Clay Pots and Bones (5 page)

Ash and Flint Flying as One

Sinew stretches and bends

an unwilling sculpted

rock maple no longer

haughty in height and form.

A sinew loop encircles a ring

cut deep into the white

nakedness of aged wood.

An instrument of life and

death begins to take shape.

Flint on ash slides gently where

hand and bow meet like lovers.

A sound unique to sinew, ash

and maple is heard by the

holder, gripping as if his

very existence depends

upon a true flight.

The sound of fat burning,

odours rise like ghosts,

easily melding with smoke

and flame, revealing faces of

children crushing bones,

ripping meat and swallowing

between smiles, as the

provider of the cause of

celebration envisions

days of ash and flint

flying as

one.

Dear successive fathers:

Explain to me, please, when did the

change take place from owners

to wards of the selfish state?

Write down the reasons why

the land under our feet became

foreign soil in perpetuity...

Clay Pots and Bones

Clay Pots and Bones

Dear successive fathers:

Explain to me please, when did the

change take place, from owners

to wards of the selfish state?

Write down the reasons why

the land under our feet became

foreign soil in perpetuity.

Say again how the signers of

1752 lost as much as they

gained while the ink from a

quill pen rested in its

blackened Royal well.

What justification exists that

allowed our mounds to be

desecrated, clay pots and bones.

Rock glyphs painted over by

cfc-propelled paint.

Our songs and stories protected

by copyright and law, not in the

bosom of our grandmothers or

grandfathers of yesterday.

The cost of keeping us does

not reflect the real cost.

How many ghostly sails with

reeking holds did English

ports comfort in early fog?

Have you much experience in

the destruction of people.

besides us?

Dancing, Fasting and Praying

The Medicine Man

gazes intently like the Eagle,

as each of his charges

looks to him for answers.

The dancing, fasting and

praying are all in vain.

Each morning

the stronger ones

prepare the still ones

whose eyes and

features are frozen.

The summer village's vitality,

so strong for many seasons,

is now spent as if it

were a salmon.

Strangers, as pale as

ghosts, bear

gifts of trade,

leave with fur

and knowledge,

their hidden gift

to come later.

Brown faces,

red spots

spreading like a

summer fire,

consuming small ones

and old ones first.

The future, the past,

given the honours of

passing.

The Medicine Man

gazes intently,

as his eyes

water for the

last time.

Kluskap and Mi'kmaw

Kluskap:

Who are you and what are you doing here?

Do you hear the forest?

It says, “Come to me and sit.”

Mi'kmaw:

I sit here but I cannot hear.

I have forgotten.

I hear the one with shining eyes,

he tells me, “Run to me.”

Kluskap:

Do not listen to him, listen to me.

He wants you for the wrong reasons.

He will steal your tongue, your land,

even where your ancestors are laid.

Mi'kmaw:

He does not want much,

a beaver, two fish, three geese.

When he gets these, he will be

satisfied and leave us.

Kluskap:

Listen carefully. The beaver will hide

from every man. Fish will be no more.

The goose will not come back. The land

he will take from you. And you cannot

say a word for he will have taken your

tongue. He will be here forever.

Kluskap Aqq L'Nu

Kluskap:

Wen ki'l aq talueken tett?

Nutmn nipukt?

Teluek, “Juku'e

Aqq pa'si.”

L'Nu
:

Epi, pasik mu nutmu

Koqoey. Awan'ta'si'

Nutaq Wasoqwalkikwate'w,

Telimit, “Juku-tukwi'e'n.”

Kluskap
:

Mukk jiksituaw, jiksitui ni'n.

Ketanisk na pasik, kmutnattew na

kilnu, kmaqmikem aqq ma'w ko'kmaq

Ta'n elisulti'tij.

L'Nu:

Mu menuekekw pikwelk, pasik kopitl

Aqq tapusiliji mime'jk

Ne'siliji sinumkwaq,

Elmiaq ula msnaj, l'mietew.

Kluskap:

Nike' nute'n! Kaqietaqq kopitk,

Kaqietaqq mime'jk, sinumk ma' apja'sikw,

Apkwilja'tultew kmaqmikem,

Je ma'kis-taluewn mita kilnu ma'tenukw

Ma'liekw tami, siaw-i'tew na iapjiw.

Leather, Stone and Bone

The cord has been with us

for such a long, long time.

Connected to the smiling

father, it grows taut from

our resistance and then

slackens again from

our reluctance.

The two sides:

flee, cut and be messy,

or stay, trust and be tidy.

One voice echoes the words

of ones who know,

their journeys complete,

the other voice of ones

who stay and breathe

the undated atmosphere.

Words written on parchment,

actors whose costumes

change with new acts

following written cues

making cultural-specific

laws governing the ones

of leather, stone and bone.

Cradle to grave, they say

Cradle to grave.

How words uttered in House

ring true to the present.

The giving father

smiles on.

The giving father

smiles on,

his children divided.

Cut or keep the cord.

No one asks the question.

Save the Last Bullet

The noble savage – have we

dispelled the myth?

The monosyllabic dialogue

of unionized Mediterraneans

riding against The Duke

who passes out the guns,

telling the fair maiden,

“Save the last bullet

for yourself, in case...”

The great General who said,

“The only good Indian

is a dead Indian!”

as hundreds succumbed

behind his horse.

The General's horse stepped lighter,

the red dust became an

eternal dusty shroud.

Shed a tear with the children

of the Black Hills.

Sacred stone cut to provide

monumental caricatures

of men. All four.

Consent forms required

to pray at the Hills!

Is there a homeland

called Caucasia?

The Chain Remains Strong

The Chain stretches back

four centuries.

Two different world views

met as equals.

A time when the numbers

were reversed.

Around a fire held by rock

they agreed.

For as long as the sun rises

and the rivers run.

Sacred oaths sworn.

Royal Proclaimer said his peace,

we ours.

Prosperity for all,

a new beginning.

Painted faces washed away

by the rain.

Wigs, leggings and blood

red coats rested.

The Chain remained strong,

held by men.

The land became deeded,

the game depleted.

Sister and brother beings

lost forever.

Equitable foes no longer,

a paradigm shift.

Hatchets at the ready,

knives honed.

Moose skin shields, no match

for disease.

The Chain remained strong,

revered by one.

Blankets of pox and vermin

a gift.

Sought-after hair still attached,

twenty pounds.

Survivors scattered but able

to stand.

The land became deeded,

the game depleted.

Dark robes singing psalms,

plundering others.

Lodges of learning where

no one spoke.

Tongues severed by words

and leather.

The Chain remains strong,

unforgotten.

Alive.