Editor’s note. According to philosopher Enrique Dussel, it wasn’t until Europeans colonized the Americas, subjected and slaughtered its people, and plundered its wealth that they went from being inhabitants of a backwater of the world to thinking they were inherently better than everyone else. True, the notion of Indigenous people as natural-born “stewards of the land” is a stereotype. But then again, they didn’t invent the steam engine. And here we are, in a climate emergency. Today’s guest post of two poems by Denise Low shows you how it all began. First Contact: Interglacial Sagas Anno Domin / i Domin / ion Domin / ate half the known edge world’s end waves Mer-men start with first blow first bellow breath of sea monsters [I find a map illustrated with sea pigs] two worlds [and oceans between] 1. white-skinned people 2. brown skinned with ochre paint maybe where [in another map’s ocean swims a fish-centaur man] Saint Brendan in annals The voyage is dated to AD 512–530 (Betha Brenainn / Vita Brendan) “vines suitable for wine” When they light a fire, the island sinks; they realize that it is actually a whale. Skraelings, those who wear skins [of beasts] [Later my black straight hair at birth turns Norse blonde under cloth my Mongolian spots] Furs valued and traded A market was formed between them; and this people in their purchases preferred red cloth; in exchange they had furs to give, and skins quite grey. They wished also to buy swords and lances, but Karlsefni and Snorri forbad it. milch /milk given for furs before they would leave without bloodshed [trade these years of warm seas before another age of cold returned] A great crowd of Skrælingar boats, coming down upon them like a stream, the staves this time being all brandished in the direction opposite to the sun’s motion [backlit] in Markland / in Forestland [named on parchment] Then took they and bare red shields to meet them. They encountered one another and fought, and there was a great shower of missiles. voiceless Indigenous unvoiced amidst waters between Iceland and Newfoundland roll of unceasing waters where a birch bark cartograph [thin as parchment] of clans glyphs of epic stories: Listen Greenlandic Inuit Newfoundland Inuit also Innu Mi'kmaq Southern Inuit of NunatuKavut [Munsee Unami Lenape to their south and my grandfather’s people] [Irish Scots English to their east and my other grandfather’s people] [1400s MS illustration of St. Brendan, Wikipedia The Saga of Erik the Red, 1880 translation into English by J. Sephton from the original Icelandic ’Eiríks saga rauða’.https://sagadb.org/eiriks_saga_rauda.en ] My ([Broken] [Forbidden] Indigenous) Identity Pale mountain lions a female and mate low-slung bodies whip tails Our neighborhood laps their territory The cats walk night edges shapeshifters turning into lynxes enormous tabby cats with whiskers ear tufts almond-shaped green eyes The first I dream of cats that day I find Julie Buffalo Head’s painting Blood and a Single Tree dripping vermillion A crow looks outdoors from a windowsill Another crow holds chalk draws a spiral a portal where words rise like smoke A raccoon against a wall of red stains bleeds from fatal wounds reaches for blue A deer lies on the floor tongue lolling side covered in Ponca floral designs A suited man’s figure wears a cat’s face Na shëwanàkw White Man What have you / I done to us? _____________________________________________________________ Denise Low is the author, most recently, of The Turtle's Beating Heart: One Family's Story of Lenape Survival (U of Nebraska Press, 2017); Mélange Block (Red Mountain Press, 2014); Natural Theologies: Essays about Literature of the New Middle West (The Backwaters Press, 2011); New and Selected Poems (Penthe, 2007); and the forthcoming Northern Cheyenne Ledger Art by Fort Robinson Breakout Survivors (with Ramon Powers, U. of Nebraska Press, 2020). She lives (and dodges wildfires) in Northern California.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |