LITERARY CRITICISM
Catherine Has-Some-Books sat on a rock
talking to Johnny Looks-Too-White about Shakespeare.

“Hamlet must have been Indian,” she said,
“because everyone was out to get him.”

“Romeo must have been Indian,” he said,
“because white people never let their daughters marry Indians.”

“Lear must have been Indian,” they nodded,
“because he lost everything in the end.”

They held each other as the sun abandoned the reservation,
certain that Shakespeare must have been Indian.

RIVERSONG
Tazlina Village, Alaska

I never want to leave this land.

All of my ancestors are buried here

listening to riversong

from picket-fenced graves

their wind-borne spirits

linking past and present:

sii xu’ane tsiye, Tezdlende Joe

my great-grandfather, Tazlina Joe,

sii tsucde, Ełdayudesnaa

my grandmother, Morrie Secondchief.

When I finally fall to pieces

this is where my pieces will fall.

AFTER A SERMON AT THE CHURCH OF INFINITE CONFUSION
At ten, Mary Caught-in-Between
came home from sunday school,
told every animal and bird and fish
they couldn’t talk anymore,
told her drum it couldn’t sing anymore,
told her feet they couldn’t dance anymore,
told her words they weren’t words anymore,
told Raven and Coyote they weren’t gods anymore,
said god was a starving white man
with long hair and blue eyes and a beard
who no one loved enough to save
when they nailed him to a totem pole.
Winner, 2003 James Hearst Poetry Prize, North American Review.

THE LOVING FATHER (a modern fable)
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a man who had two sons. All their life the father abused and raped the sons until the younger killed himself from shame. For many years, the father had a good career. He was a busy and important man. But one day he retired, the way many men do when reaching a certain age. No longer feeling useful or important, the father became miserable. About the same time—the older son, now a man himself—was embarking on his own career, becoming every bit as successful as his father, only in a different way. Like father, like son. But the father couldn't bear his son’s success. He missed being a busy and important man. Besides, the father worried that his son might one day tell on him for the wicked things he had done. So, he called newspapers and told horrible lies about his son to destroy his reputation so that no one would believe him in the future. No matter what the father said, the newspapers printed it, because, after all, everyone knows that fathers are always kind and loving. No one ever questioned his motives. No one ever wondered, “Why would a father wish to destroy his son?” And so, year after year, decade after decade, the son struggled with sadness and failure. But, he never gave up, despite all the people who read the newspapers and who—whenever they saw the unfortunate son—said to themselves, “There's that no good son who has such a kind and loving father.”

HOW RESERVATIONS GOT THEIR NAME
White government official comes out to see
land selected for Indian resettlement;
looks around, scratches his head, says,
“I don’t know. I got some reservations about this place.”

RESERVATION BLUES
All summer tourists pass
our village on the buckled highway

of this place seldom visited
where hearts slowly

do nothing but break,
where old Indian women and men

sell beadwork and dream catchers,
their pride so distant

it is carried only in memory
or forgotten in the blood,

and where I stand at the water’s edge,
my clenched fists wide as the river.

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
After the song was sung
candles extinguished
cake and ice cream consumed
and all presents opened
the guests went outside to play
Cowboys and Indians
Indians hid behind trees and hedges
while cowboys rounded them up
and after shooting half
banished the rest to a condemned lot
on the poor side of town

A COLD FRONT SETTLES
IN THE VALLEY
Sixty below zero all week.
The truck won't start,
dogs won't go outside,
and even the sharp-pointed stars
are too cold to move.

All we do is sit
inside the candle-lit cabin
counting long arctic nights
in our dreams
and waiting along
with the bears and trees
for spring.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY
After a poem by William Carlos Williams

A note tacked to a tree in Indian country
we have
torn up the treaties
you signed
only yesterday
which you
paid for
in blood

We’re sorry
but we need
your land
so green, so green

BEOWRAVEN
Raven wanted a pet
so he slogged into a fen
fashioned a fanglorious beast
from filth and slime and muck
named it Grendel
stropped its wicked claws and teeth
stroked its mudruckled fur
then pointed at Hrothgar’s unwary keep
commanded
“Fetch!”
& the gorged and grisly creature
always returned
with a heap of bones
© 1997 John Smelcer & Ted Hughes (co-written in Guildford, England)

SPRING ON THE YUKON
An old man standing on a riverbank
watching icebergs float downriver,
like polar bears swimming to the sea.

Smiling, he waves goodbye to them.

Farewell winter!
Farewell cold and darkness!

Welcome, welcome
summer.

DAAN’ K’E NIKAH TUU’
(“Spring on the Yukon”)

C’etiyi yihwnighi’aa k’e sdaghaay
ten delzaghi ‘aen tayalaeł daa’,
k’e tsaani ggay bae natu’.

Dlok’, dela’ ghełnaa xonahang.

Xonahang xay!
Xonahang dlii ‘eł ghaetl’!

Dalasdii, dalasdii
saen.