I discovered this Canadian Métis poet while looking for a poem about the medicine wheel, in order to introduce the concept to my grade 10s. I downloaded a small sample set of poems first, stumbling upon this gorgeous piece, to which I knew my parents would relate:
This was enough exposure for me to seek out the entire anthology, which I could find only in used form, from Amazon. It came in pristine condition, signed by the author, to "Beverly". Published in 1993, it's sadly unsurprising to me that this anthology was met with substantially less exposure than I wager it would be were it released today. It deals with issues of alcoholism, recovery, poverty, domestic violence, indigenous rights, and a sense of being "caught between cultures". With a melodic yet prosaic cadence, and abstract but visceral imagery, it's easily accessible. It is divided into medicine wheel directions, cut in four by illustrations of stones.
The combination of a few things has left me inevitably reflective: 1. the new year, 2. reading Wasted (see previous entry), 3. the quiet time away from the world. Though met with sometime tears and not-always-comfortable revelations, it hasn't felt as empty and longing a process as usual - more, finally, constructive, putting fears and resolutions to spoken word, and entertaining possibilities for release.
It's all in answering the whys.
"Because I miss being smart," I cry. "I miss being impressive. I miss my life meaning something. I miss feeling, like I did when I was 17, that I was destined to do something important."
Geoff asks: "What would you do?"
"I would write. I would maybe have a PhD."
"What would you write?"
"I would write poetry. I would write a graphic novel."
I will read more of both. I will write and I will draw and I will seek out opportunities.
York U offers a part-time PhD program in Education, too. My limits are only stopping myself from seeking whatever it is I wish to find.
I woke up this morning.
I smudged for the first time in too long.
I finished reading this beautiful poetry anthology.
Happy new year.
Smudge Ceremony
A Spider's Delicate Work
by: Gregory Scofield
A spider's delicate work hangs in mind an endless
thread weaving me into his sticky tapestry unravels
my dreams shamelessly
crawl back into my abalone smudge bowl
sage smoke going up high
summons an eagle circling
circling
hands through smoke wash head
face
shoulders
back
stomach
legs
feet
purified ready to chase him
under his own black creation
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