Thoughts on a Powwow

Thoughts on a Powwow

Viking chants have hard edges

sharp drums

suited for longships

with the heads of dragons.

They have no place

where the wind sighs

in oak and maple trees.

Where the red-wings call

in the marsh,

where gulls shriek,

where pines hush

un-native voices.

 

There are laments

in the music

born of these sounds.

Voices not meant

for the sea

but for the rivers running

and the rustle of the porcupine

and the squirrel,

the bugle of the elk,

the call of the loon

at twilight.

 

There are memories in it,

too poignant

and betray-ful

in the measured wailing

to bear too long.

It is a gift,

the voices sing:

 

This much sorrow

for us to hear,

but no more.

 

Listen and know

that the land I love,

that I was born to

and believe myself native to

does not fully

love me back.

It is not mine.

This much sorrow for me to hear.

The oars that cut the waves

are not the oars that

belong in this river.

My people have been

invaders as long as

these people have existed.

Those stony lands

are no more mine.

 

We are people between,

we who took this land

for our own,

who claimed the red-wing

and the loon,

the elk and the pines

for our own.

 

Took it

Held it

Even loved it

as if the stones of home

gave us the right.

As if dragons bring

anything but burning.

 

This much sorrow for us to hold.