A month of (Native) poetry #3

In honor of National Poetry Month, I'm highlighting Native poems throughout the month.

Of the two below, the first is a wonderful Tlingit (Alaska Native) woman. Nora and her husband have done an immeasurable amount for the Tlingit people. She is truly a living treasure.

Her poem reminds me of the Southeast waters, and being on the boat (though a much bigger one) with my own papa, on Mother's Day.

The second poem is very striking, and actually reminds me of another Tlingit woman who told us the story of being put into school for the first time, and the fear, the beatings for speaking your language.

A POEM FOR JIM NAGATAAK'W (JAKWTEEN)

MY GRANDFATHER, BLIND AND NEARLY DEAF

by Nora Marks Dauenhauer

I was telling my grandfather

about what was happening

on the boat. My father

and his brothers were trying to anchor against the wind

and tide.

I could smell him, especially

his hair. It was a warm smell.

I yelled as loud as I could,

telling him what I saw.

My face was wet from driving

rain.

I could see his long eyebrows,

I could look at him and get

really close. We both liked this.

Getting close was his way

of seeing.

Halfbreed Girl in the City School
by Jo Whitehorse Cochran

are you Mexican

are you Italian

are you Chinese

are you Japanese

spic wetback greaseball slant-eye

you are dark enough to question

you are light enough to ask

you have near black hair brown eyes

and speak slow-english

we are blonde blue eyed

and wear store bought sweaters skirts or pants

you wear homemade clothes out of style

we circle round you and your sister

you hug your sister close she's small and even darker

we kick we tug at braids and coats

we pull "I'm Indian!" out of you

the social worker wants

you to describe your family

she asks

does your father beat

your motherdoes your father drink

does your mother

do you hate your parents

do you cry

tell me tell me do you

like the reservation better

are you ashamed in the classroom

when you wet your pants

why don't you speak up

why don't you get excused

why don't you go at recess

tell me tell me speak!

you stare out the window

turn an alphabet block in your hand

speak english speak english

the social worker caws

outside Canadian geese pass through your immediate sky

six in an arc going south

if you were a Changer like Star Boy

you could fly with those long-necks

but you must stay and look out this window

Grandma's words pound in your head

they want to strip us of our words

they want to take our tongues

so we forget how to talk to each other

you swallow the rock

that was your tongue

you swallow the song

that was your voice

you swallow you swallow

in the silence