Welcome, Native American Heritage Month

Today marks the start of Native American Heritage Month. Minnesota’s Governor, Tim Walz, has issued an official proclamation. In a similar vein, President Biden has issued a national proclamation. There are a number of Minnesota events honoring Native American Heritage listed here. A recent US Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo, as her signature project, compiled Living Nations, Living Words, “a sampling of work by 47 Native Nations poets through an interactive ArcGIS Story Map and a newly developed Library of Congress audio collection.” During the rest of the month, from time to time, we’ll add additional resources and expand on the theme.

Although I’m sure it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part, Harjo’s approach to her project, recognizing the connections among the poets, has influenced how I’ve been choosing which poets I want to read next during the past few years. I look for poets who are connected to poets I’ve already enjoyed reading and, although it doesn’t always pan out, it has helped me find several volumes, poets, and publishers that are very much to my taste. Homebound Publications is one example.

Photo by J. Harrington

Our Halloween record is intact. The only Trick or Treater to arrive at our front door was our granddaughter, leading her mother and father. They left with chocolate bars for the youngest and cheese for the adults, at least that’s how it was supposed to work. If we get lucky, our treat today and tomorrow will be watching the white stuff melt. Today’s poem is one of the few items I can find that reflect Halloween ghouls, snow, and Native Americans.

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still. 

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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