tobacco
out for them
and whatever food you got
just give them some
’cause stick-indians
can be vengeful
for people making fun of them.
They can walk through walls
and will stick a salmon up your ass
for laughing at them
this will not happen if you understand
and respect them.”
My cousin giggled. I listened and remember
Grandfather slowly sipped his coffee
and smiled at us.
The fire smoldered like a volcano
and crackled.
We finally went to bed. I dreamt
of the mountains and now
I understand my childhood.
DIAN MILLION (1950–), Tanana Athabascan, received her PhD from the University of California, Berkeley. Million’s Therapeutic Nations: Healing in an Age of Indigenous Human Rights focuses on the politics of mental and physical health, with attention to how it informs race, class, and gender in Indian Country. She teaches American Indian Studies at the University of Washington.
The Housing Poem
Minnie had a house
which had trees in the yard
and lots of flowers
she especially liked the kitchen
because it had a large old cast iron stove
and that
the landlord said
was the reason
the house was so cheap.
Pretty soon Minnie’s brother Rupert came along
and his wife Onna
and they set up housekeeping in the living room
on the fold-out couch,
so the house warmed and rocked
and sang because Minnie and Rupert laughed a lot.
Pretty soon their mom Elsie came to live with them too
because she liked being with the laughing young people
and she knew how the stove worked the best.
Minnie gave up her bed and slept on a cot.
Well pretty soon
Dar and Shar their cousins came to town looking for work.
They were twins
the pride of Elsie’s sister Jo
and boy could those girls sing. They pitched a tent under
the cedar patch in the yard
and could be heard singing around the house
mixtures of old Indian tunes and country western.
When it was winter
Elsie worried
about her mother Sarah
who was still living by herself in Moose Glen back home.
Elsie went in the car with Dar and Shar and Minnie and Rupert and got her.
They all missed her anyway and her funny stories.
She didn’t have any teeth
so she dipped all chewable items in grease
which is how they’re tasty she said.
She sat in a chair in front of the stove usually
or would cook up a big pot of something for the others.
By and by Rupert and Onna had a baby who they named Lester,
or nicknamed Bumper, and they were glad that Elsie and Sarah
were there to help.
One night the landlord came by
to fix the leak in the bathroom pipe
and was surprised to find Minnie, Rupert and Onna, Sarah and Elsie, Shar and Dar
all singing around the drum next to the big stove in the kitchen
and even a baby named Lester who smiled waving a big greasy piece of dried fish.
He was disturbed
he went to court to evict them
he said the house was designed for single-family occupancy
which surprised the family
because that’s what they thought they were.
GLORIA BIRD (1951–), Spokane, is a poet and a scholar whose honors include the Diane Decorah Memorial Poetry Award from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas. Her work frequently discusses and works against the harmful representations and stereotypes of Native peoples. As one of the central figures of N
orthwest Native poetry, Bird taught at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe and was a cofounder of the Northwest Native American Writers’ Association.
In Chimayo
The one-room adobe skeleton sat on a hill overlooking a field that would not grow anything but adobe brick. We packed holes around the vigas in winter, built a fire to “sweat” the walls insulating us for moving in.
Sr. Lujan sold the land as dried and Mexican as he, would sell what lay on the land: the rusted equipment of his father, the cellar dug into the dirt, and the bridge we crossed to reach the land he’s sold.
His fat lawyer spoke with hands as coarse and brown as burnt fish asking for the price of the bridge belonging to Sr. Lujan, one hundred dollars to not be bothered any longer, Sr. Lujan whispering, “es verdad” next to him.
In Chimayo a crucifix is planted higher up on a ridge watching over what sacrifices were made of Chimayo all year. From my knees, I watched brighter stars journey the path of sky the cross did not fill through the night of my labor, rocking for comfort not found through an open window.
Early morning I lay on the floor to give birth, a veil of rain falling. Hina-tee-yea is what he called it in his elemental language. Four days later, named our daughter also, fine rain, child of the desert mesas, yucca, and chamisal.
Across the arroyo, the news would remind Manuelita of her grief, y su hijito lost the month we moved in. That spring, centipedes sprinkled sand from the warming vigas where they were hidden.
Images of Salmon and You
Your absence has left me only fragments of a summer’s run
on a night like this, fanning in August heat, a seaweeded song.
Sweat glistens on my skin, wears me translucent, sharp as scales.
The sun wallowing its giant roe beats my eyes back red and dry.
Have you seen it above the highway ruling you like planets?
Behind you, evening is Columbian, slips dark arms
around the knot of distance that means nothing
to salmon or slim desiring. Sweet man of rivers,
the blood of fishermen and women will drive you back again,
appointed places set in motion like seasons. We are like salmon
swimming against the mutation of current to find
our heartbroken way home again, weight of red eggs and need.
ELIZABETH “SISTER GOODWIN” HOPE (1951–1997), Iñupiaq, served on the Institute of Alaska Native Arts board and was a member of the Native American Writers’ Circle of Alaska. She was married to Tlingit poet Andrew Hope III. She published a book of poems called A Lagoon Is in My Backyard in 1984.
Piksinñaq
when popcorn
first came up north
north to Kotzebue sound
little iñuit
took it home from school
long long ago when
the new century first woke up
Aana sat on neat
rows of willow branches
braiding sinew into thread
Uva Aana niggin
una piksinñaq
for you grandmother
eat this
it is something that bounces
after Aana ate it
the little iñuit girls
giggled hysterically
for sure now, they said
old Aana is going to bounce too
for hours
Aana sat hunched over
with her eyes squinched shut
she grasped onto neat rows
of willow branches
waiting for the popcorn
to make her bounce around
DAN TAULAPAPA MCMULLIN (1953–), Samoan (Amerika Sāmoa), a faʻafafine poet, visual artist, and filmmaker, was raised on Tutuila Island in the villages of Maleola and Leone. He has garnered national acclaim, receiving awards like the Poets & Writers Award from the Writers Loft and earning a spot on the American Library Association Rainbow Top Ten List. Along with his poetry, his visual artwork has been exhibited worldwide, including at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, New York University’s Asian/Pacific/American Institute, and the United Nations.
The Doors of the Sea
There was a ship
went into the sea
over the body of my brother
I am just a boy
he was not much older than me
the goddess is good and cruel
wants her share of life, like us
sparkling dust of birds far away whom we follow, the stars
the blood red dust of life
as my brother’s face
disappeared beneath us
beneath the ship which carried us and the goddess
to where we do not know
leaving the war of my grandfather
the smell of smoke following us
our keel, my brother, knocking down the doors of the sea
the tall, and the wild waves coming, crashing
under the keel of my brother’s name
far from the sound of places we were leaving
the roads we followed
marching past my uncle’s crooked mountain forts
while his men called out at us
with our long hair
on our shoulders
first by my brother’s name
who was this girl with him, leave her with us
she is my brother, he said
not glancing at me
our songs we sang in the warm rain for the goddess
blessed be her name
her cloak the wild wood pigeons turning
her crown the lone plover’s crying
where now are you brother?
JOE BALAZ (1953–), Kanaka Maoli, is a poet in both American English and Pidgin (Hawaiian Creole English) and an editor. Invested in preserving Hawaiian oral traditions as well as Pidgin writing, Balaz wrote After the Drought (1985), and OLA (1996), a collection of visual poetry; edited Hoʻomānoa: An Anthology of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature (1989); and recorded an album of Pidgin poetry, Electric Laulau (1998). In 2019 he published Pidgin Eye, a collection of poems written over the previous thirty years.
Charlene
Charlene
wun wahine wit wun glass eye
studied da bottom
of wun wooden poi bowl
placed in wun bathtub
to float just like wun boat.
Wun mysterious periscope
rising from wun giant menacing fish
appeared upon da scene.
Undahneath da surface
deeper den wun sigh
its huge body
lingered dangerously near da drain.
Wun torpedo laden scream
exploded in da depths
induced by Charlene
who wuz chanting
to da electric moon
stuck up on da ceiling.
Silver scales
wobbled like drunken sailors
and fell into da blue.
No can allow
to move da trip lever on da plunger
no can empty da ocean
no can reveal da dry porcelain ring
to someday be scrubbed clean.
Charlene
looked at all da ancestral lines
ingrained on da bottom of da round canoe
floating on da watah
and she saw her past and future.
Wun curious ear wuz listening
through wun empty glass
placed against da wall
and discovered
dat old songs wuz still being sung
echoing like sonar
off of da telling tiles.
DIANE L’X EIS´ BENSON (1954–), Tlingit, is a poet, performing artist, speaker, and scholar. Utilizing poetry, Benson performed her one-woman shows nationally and internationally, most notably, “Mother America Blues” and “My Spirit Raised its Hands.” Her work addressing violence and injustice issues throug
h performance art, speaking, and teaching earned her community service awards, as well as a Bonnie Heavy Runner Victim Advocacy Award, a Goldie Award from the Golden Crown Literary Society, and nominations for the Pushcart Prize in poetry and the Herb Alpert Award in the Arts. Benson serves as faculty for the Department of Alaska Native Studies and Rural Development at the University of Alaska Fairbanks.
Ax Tl’aa
For those whose
children were taken from them
My aunt gives me
a picture of my mother
A woman
Whose voice
drifted waterlogged
onto a California
beach
And cried silent
Potlatch Ducks
Sleek,
We sneak just so,
past the tall blades of grass
across the flats of Minto
Canoe glides with no sound
our paddles dipping water like
ancient spirits in dance
Ducks abundant
we’ll take plenty to the
village, but mother earth
urges play and off come our shirts
young man’s long hair flying
paddle high, woman’s long hair
laying, teasing the open sky
Heading on with
potlatch ducks to the village edge,
I can hardly breathe,
as if the ancient ones
are watching, and are about to
sneeze
Grief’s Anguish
Uncle sharpened his harpoon for
fishing. It felt like war. Her pain
was heard in her movement. Listen.
Listen, she is hanging clothes in the
rain. Listen. I think he will come
back from fishing. But her son never does.