Clay Pots and Bones (9 page)

Our Hearts Were Beating One With Their Drum

They were drumming for the one

we were mourning.

A walk with my son from

our talk, our sharing,

Our pain.

We saw the brightest

star. We knew who,

our burden less.

All alone except for our pain.

the blue-black night,

and the drum.

We both heard it, music for

two battered hearts walking as one.

It began to change us.

Our hearts were beating

one with their drum,

healing.

They were drumming for the one

we were mourning.

We heard them give their hearts

to the drum for their friend,

for our boy, cousin, Godson.

The days are better now,

moments of silence.

Our hearts were beating

one with their drum.

They were drumming for the one

we were mourning.

Dreams Not Wanted

Who are you?

Chief

Poet

Man

Father

Husband

Son

Brother

Relation

Friend

Connection

similar to the silky strands of a spider's web

capturing light and sustenance, keeping out

dreams not wanted.

A Work in Progress

Snowflakes, as white as

can be, fall easily,

melting upon contact

with the open palm of

my outstretched hand.

I raise it to the heavens

as an offering, a sacrifice

to the silent descending

pure grace.

The artist from afar

dispenses the solitary

colour as if to shroud

one of Vincent's starry nights.

My gauche hand feels lighter,

allowing it to rise higher

as the vapour from my breath

slowly ascends and drifts

aimlessly away from

my moment of tribute.

The severed reminder,

complaints of phantom pain,

nothing.

Flesh versus steel,

steel wins. Flesh loses

to the gods of tomorrow.

All arrangements complete,

the service at sunrise

for a nail, a bone, a scrap of flesh.

And the eulogy,

a work in progress.

Dance Along the Ghost Highway
(Translation)

The fire warms and comforts him.

fixing his gaze.

They call him

the Old One Who Knows,

the young men

whose hair is black as night.

while his a reminder of a winter

that is never far away.

The fire leaps,

throwing sparks

into the moonless night.

All is ready for stories,

the gift of past ones

who dance along the ghost highway.

They light the pipe,

and tobacco smoke

clouds each man's face

like the morning fog

as it rises from the lake.

He remembers as a boy

how he would sit

as quiet as a shadow

listening to the Old Ones

recount hunts, hungers and wars.

Now the stories are ready.

He knows those

who sit with him tonight

will remember.

He is slow to start,

slow to eat

and slow to move.

Finally, with the voice of thunder

he begins to weave a story

from a fire pit

long forgotten.

Under these stars

that seem to dance

in rhythm with his voice,

the time is right.

Skite'kemrujewey Awti

Kisikuo'p elisink kikjuk puktewiktuk,

Puktew tele'k kutey mimajikek,

ke's puksuk pijekemk te's wnaqiaq,

kutey kloquejk alayjita'jik,

aqq mikwite'tk ta'n tuju

nutqwe'kek i'tla'tekes,

l'pa'tu'jijuijek nekm mikwite'tmajik

kisiku'k eloqisultijik kikjiw puktukewiktuk,

kikto'qipultijik, kikto'qamkipultijik,

aknutma'tijik.

Msit wen a'tukwet aqq kwetmtijik,

tmaweyey wtlu'tew alayja'sik

msit tami wsiskuk kutey

eksitpu'kewey u'n ke'sk kwetmaj,

jiksitmawet, jiksitk a'tukwaqn.

Ankite'tk, poqji mikwite'tkl a'tukwaqnn,

poqji ankite'tkl kisiku'k wtayjual,

ankite'tk a'tukwaqn ta'n tewije'k,

wen aqsutkis, wen mawtmk telues,

poqji ankite'tk ta'sisni'k kisiku'k

kikto'qi pemkopultijik puktewiktuk

aqq weskewo'ltijik.

Tal lukutisni'k etuk na'kwek,

waisisk al'kwilua'tijik,

al'kwilmu'tij ta'n i'taq aqq msit

tami elapa'sin oqnitpa'q

aqq kejia'tiji skite'kmujk eymu'tijik.

Na kisikuo'p apaja'sit,

alapa'sit puktewiktuk,

nutqo'ltite'wk ankama'titl

askise'nmi'tij puktew,

wel pmiaq puktew,

wenaqapa'sit, wasoqa'latl wtmaqnml,

illama'teket, na poqj aknutk,

poqji a'tukowajik nutqo'ltite'wk,

ankamajik aqq nemi'sit aqq kejitoq

nekm nike'ankamut,

nekm nike' jiksitut aqq nekm nike'kisiku.

kisiku ata'a'tukwet.

Two New Poems

Demasduit

In the National Library and Archives Preservation Centre

I saw sights

no one from my tribe

has ever seen.

I saw paintings of canoes,

of birch bark wi'kuoms,

and brown faces

encased in oil.

In these crypts

where the temperature is perfect

the humidity constant,

paintings, sealed off

from man and catastrophe.

She was the last

known image of a race,

a tribe.

She was wrapped in a fur stole,

and her eyes looked out and saw

she was the last known image.

She was Mary March,

she is Demasduit.

As the drawer rolled shut

and she returned to the stony silence of her crypt,

awaiting the next generation,

I wept.

Our Sisters

Our sisters –

Who has seen them last?

The 824 who speak

No more, nowhere,

Their songs fell silent,

Their trail on glassed ice

Rubbed away till gone.

Speak – we must speak

Dance ­– we must dance

Warn others – we must warn

Search – we must search

Our sisters

Our mothers

Our aunts

Our cousins

Our friends

Without you the pain grows

Without answers

More will be taken.

No more.

Taho.