#Native American Poets

[uwmspeccoll]

Independence Day Poems, Indigenously

This 4th of July we bring you some poems on the American nation from an indigenous point of view in Diane Glancy's (Cherokee, b. 1941) The Relief of America published in Chicago by Tia Chucha Press in 2000. A little bit of celebration, a little bit of snark . . . well, mostly snark. Published 24 years ago, many of the poems seem even more relevant today.

Diane Glancy is a poet, playwright, and educator of Cherokee, German, and English descent. This book is one of 40 by Glancy that form part of our Native American Literature Collection.

We wish you a safe and happy 4th of July . . . Indigenously.

View posts from Independence Days past.

View other posts from our Native American Literature Collection.

[rs-hawk]

I really like your writing but I'm tired of the political stuff. When it was like public fruit trees and unions and stuff, okay, but your whole personality being native and queer and hating Trump is getting old. Please go back to writing about dragons dicking us down or us strapping down dragons

No. Lol. I'm gonna keep posting about it if I want to. I still write stories more than anything else. Want me to write a story for you? Send it to my ask box for a chance, sub to a specific tier on my Ko-fi where it's guaranteed, or buy a commission. Until then, enjoy what I write or unfollow. I love writing and want to make it a career, but I've said it once and I'll say it again. I'd rather never make a hot red cent from writing than be supported by people that see me as less than human.

Anyway, here's my Ko-fi link if you're wanting to commission that dragon piece 🤷‍♀️

[yourdailyqueer]

Barbara May Cameron (deceased)

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Lesbian

DOB: 22 May 1954 

RIP: 12 February 2002

Ethnicity: Native American (Hunkpapa Lakota)

Occupation: Photographer, poet, writer, Activist

[thegentleintellectual]

Text ID: “Falling in love felt fluid. It snowed when we fell in love. Everything reminded me of warm milk. Everything seemed less real. I thought my cup was overflowing. I found myself caressing my own face”

Excerpt From: Terese Marie Mailhot. “Heart Berries.”

[byronicist]

"I came into this world already scarred by loss on both sides of my family. My Indigenous side; my European side. My father and my mother were the kind of damaged people who should never have had children. But of course, they had me, and so my first language was loss."

Deborah Miranda, When Coyote Knocks on the Door (2021)

[abellinthecupboard]

Memorial Day, 1972

I was too young to clean graves so I waded into the uranium river carrying the cat who later gave birth to six headless kittens. O Lord, remember, O, do remember me.

— Sherman Alexie, One Stick Song (2000)

[loserpoetrv]

timers and curfews.

i find myself,

starting to hate timers.

why?

i'll never know.

well

actually

i

do.

as you wrap your

arms around my waist,

i feel my body shiver;

twitch.

i feel the concept

of

time start to become

the least of my worries...

images of what we could do

while frank ocean plays,

flash in my

perverted mind.

my breathing quickens.

your hands trail further.

my body leans in closer.

i respond with a soft sigh.

and there it is.

that god awful.

timer.

to ruin our moment.

we awkwardly say goodbye.

i roll over as you drive away.

and i lay,

and think,

"maybe another time."

maybe i'm just bad at acting on affection.

the song i listened to today:

[importantwomensbirthdays]

Joy Harjo

Joy Harjo was born in 1951 in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Harjo has written ten books of poetry, as well as children's books, plays, prose collections, and memoirs. She is also an accomplished musician and has released seven albums. In 2019, Harjo was appointed US Poet Laureate, becoming the first Native American to hold this position. She was later reappointed to two more terms. Harjo has received several other honors including the American Book Award, the Wallace Stevens Award, and the William Carlos Williams Award.

Image: Library of Congress

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"I’ve lost my long hair; my eagle plumes too. / From you my own people, I’ve gone astray. / A wanderer now, with no where to stay."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[nickysfacts]

Anaconda remained a advocate for peace to the very bitter end.

🏵️

[uwmspeccoll]

Voices of the Land

What better way to celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day than to highlight this landmark anthology that commemorates the Indigenous Peoples of North America? When the Light of the World was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through: A Norton Anthology of Native Nations Poetry, edited by Joy Harjo with Leanne Howe, Jennifer Elise Foerster, is a curated collection that features the poetry of 160 poets each showcasing a distinct voice from nearly 100 Indigenous Nations. This is the first edition from 2020, published by W. W. Norton & Company in New York.

The anthology is the first to provide a historically comprehensive collection of Native poetry. The literary traditions of Native Americans, the original poets of this country, date back centuries. The book opens with a blessing from Pulitzer Prize winner American Kiowa/Cherokee N. Scott Momaday (1934-2024) and contains introductions from contributing editors for five geographically organized sections. Each section begins with a poem from traditional oral literature and closes with emerging poets, creating a rich and diverse tapestry of Indigenous voices.

Joy Harjo, a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation, is a prominent figure in the literary world. She is known for her work as a poet, musician, playwright, and author. In addition to her contributions to literature, Harjo is also a celebrated performer and has released several albums combining poetry and music. In 2019, she made history by becoming the first Native American United States Poet Laureate and only the second to serve three terms. Throughout her career, Harjo has been a vocal advocate for Indigenous rights and has used her art to shed light on the experiences of Native peoples.

The following is an excerpt from Harjo’s introduction to this work:

“The anthology then is a way to pass on the poetry that has emerged from rich traditions of the very diverse cultures of indigenous peoples from these indigenous lands, to share it. Most readers will have no idea that there is or was a single Native poet, let alone the number included in this anthology. Our existence as sentient human beings in the establishment of this country was denied. Our presence is still an afterthought, and fraught with tension, because our continued presence means that the mythic storyline of the founding of this country is inaccurate. The United States is a very young country and has been in existence for only a few hundred years. Indigenous peoples have been here for thousands upon thousands of years and we are still here.”

View other Indigenous Peoples' Day posts.

View other posts from our Native American Literature Collection.

-Melissa (Stockbridge-Munsee), Special Collections Graduate Intern

We acknowledge that in Milwaukee we live and work on traditional Potawatomi, Ho-Chunk, and Menominee homelands along the southwest shores of Michigami, part of North America’s largest system of freshwater lakes, where the Milwaukee, Menominee, and Kinnickinnic rivers meet and the people of Wisconsin’s sovereign Anishinaabe, Ho-Chunk, Menominee, Oneida, and Mohican nations remain present.

[sacredverses]

For THE STATE OF GRATITUDE

is a tribute—

a tribute to the soul, to truths unveiled, to journeys deep, to clarity;

a tapestry woven with the threads of each heartbeat,

where questions arise, embracing the essence of being,

an exploration of treasures held close,

and the strength to honor that dance in those around us.-D'elve

[spoke9]

My Brother at 3 A.M.

By Natalie Diaz

He sat cross-legged, weeping on the steps

when Mom unlocked and opened the front door.

        O God, he said. O God.

                He wants to kill me, Mom.

When Mom unlocked and opened the front door

at 3 a.m., she was in her nightgown, Dad was asleep.

        He wants to kill me, he told her,

                looking over his shoulder.

3 a.m. and in her nightgown, Dad asleep,

What's going on? she asked. Who wants to kill you?

        He looked over his shoulder.

                The devil does. Look at him, over there.

She asked, What are you on? Who wants to kill you?

The sky wasn’t black or blue but the green of a dying night.

        The devil, look at him, over there.

                He pointed to the corner house.

The sky wasn’t black or blue but the dying green of night.

Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.

        My brother pointed to the corner house.

                His lips flickered with sores.

Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.

O God, I can see the tail, he said. O God, look.

        Mom winced at the sores on his lips.

                It’s sticking out from behind the house.

O God, see the tail, he said. Look at the goddamned tail.

He sat cross-legged, weeping on the front steps.

        Mom finally saw it, a hellish vision, my brother.

                O God, O God, she said.

[coyotepoet]

Chief Seattle letter.. Please read.

(Written by a great Native American Chief, Chief Seattle. Few things had changed and if we don’t stop destroying the tropical forest and the forest, polluting our water and the air. Mother Nature will out-live men greed. Once a great chief stated about Ohio. Why do the white man hate nature. Do they want to destroy all things that are beautiful?) The President in Washington sends word that he…

[rs-hawk]

Do you have any native folklore you’ve always wanted to write about? I can say I’m educated enough on the topic to offer ideas, but I do love to hear others passions

I have a lot of ideas. Lol. I’m sure you’ve seen but I always love hearing more ideas too! The only ones that I won’t write about are Sk1nw@lk3rs and W3nd1g0s. Don’t even like spelling them out. Feel free to ask me to write about whatever Indigenous monster/folklore/story you’d like to read

[byronicist]

"Sometimes you lose something so big, so immeasurable, that bearing your grief requires an act just as complicated and unfathomable as that loss."

Deborah Miranda, When Coyote Knocks on the Door (2021)