BEGIN:VCALENDAR VERSION:2.0 PRODID:-//InvisionCommunity Events 5.0.18//EN METHOD:PUBLISH CALSCALE:GREGORIAN REFRESH-INTERVAL:PT15M X-PUBLISHED-TTL:PT15M X-WR-CALNAME:RMCommunityCalendar NAME:RMCommunityCalendar BEGIN:VTIMEZONE TZID:Europe/London TZURL:https://tzurl.org/zoneinfo/Europe/London X-LIC-LOCATION:Europe/London BEGIN:DAYLIGHT TZOFFSETFROM:+0000 TZOFFSETTO:+0100 TZNAME:BST DTSTART:20260329T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=3;BYDAY=-1SU END:DAYLIGHT BEGIN:STANDARD TZOFFSETFROM:+0100 TZOFFSETTO:+0000 TZNAME:GMT DTSTART:20261025T020000Z RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;BYMONTH=10;BYDAY=-1SU END:STANDARD END:VTIMEZONE BEGIN:VEVENT SUMMARY:Indigenous Poetry Examples DTSTAMP:20261011T200457Z SEQUENCE:0 UID:902-7-c3fe8195a3dde498d013e477e2142422@aalbc.com ORGANIZER;CN="richardmurray":noreply@aalbc.com DESCRIPTION:URLhttps://www.deviantart.com/hddeviant/journal/Indigenous-P oetry-Examples-1386886648IMAGEUntitled (Blue and Gold) by Dyani White Hawk CONTENTThis is for the Indigenous Epigraph Poetry Challenge inAll the poem s come from the followinghttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/1445 60/native-american-poetry-and-cultureA last note before presenting these p oems. They are merely selections. \, I used an alphabetical structure\, A to Z \, first come first serve.Grief Calls Us to the Things of This WorldB y Sherman Alexie of Spokane/Coeur d’AleneThe morning air is all awash wi th angels—Richard Wilbur\, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This Worl d”The eyes open to a blue telephoneIn the bathroom of this five-star hot el.I wonder whom I should call? A plumber\,Proctologist\, urologist\, or p riest?Who is blessed among us and most deservesThe first call? I choose my father becauseHe’s astounded by bathroom telephones.I dial home. My mot her answers. “Hey\, Ma\,”I say\, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps\ ,And then I remember that my fatherHas been dead for nearly a year. “Shi t\, Mom\,”I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—How did I forget?” “It’s okay\,” she says.“I made him a cup of instant cof feeThis morning and left it on the table—Like I have for\, what\, twenty -seven years—And I didn’t realize my mistakeUntil this afternoon.” M y mother laughsAt the angels who wait for us to pauseDuring the most ordin ary of daysAnd sing our praise to forgetfulnessBefore they slap our souls with their cold wings.Those angels burden and unbalance us.Those fucking a ngels ride us piggyback.Those angels\, forever falling\, snare usAnd haul us\, prey and praying\, into dust.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem s/52923/grief-calls-us-to-the-things-of-this-worldBlues-ing on the Brown V ibeBy Esther Belin of Diné (Navajo)I.And Coyote struts down East 14thfeel ing goodlooking goodfeeling the brownmelting into the brown that loitersra pping with the brown in front of the Native American Health Centertalking that talkof relocation from tribal nationof recent immigration to the plac e some call the United Stateshome to many dislocated funky brownironic imm igrationmore accurate tribal nation to tribal nationand Coyote sprinkles c orn pollen in the four directionsto thank the tribal peopleindigenous to w hat some call the state of Californiathe city of Oaklandfor allowing use o f their land.II.And Coyote travels by Greyhound from Albuquerque\, New Mex ico\, USA thruDinétahto Oakland\, California\, USAlaughingInterstate 40 i s cluttered with RVs from as far away as Mainetraveling and travelingto pe rpetuate the mythCoyote kicks back for most of the rideamused by the const ant herd of touristsamazed by the mythic Indian they createat a pit stop i n WinslowCoyote trades a worn beaded cigarette lighter for roasted cornfro m a middle-aged Navajo woman squattingin front of a storeand Coyote squats alongside the womantalking that talkof bordertown bluesof reservation dis criminationblues-ing on the brown vibea bilagáana snaps a photothe Navajo woman standsholding out her handrequesting some of her soul backinsteadsh e replaces her soul with a worn picture of George Washington on a dollar b illand Coyote starts on another ear of cornclimbing onto the Greyhoundthe womanstill squattingwaitingtired of learning not to wantwaits there for th e return of all her pieces.III.And Coyote wandersright into a Ponca sittin g at the Fruitvale Bart stationnext to the Ponca is a SeminoleCoyote strut s up to the two“Where ya’all from?”the Ponca replies“Oooklahooma ”pausethe Seminole silent watches a rush of people climb in and out of t he trainheaded for Fremontthe Seminole stretches his arms up and back stif f from the wooden benchespausehe pushes his lips out toward the Ponca slow ly gesturing that he too is from OklahomaCoyote wanders“where ’bouts ?”the Ponca replies“Ponnca City”pausethe Seminole replies“Semino ole”Coyote gestures to the Ponca“You Ponca?”the Ponca nods his head in affirmationCoyote nods his head in contentto the SeminoleCoyote asks“ You Seminole?”pausethe Seminole now watching some kids eating frozen fru it barsnods his headand Coyote shares his smokes with the twoand ten minut es laterthey travel together on the Richmond trainheaded for Wednesday nig ht dinner at the Intertribal Friendship House.IV.And Coyote blues-ing on t he urban brown funk vibewandersin and out of existencetasting the brownrus ty at timesworn bitter from relocation.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org /poems/53453/blues-ing-on-the-brown-vibePrayer to Fix the AffectionsBy Gla dys Cardiff of Eastern Band of CherokeeO Ancient One\,your web hangs down from the pines.I am of the Owl clan.I have been to water\,my dress is of r ed clay.He moves at the edge of you\,binds us with your threads.The center of his soul shall be my soul’s center.Our paths shall be white forever. Where we move the paths from every directionshall recognize each other.We are one never to be parted.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53171 /prayer-to-fix-the-affectionsA Mighty Pulverizing MachineBy Laura Da’ of Shawnee (Eastern Shawnee Tribe of Oklahoma)To each orphaned child—so lo ng as you remain close enough to walk toyour living kin you will dance\, f east\, feel community in food. This cannotstand. Eighty acres allotted.To each head of household—so long as you remember your tribal wordsfor vill age you will recollect that the grasses still grow and the rivers stillflo w. So long as you teach your children these words they will rememberas wel l. This we cannot allow. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.To each elde r unable to till or hunt—so long as your old and injurious habitssing ou t over the drum or flicker near the fire you cripple our reward. Weseek to hasten your end. Eighty acres allotted.To each widowed wife—so long as you can make your mark\, your landmay be leased. A blessing on your mark w hen you sign it and walk closerto your favored white sister. Eighty acres allotted.To each full blood—so long as you have an open hand\, we shall fill it witha broken ploughshare. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.To each half blood\, each quarter strain—so long as you yearn for the broke nploughshare\, you will be provided a spade honed to razor in its place.Wh en every acre of your allotment has been leased or sold\, you will turn it on yourself. From that date begins our real and permanent progress.URLhttp s://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147037/a-mighty-pulverizing-machineAnon ymous Is Coyote GirlBy Anita Endrezze of YaquiFrom a newspaper photo and a rticle about my godfather\, James Moreno\, East Los Angeles\, 1950.(Three police officers took a brutal beating in a wild free-for-all with afamily\ , including three young girls.From left\, James\, 19\, and Alex\, 22\, in jail after the fracason the porch of their home at 3307 Hunter.)Jimmy is s taring off the page\, hands in his pockets.A four-button dark shirt. No br uises\,but he looks dazed.Alex wears a leather coat and a polka-dot shirt\ ,which is in itself a crime.Nowhere is there a photo of a young girlwith a face carved like a racetrack saint\,eyes with all bets called off\,grinni ng like a coyote.(Officer Parks had his glasses brokenwith his own sapand was thrown through a window.)Jimmy and Alex are my dad’s cousins\,lived on Boyle Heights and tortillas.Mama says the cops always harassed them\, t hose niñosfrom East L.A.\, driving their low-riders\,chrome shinier than a cop’s badge.And why wasn’t Coyote Girl mentioned\, that round-armedg irl with a punch like a bag of bees\,a girl with old eyes\, her lips crack ing openas she saw the cop sailing through glass\, boiling outof Boyle Hei ghts\, skidding on the sidewalk\, flat as a tortilla?(The officers receive d severe cuts and bruises\,were treated at a hospital and released in time to jail the youths\,who were charged with assault with a deadly weapon.)T wo years later\, I was born and Jimmy entered the church\,hands in his poc kets\, shoulders hunched\, watching the christening.Four drops of water\, like popped-off wafer-thin buttons\,fell on my head.No.He never showed up that dayor any other. My spiritual guardian must’ve been therein spirit only.He didn’t know nada about Got and no one knowswhere he is today\, b ut I think you could find him at the endof a knife. Or in the slash of the zin ¡La Raza! the dark bloodreds of graffiti. Or tomatoesgrown in old co ffee cansby a white-haired mansitting in the sun in a dark shirt\,next to an old woman growing younger every dayas I tell her story\, my story\,our storywith all the grace and powerof a deadly weapon.URLhttps://www.poetryf oundation.org/poems/53430/anonymous-is-coyote-girl… BeeBy Eric Gansworth of Onondaga Nation (Onondaga Nation)I stood in a longhousewith a woman wh o may or may notbe Mohawk. Some shift their opinionsabout her like meteoro logists\, as ifher blood were a storm system trackedin its comings and goi ngs. But the fatherof her two sons was\, without question\, Seneca.We knew that\, in Haudenosaunee country\, a fatheris to some degree irrelevant\, that her ownshifting identity would impact her sons’ liveslike a gene vu lnerable to betrayal\, causingcertain\, terminal conditions. She waitedon an elder she called Steam (warning I was notto call the elder woman by tha t name). Steam(not Steam) would observe the boys\, understandtheir natures \, give them their Creator names definingtheir lives during the next cerem ony. I confessedmy namelessness\, confessed my longhouse- and fluency-defi cient community\, and confessed that my clanmother\, three hours away\, di d not know me wellenough to give me a name\, confessed my community follow eda more casual ceremony. You find your name after a social misstep\,a dub ious facial feature\, a birth defect. Names offerthe name-givers comfort\, that your challenge is harderthan theirs\, no matter the truth.Our names are a convoluted toughening of our skins. My nameis not like Steam (no one is forbidden to use it). No onecalls me Batman because of my status\, my utilitybelt\, my impressive batpole\, my agility\, my muscles\,my profile in spandex\, my virtues\, but because I worethe cape to an older age than I should have\, and couldcontinue to wear it now\, as that shit is not goi ng awayany time soon. Even kids who only know Christian Baleor Michael Kea ton\, lurking in latex and leather hood\,still think Batman is my name.And this is why I have no memory for when or how you becamethe Bumblebee\, wh at it means\, beyond the literal.You soar in gardens\, spend days ensuring growth\,and if metaphors are at work here\, this one seems trueenough to keep you in amber wings\, fuzzy yellow rings\,black lacquer torso\, and se nsitive antennae.What metaphor suits the night I left on the Amtrakfor Chi cago\, past 1:00 a.m.\, while you stoodon the platform\, watching those ca rs pull out\,the night I wanted to leap from the train\, stay?I cannot inv ent new names for the ways we slow\,struggle\, attempt to maintain the ill usion of futureswithout measure\, defy actuary numbers and because I haveg one closer to the light than you have\, the story iseasier to craft and fi nesse than it should be.Pollination trails are smaller than those I’m fo rcedto fly in\, and lying in Little Rock\, Santa Fe\, Manhattan\,Minneapol is\, Seattle\, hotel rooms\, the ellipse of your nametrail winds me home\, waiting\, dusted in pollen and history.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.or g/poetrymagazine/poems/146712/-beeFieldworkBy Joan Naviyuk Kane of Inupiaq Another day of heat-strangers continue to wobbleacross the horizon\, bring ing droughtwhen instead we should have deluge.I steep snow-lichen in water Idrew from a lakewhich has since gone dry.At sea few understood me\,as th ough I induced a sicknessthat deafened\, then healed.As before\, I predict lies\,to be pushed from the boattime and time again.Nevertheless\, I expe ctto get by while their widowers·seek refuge with their providentfamilies \; perhaps a storm will pile fishat their doors when the red tide rises\,p erhaps they will not follow as we move\,moon into moon\, under another sky .URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/158604/fieldworkHow SoonBy Gord on Henry Jr. of White Earth ChippewaThe story goes from in a rainfallto si ster walking a fieldbrowned autumn. And when she arriveswinter has come\, so the old manrises from his chair\, picks upmatches\, pipes and tools\, a ndwalks out to begin again.The sculptures grow by the day\,birds in ice\, recognizableeagles\, a bear who beganas a man in a moment of dance.He does this in ice\, allwinter carving at dawn\,carving at dusk.And sister after walking a fieldbrowned autumn\, arrives\, watchesfrom the east window\, w aits\,goes out to him in spring\,taps him on the shoulderand points to the poolsof water he's standing over.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem s/147311/how-soonMarshlandsBy Emily Pauline Johnson of MohawkA thin wet sk y\, that yellows at the rim\,And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s bri m.The pools low lying\, dank with moss and mould\,Glint through their mild ews like large cups of gold.Among the wild rice in the still lagoon\,In mo notone the lizard shrills his tune.The wild goose\, homing\, seeks a shelt ering\,Where rushes grow\, and oozing lichens cling.Late cranes with heavy wing\, and lazy flight\,Sail up the silence with the nearing night.And li ke a spirit\, swathed in some soft veil\,Steals twilight and its shadows o ’er the swale.Hushed lie the sedges\, and the vapours creep\,Thick\, gre y and humid\, while the marshes sleep.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/ poems/52095/marshlandsGhost DanceBy Sara Littlecrow-Russell of Anishinaabe g (Ojibwe) and Han-Naxi MétisTwo hundred seventyGhost Dancers died dreami ngThat humanity would drownIn a flood of White sins.Then the renewed earth Would reclaim city and town\,Leaving only Ghost DancersAnd those who lived by nature’s laws.History books say the threat is gone.The Ghost Dance d ied with the ancestors—Wovoka and his sacred dreamWere destroyed.Each ti me it rains\,I go out to the sidewalk\,Where the tree rootsHave broken the concreteListening to the water’s whispering:“It is coming soon.”URL https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53461/ghost-danceLove Poem to a But ch WomanBy Deborah A. Miranda of Ohlone-Costanoan EsselenThis is how it is with me:so strong\, I want to draw the eggfrom your womb and nourish it i n my own.I want to mother your child made onlyof us\, of me\, you: no borr owed seedfrom any man. I want to re-fashionthe matrix of creation\, make a human beingfrom the human love that passes betweenour bodies. Sweetheart\ , this is how it is:when you emerge from the bedroomin a clean cotton shir t\, sleeves pushed backover forearms\, scented with colognefrom an amber b ottle—I want to openmy heart\, the brightest aching slitof my soul\, rec eive your pearl.I watch your hands\, wait for the signthat means you’ll touch me\,open me\, fill me\; wait for that momentwhen your desire leaps i nside me.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53926/love-poem-to-a-bu tch-womanThe Dice ChangerBy Duane Niatum of S’KlallamRaven steals your n ame for an autumn joke:buries it along with you under the broadest hemlock known to squirrel or chipmunk.He croaks it’s too bad you were awake for the event.He accuses you of boring himwith the same old questions over and over.You attempt revolt to prove his rattleis cracked and as brittle as h is song.Raven clacks his beak like a trap and hollersyour face is a mask s plitting down the middleand madness has found a home.All stink and fur dun g\, the black masterquips you had a chance to fleebut forgot where and wha t direction.Now he blurts your pain must jump in the river\,the river thra sh like the wind\,the mountain awaken you to the currents of the sea.Raven hops away and chuckles as the dark chatters\,flips you over to your earth shadow.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53165/the-dice-changerGr andmothers LandBy William Oandasan of Yukiaround the house stood anorchard of plum\, apple and peara blackwalnut tree\, one white pine\,groves of wh ite oak and willow clumpsthe home of Jessie was largely redwoodblood\, fle sh and bone sproutedinside her womb of redwoodfor five generationsthe tree s now stand unpruned and wildafter relocating so many years before the War the seeds of Jessie have returnedafternoon sunlight on the fieldbreezes mo ving grass and leavesmemories with family names waitwithin the earth\, the mountains\,the valley\, the field\, the treesURLhttps://www.poetryfoundat ion.org/poems/53257/grandmothers-landLear’s WifeBy Elise Paschen of Osag e... if thou shouldst not be glad\,I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb\,Sepulch’ring an adult’ress.— William Shakespeare\, King Lear He faked my death\,set up this ranchfar from my threedaughters. Suburbanhe llhole. With braceleton ankle\, house-arrest. At noonthe bully sunshoulder s a ripemoon. In the darksoaps reign. The anchorswill often flashtheir gli tteratiweddings. Not onedaughter has birthedan heir. In vitro —be damn ed. I hosethe lawn and countthe cars like fishslipping their shinychrome a long asphalt.Which sparrow missed?Cordelia —my gutted heart.URLhttps:/ /www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90674/lears-wifeBuckeye as You AreBy Wendy Rose of Hopi and MiwokSeptember 11\, 2001They walk past yo uweepingfor the leaves that burnt&\; fell\, the wood exposedlike bone\, sculpturethat suddenly emergesfrom white haze.You old fortune-teller\,you could have told themin their vibrant griefwhispering through the night wi ndyour breath held in your heartlike the trembling promise of tomorrow\,ju st before dawnthere was no painyou are the woodnot the leaf\,falling is no tfalling butoffering.URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53427/bucke ye-as-you-areNow I'm a WomanBy Cedar Sigo of SuquamishWhen you hear the kn ives ringTurn the page.I wonder why I am notMyself of late\, ridiculous gl ass edgesTurn back on themselvesAnd soon revealThe hand of an apprenticeAn d godforsaken embarrassing torch\,Stormy back hallwaysOut of the black and wooden theatres.Crystal Waters plus her driverPlus her entourage is still rolling outOf the Sands\, Atlantic CityOn the soundtracks to showsHeld ov er at The FairmountShe is throwing back shotsWith the mafia. I have learne dTo take apart this American SongbookAnd very fortunately as I would takeM y audience in confidenceThreads of gold fall closely togetherComing to bre ak us off.At the first of the showsI sang this songAnd in between I saw hi m in the hall\,What could I tell you?“Someday we’ll build on a hilltop high.”URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54490/now-im-a-womanBat tlefieldBy Mark Turcotte of Ojibwe (Turtle Mountain Chippewa)Back when I u sed to be IndianI am standing outside thepool hall with my sister.She stra wberry blonde. Stale sweatand beer through theopen door. A warrior leans o n his stick\,fingers blue with chalk.Another bends to shoot.His braids bru sh the greenfelt\, swinging to the beatof the jukebox. We move away.Hank W illiams falls againin the backseat of a Cadillac.I look back.A wind off th e distant hills lifts my shirt\,brings the scentof wounded horses.URLhttps ://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/40865/battlefieldAnd I wonder where you areBy Tanaya Winder of Duckwater ShoshoneSacred stars blanket a nighttime sky\,each light reminds us of the preciousness of life.Your memory lives a long the Milky Way\,each twinkle saying don’t forget my name.It’s an e pidemic\, a sickness of the earth\,a war we enter as soon as we are birthe d.Indigenous women\, girls\, our two-spirit\, too.When did this world star t disappearing you?URLhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem s/155482/and-i-wonder-where-you-are\n DTSTART;VALUE=DATE:20261011 RRULE:FREQ=YEARLY;INTERVAL=1 END:VEVENT END:VCALENDAR