#leanne howe

[gennsoup]

Shocked into consciousness by sunlight

Leanne Howe, 1918 Union Valley Road Oklahoma

[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.

[auntiems]

POETRY STARTERS, from my favorite poets. includes: kinsale drake, linda hogan, trista mateer, whitney hanson, hania rafaqat, nikita gill, tayi tibble, leanne howe.

"nothing hurts more than to feel your heart is in pieces and to be told to 'look on the bright side, it's all for good purpose and reason'."

"i saw a strawberry moon tonight rising, i learned the word in my language for laugh ... we found it together."

"there are lullabies downtown; the desert moans at night, bringing the smell of cold or a bloody nose."

"so, you who live there now, don't forget to love it, thank it. the place that was once our forest, our ponds, our mosses, the swamplands with more birds and lowly creatures."

"how does a wound heal when it's not on the body?"

"you can walk around pretending you aren't necessary but the universe is a poet. and one day, the universe decided it would sit down and write you alive, empty stardust into your veins and make you exist."

"i would rather people speak up imperfectly than not speak up at all."

"i hope that you find a love that doesn't require you to read between the lines."

"i hope that you never doubt again. that when you are even in pain, you are a miracle, that every part of you is incredible."

"may my dreams come true. may my enemies eat shit."

"i'm sorry for what i said, and what i didn't say."

"suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. be still, they say. watch and listen. you are the result of the love of thousands."

"and i remember the year we were the two strongest "girl swimmers" in our syndicate. this meant we were forever forced to race the boys for western feminism and you would always win, even against the boys who were so like men the teachers treated them as if they were more muscle than human."

"minutes before the rain begins i always waken, listening to the world hold it's breath."

"you love me, yes. but not in the way i deserve to be loved."

"you are good, and you are whole, and you are not alone or unwanted or weak or standing at the edge of something you can't come all the way back from."

"we have lost the luxury of tenderness. sharpen your teeth."

"i will not forgive what you have done."

"if i have children, i hope they live quiet lives. no fires for them. no sickness. no breaking news stories. i hope they die of old age, far from the pages of history books.

"just to listen to the tavern banter. just to walk around outside, somewhere with clean air and two moons. just to be someone again with a clear purpose and enough goals to keep moving forward."

[wellconstructedsentences]

. . . our stories are unending connections to past, present, and future. And, even if worse comes to worst and our people forget where we left our stories, the birds will remember and bring them back to us.

The Story of America by Leanne Howe

[gloop-augustus]

1918, Iva Describes Her Deathbed

By LeAnne Howe

No, it wasn’t like that—you didn’t see

He was lying quietly, mouth shut, one hand on his chest,

The other frozen mid-stir

We were be side one another

When they found us

Be side, what a wonderful word

Be side is the scent I carry

Be side the first man I touched

And his touching me.

Be side him when I woke.

Fully awake,

I hear something,

Our baby perhaps or

A kitten crying for a saucer of milk

A kitten crying because she is lost

Because she is forsaken

Because she is left alive.

No, not the cat,

Me

Give me your hand, John Hoggatt

Remember our fishing hole at Byng?

A cold underground stream feeds it,

Gorgeous switch canes at the blue water’s edge

Make sturdy Cherokee baskets

Remember?

Give me your hand, John

Together we’ll catch a mess of perch,

Cut the canes and load the wagon

We’ll have the folks over for supper

Just a half day’s wagon ride away,

Not far.

Give me your hand, dearest

Just last fall we helped build the Byng P.O.

Named in honor of Sir Julian Byng,

A British World War I hero.

Your father had a conniption.

You an Irishman, putting an Englishman forward!

Give me your hand, Johnny boy

I call you home now and I call you home tomorrow,

A thousand times as our bodies flake into stars,

Mad or sane, Get up John Hoggatt!

You can’t stay in this death bed

You—

Walk on Iva, says John, softly.

Walk on my girl,

My girl,

My

[gennsoup]

We can bury our faces In summer laundry Taste the scent of sun In a field of light Breathing as one Stay

Leanne Howe, 1918 Union Valley Road Oklahoma

[snitnation]

We were be side one another When they found us      Be side, what a wonderful word Be side is the scent I carry Be side the first man I touched And his touching me. Be side him when I woke.

1918, Iva Describes Her Deathbed by LeAnne Howe - Poems | poets.org

[literarycatchall]

our bodies flake into stars

“1918, Iva Describes Her Deathbed,“ LeAnne Howe (2020)