Clay Pots and Bones (6 page)

Good Creator

Good Creator,

I bring sad news.

Let me sit closer to

the fire to warm

my aching bones.

Where shall I begin?

As you instructed us,

we fulfilled our bargain.

These woods, hills

and mountains echoed

the sounds of many

villages.

The animals you sent

were plenty

and we treated them

with respect.

We took no more

than we needed,

until...

Good Creator,

all this changed upon

the arrival of the ghost maker,

the pale one.

With his help, our

numbers shrivelled and died.

Now you must walk for days

to see other brown faces,

and they are but pale shadows

of the ones who have gone

forever.

Good Creator,

our robes are in tatters,

our stomachs like empty

seashells. Sand

and dust.

Good Creator,

my hands are the hands

of a disrespectful child

who has taken too much.

The woods are empty now,

devoid of sound,

like a sunset or a passing cloud.

Good Creator,

I seek your counsel.

Is it too late?

For you I say keep your skin

the colour of earth and your

grandchildren like eagle wings.

Teach the ear so it hears

your young speak our words.

Now It's Your Turn

Now It's Your Turn

Look. Just look at it now

My grandfather's grandfather could

walk for two days before seeing

the ones with wanting eyes.

Now today I can't walk more

than fifteen minutes and I am

reminded by a sign that this

land is no longer ours to do

with as we see fit.

I yearn for those days when

I caught all the fish I could eat,

the rest shared with others.

My canoe would be filled to

the gunwales, her ribs bulging

as she strained to take me

home with salmon.

The trees offer little shade now.

Do you know why?

They have been cut so much

they don't get a chance

to grow. When I was young

I saw a tree so big

ten men could stand on it.

Grandson, listen to me.

Make me a promise that you will

not let us lose any more.

The land that is gone stays gone.

The fish will be wary and may

never come back.

The trees may grow back,

if left alone.

For you I say keep your skin

the colour of earth and your

grandchildren like eagle's wings.

Teach the ear so it hears

your young speak our words.

My eyes have seen many things,

now it's your turn.

Taho.

Questions for Great Grandfather

Have you ever felt the kiss

of a tanned hide cured by

your hands?

Do you remember how

balsam wood smelled after

a summer rain?

Tell me how supple birch

bark becomes while wet

outside your canoe.

Has your hand fought with

a salmon at the end of your

bone-tipped spear?

When was the last time you

sat with bare back against

a bleached stump?

How many times have you

shaped your hair with black

bear grease?

How long did you lie on the

green grass, belly down, before

the sun reminded you?

What happened to your bare

feet when you walked across

a boggy swamp?

Has your tongue ever tasted the

ocean from an oyster eaten

fresh from the shore?

Were you able to tell which bird

sang the loudest on the morning

of the solstice?

When you lay down under the stars

did you find where Great Bear

hid from Chickadee?

Great Grandfather, I have seen things,

faces that turned scarlet when struck

with venomous words.

I heard the sound of glass falling

onto an unkempt green blanket.

Ask me about the sound of bone

breaking again,

the sound of a door slamming, locked,

not meant for elements.

Spoken words meaning less, foreign

with each syllable.

Stolen childhoods, crushed ideas,

frozen gazes.

Great Grandfather, I have also heard

words whispered at dawn,

seen the flash of fire in the

eyes of those who survive.

Stood with those rich with

pockets bare as their feet.

Heard the drum beat louder,

so loud it shakes the inside.

Songs of times gone by

in the mouths of the young.

Great Grandfather, from a

cupped hand over battered

chest,

I release you.

Matuesuey Kmtin
(Porcupine Mountain)

A plume of grey rises from the

heights of Matuesuey Kmtin.

A shudder felt, muffled sounds

escape as each new charge

catches current, releasing rock.

With each passing day Kmtin

dwindles, a fading shadow,

yet still dwarfing bulk carriers that

come seeking cargo to cover

the green with slabs of grey

in cities south and west,

in lands intent on concealing

silent footpaths of those who roamed.

Across the man-made road

of rock, over the once fluid

now semi-stagnant bluish

green-grey highway

of whales and tuna,

a message is posted:

Turn Off All Radios

Danger

Blasting Area.

What if I left my radio on?

Would they leave Matuesuey

Kmtin alone?

The owners of this shrinking hill

will leave only when Matuesuey

Kmtin is a memory found in

obscure poems by an obscure

poet who lacked the resolve to

play his radio and sing along

momentarily preventing its

determined demise.

Learned Elder

Learned Elder, share with me

the universal truths that you

harbour deep within your soul.

Take me by the hand to that

special place.

Lead the way so that I may

see the prints on Mother Earth.

Give me guidance, teach me

to ask and not to demand.

Sing to me the chants of old so I

may keep them alive.

Take out your drum and let the

sound reverberate inside.

Show the steps of the sacred fire,

offer tobacco and sweetgrass.

Unclench your hand and soak the

birch bark and shape a wi'kuom.

Hone your knife and scrape the fat

from the fresh hide of the kopit.

Use your ancient axe and bring

down the straight and true ash.

Weave your baskets to hold the

summer bounty of berries.

Polish that special rock to

make your dream stone.

Share the stories of my clan,

give me my history for safe keeping

until the time comes when I

become the Learned Elder.

Fires of the Ancients

Stand together as one.

Speak together as one.

Use all fifty-two languages

in this land of the maple.

How can they not hear us

when we speak so powerfully

revealing ugliness so beautifully?

Wise words of ancestors.

A voice alone is like a

solitary morning dew drop.

Voices together become rivers

of dreams, destinies and aspirations.

Let's do what we say.

Let's say what we do.

Speak the words spoken around

fires of the ancients.

A single shout becomes a

chorus that no one

dare drown.