I'm Mark Wunderlich, the acting director of the University
of Arizona Poetry Center, and I want to thank you
all for coming this evening.
First, I have a few announcements.
The next reading in our series will
be the postmodern poet and fiction writer Gustaf Sobin.
That event will take place on Wednesday, February 7, at 8:00
PM, here in Modern Languages.
Also, for students of creative writing,
I'd like to draw your attention to two contests--
the Annual Academy of American Poets
contest, sponsored by the Poetry Center,
and open to any University of Arizona
student, and the Frederica and John Hurst
prizes for undergraduates.
Both of these contests come with cash prizes.
So I encourage you all to apply, and submission guidelines
are available in the lobby.
Richard and Nora Dauenhauer will be present.
--meaning of videos on Tlingit culture
produced by the Sealaska Heritage Foundation.
And that will take place from 3:00 to 4:45,
on Monday the 29th.
And that's at the Center for Creative Photography,
and you can call the Poetry Center for more information
about that.
I'd also like to ask you to take a few minutes to fill out
the survey that you should have received when you came in.
Surveys like this help us evaluate
the success of our programs.
And you can place the completed surveys
in the boxes in the lobby, or give them to any Poetry Center
staff member.
This event is made possible in part
by a grant from the Arizona Humanities Council,
with additional support from the Department of American Indian
Studies, the College of Social and Behavioral Sciences,
the Department of Comparative Cultural and Literary Studies,
the Department of English, the Southwest Folklore
Center, the Department of Anthropology,
the Department of Linguistics, Sun Tracks, the College
of Humanities, the Department of Women's Studies,
Way Foundation, the Arizona Commission on the Arts,
and the friends of the Poetry Center.
I would like to publicly recognize
Adele Barker, who first conceived the Dauenhauer's
residency in Tucson, and labored to raise the funds for it.
Without her, this event would not be possible.
And I'd also like to thank Christine Krikliwy for her work
on this project as well.
Copies of some of the Dauenhauers' books
are available for sale, compliments
of the ASUA bookstore.
And I'm sure the Dauenhauers would
be happy to sign copies for you, after the reading.
In a region where the preservation of Indigenous
languages and cultures is an issue of great concern
and importance, the work of tonight's readers
offers an example of what two people have
done to preserve an Indigenous language of another region
region.
In this case, the Tlingit language of Southeast Alaska.
Internationally recognized linguists
and cultural anthropologists, Richard and Nora Marks
Dauenhauer have, for the past 25 years,
worked with the transcription, recording, and translation
of the Tlingit Indian oral literature.
Together, they have written seven books on Tlingit culture.
And the tremendous depth and range of the Dauenhauers' work
includes the production of videos documenting
traditional artists, the dramatizations of Tlingit
myths, ceremonial oratory, and works of poetry.
The extensive list of sponsors of this event
illustrates the depth of their work
and the cross-disciplinary nature of it.
The Dauenhauers approach their work
with the Tlingit language not only as linguists,
and in Nora's case as a tribal elder, but as poets.
Richard Dauenhauer is the author of five books of poetry,
the most recent of which is Phenologies, published
by Thorp Springs Press in 1988.
He's a former poet laureate of Alaska,
and a 1991 winner [INAUDIBLE] Award, and has translated
numerous works from the German, Russian, classical Greek,
Swedish, Finnish, and other languages.
Nora Dauenhauer is the author of the volume of poetry,
The Droning Shaman, and a new book of poems,
forthcoming from Sun Tracks in 1997,
and is a winner of the 1991 Before Columbus Foundation's
American Book Award.
Nora Marks Dauenhauer is one of two writers creating works
of poetry and prose in Tlingit.
Tonight's program will consist of two segments.
The first being the recitation and explication of Tlingit
oratory, which Richard and Nora will present jointly,
followed by a reading of their own poetry.
I'm pleased to introduce Richard and Nora Dauenhauer.
[APPLAUSE]
Good evening.
Can you hear me?
I would, first, like to thank all the sponsors, and Adele,
and Mark, for having get us here to read to you.
Me too.
[LAUGHTER]
For the first reading, we would like
to do two oratory from potlatch.
Giving for Jim Marks, I think I would
like to try and do the backgrounding before we start.
Tlingit-- as Tlingits we divide ourselves
into two parts, the Raven and the Eagle.
And within that parts, we are also divided into many parts,
and represented by totemic designs.
Dick is an Eagle, and I'm a Raven.
And it shows on my disk, here, I guess.
And the two groups potlatch each other.
I don't know if you know about potlatch.
They're ceremonies performed approximately a year
after someone dies.
And these two oratory are from such a ceremony.
And in a ceremony--
or in the speeches--
we talk about emblems of our people.
It could be Raven, it could be Frog, it could be Beaver,
it could be Terns which is the important emblem in Jessie's.
And we'll just go ahead and start off by doing this.
I want to say one more thing.
OK.
Just one more thing in the way of background.
If you can kind of imagine yourself, now,
at the situation.
That you're at a potlatch, and the situation
is that the hosts who are the clan of the person who has died
have just sung their lamentations.
There are usually four ritual songs that are sung--
lamentations, or dirges for the departed.
And this is what is called "the last cry."
This is their last official mourning departed.
And after this, the end of grieving
is supposed to come to an end.
Then, in return for this, the guests--
who are seated as if, for example, you
would be the guests--
selected from among their people several orators.
And that's what we'll be reading tonight.
So we're reading, I guess, two of the major orators.
And what the main speaker--
who is a lady named Jessie Dalton-- has done
is, she's brought out all of their tribal regalia
that Nora mentioned.
And some of them, they're wearing, like hats.
Some of them they're holding in their hands.
Some of them they have on them.
And she has them all lined up.
So if you can imagine that there's maybe eight
or 10 people lined up here.
And then the orator is going to begin speaking.
And this is a little bit hard to get all of it,
when you hear it the first time.
But if you can kind of just get that feeling.
And what she does that's so magical to us
is, by beginning with the peace of our present--
whether it's the Frog hat, the Wolf hat, or a Raven blanket--
through simile and metaphor, she brings these alive.
And then she invokes not only the spirits
that they represent, but all of the departed that have ever
worn those or owned them.
And then she's bringing everybody present.
So it's not only those of you who are here present,
but all of the departed are brought there.
And then all of them are coming out.
And the main purpose for this is to remove
the grief of the hosts.
And so you'll see that all the way through.
That one after another after another,
they'll have these images of this particular piece of art
that you see here.
All of these spirits have come to take away your grief.
And that's the whole thing.
So what you would imagine, now, is if we're the host,
then you would be the guests.
And one of your people would be making a speech.
Or if you're the host, then we're the guests
and we're making this.
Then the only other thing is Nora
is going to be doing the speech, and I am [COUGHS] representing
the entire audience.
So you'll hear people from the audience.
It's very much of a back and forth.
Saying things that are the only equivalent in English
is sort of like amen or right on, or something like that.
But you'll hear me saying various things, some of which
are untranslatable.
So if they're untranslatable, you'll
know that because you won't know what it is.
But which is sort of--
[LAUGHTER]
--acknowledging the speaker.
The final cry is done after a year of mourning.
We weep for the deceased.
But there's a taboo against weeping for an indefinite time.
So we have the last cry to end the mourning.
So here is David.
We'll just do Tlingit first.
And then-- I'll do a page of Tlingit,
because some people like to hear it.
Ax sani hás, áwu tsú tléix ax kaani yán Áawé. tóox' áyá tuwanook
yee ée sh danóogu, tóox'. Ax káak áyá x'akkwatee Káak w'Éesh du yéet i yádi. Tsalxaan Guwakaan, Héiy!
Yakwdeiyí Guwakan, Héiy! yee káani áyá x'akkwatee. Áawé. Ax káani Keet Yaanaayí, Áawé. Kaatooshtóow, Áawé.
yee káani x'akkwatee. Gusatáan, Héiy! Yee yádix'akkwatee. Gunalchéesh á.
Ha de yat'éex'i át áyá, ka jiklidzée ka kwlits'ígwaa, yéi yateeyi át ka kwlits'ígwaa. A eetéenáx áyá haa wootee
ax káak hás. Héen áyú gadéich, héen.
And I'll stop there.
My father's brothers.
All my brothers-in-law
Áawé.
We are feeling your pain, feeling it.
I will imitate my mother's brother, son of Káak w'Éesh,
your child. Tsalxaan Guwakaan, Héiy!
Yakwdeiyí Guwakan, Héiy!
I will imitate your brother-in-law.
Áawé.
My brother-in-law, Keet Yaanaayí. Áawé.
Kaatooshtóow, Áawé.
I will imitate your brother-in-law, Gusatáan, Héiy!
Héiy!
I will imitate your child.
Thank you.
Surely, this is a hard thing to do.
And it is difficult to handle a thing like this, and sensitive.
We are in need of my mother's brothers.
The river would swell.
The river, in the river, in the lake,
the rain would fall on the water.
When the river had swollen it would flow under the tree.
The earth would crumble along the bank.
That's when it would think of breaking.
When it had broken, down the river
it would drift, down the river.
It would think of going out into the world.
On this great ocean it would drift.
From there the wind would blow over it.
Your brothers in law are listening to you.
After the wind would blow over it,
it would begin to roll with the waves to a fine sand.
When it rolled on the waves to the sand,
it would drift ashore.
It would be pounded there by the waves.
Here the tide would leave it dry, would leave it dry.
It would lie there in the morning.
Sun would begin to shine on it in the morning.
After the sun had been shining on it,
it would begin to dry out.
My hope is that you become like this from now on.
My brothers-in-law, whoever is one.
Thank you.
You created me, Chookaneidí.
You created me.
This is why I, too, feel you.
Yes, this is the way Xwaayeenák is.
Áawé.
In this world, we're still holding each other's hands.
Neither do we overlook our dead.
Yes, at this moment, when the sun shines on it,
my hope is that it dries out.
The flowing from your faces--
It shall be.
Let it turn to joy for you is my wish.
Thank you, thank you.
You all know your brothers-in-law.
Your father's--
Thank you.
--sisters.
Thank you.
This is the way it is.
Yes, you will stand the way your father's brothers used to do
when such things happened.
Yes, these are the things that might warm your feelings.
The people I'm living in place of now, yes,
used to bring these out for you to see.
This is the way it is.
Thank you, thank you.
My brothers-in-law, those who are my father's brothers, those
who are my father's sisters, we will only imitate.
There is no way they can do anything for you.
You can see them wearing them.
Yes, we will try.
This is the way it is.
This is all.
Thank you.
Thank you, my fathers.
Thank you.
Can I get some water?
OK.
And I don't think I'll do a Tlingit for Jessie.
I really like Jessie, because--
mainly because she's a woman.
And also because she has the important part in the ceremony.
[AUDIO OUT] when I read it.
And she opened my eyes to things that I heard all my life,
prior to studying her speech--
that there's beauty in the speeches
that I've been hearing all the time.
And a beauty that I didn't--
I ignored.
Oh, I don't know.
Maybe I didn't ignore it.
Maybe I just didn't notice.
But I really appreciate Jessie.
She is now in a home and still alive, and--
She's 94, I believe.
Yeah.
But we should also mention that we have this book I saw out
on the table there.
In addition, our huge 900 page biography
collection, which has her story in it,
and the life story of some of the other people
who are reading.
So they kind of go together.
And I should also add, as a testimony,
this is a very important thing in my life,
because that's how I first met Nora.
She was-- said, hey, look I've got this thing here.
Does this look like anything that's interesting?
And, wow, my mouth just kind of dropped.
And all I could compare it to in my own experience
was Elizabethan poetry.
And this to me rings very much like John Donne,
especially with the conceit and the metaphor.
And I was just so impressed with this
that I'd never heard anything like it.
And I think you'll agree with me when you hear it.
Jessie Dalton, Hoonah, 1968.
Does death take pity on us too?
My brother's children?
Áawé.
My fathers?
All my fathers.
It doesn't take pity on us either,
this thing that happens.
That's how it is.
Which is why you hear their voices like this, your fathers,
lest your tears fall without honor--
Thank you.
--that flowed from your faces.
For them, they have all come out at this moment,
your fathers have all come out.
Hó, hó.
They are still present, is how I feel about my grandparents.
Thank you.
Here someone stands wearing one, this Mountain Tribe's Dog.
It is as if it's barking for your pain,
is how I'm thinking about it.
Thank you.
My fathers, my brothers' children, my father's sisters,
yes.
Here someone is standing next to it.
Lyeedayéik's robe.
That is the closer one.
Someone is standing next to it.
Yes.
Thank you.
It's The Beaver Blanket from Chilkat.
A Chilkat robe.
Thank you.
Lutákl, your father--
it was once his blanket, once his Chilkat robe.
Hó, hó.
Thank you.
Because of you he came out.
Yes--
Hó, hó.
--at this moment, all of them seem to me
as if they're revealing their faces.
Your father's sisters, my mother, Saayina.aat----
That's it--
--her robe, the Tern Robe.
That's right--
A person who is feeling like you would be brought by canoe,
yes, to your father's point.
Gaanaxáa.
That is when the name would be called out, it is said,
of the person who is feeling grief.
Yes.
Father! Séi Akdulxéitl
Áawé.
My grandfather's son Koowunagáas.
Áawé.
My brother's daughter's son Keet Yaanaayí
Áawé.
Yes, my father's sister's son Xooxkeina.át.
Áawé.
How very much for your grief your father's sisters
are revealing their faces.
My brother's son
Thank you.
Kaatooshtóow, Kaakwasak'aa, my brother's wife, Aan Káxshawustaan.
Áawé.
Yes how very much it is as if revealing their faces
is how I am thinking about them, your sisters-in-law.
Yes, they are revealing their faces.
That shirt that belonged to Weihá----
it was only recently we completed the rites for him.
The one there.
The Raven Shirt.
Thank you.
You heard him here also, Weihá, the brother of mine.
This Peacemaker of yours--
this shirt of Weihá will remain in his hands,
in his care.
Thank you.
Now it's as if he's coming out for you to see.
Yes.
How proud he too used to be wearing it,
this brother-in-law of yours.
How very much.
The Raven Nest House Robe.
Here is your father sis--
the father's sister of yours standing wearing it.
And on the far side is Yaakaayindul.át,
your father's sister, yes.
We had long since given up hope of their return, these fathers'
sisters of yours, your father.
Hó, hó. Thank you.
Yes, Raven Who Went Down Along the Bull Kelp
Shirt, your father, Kaadéik, it's his shirt, that's the one.
Your brothers' children are listening to you.
That's the one there, I don't feel it burned.
Yes.
It's the same one in which your father's brother is
standing there in front of you.
Thank you, thank you.
That is why, yes, Gusatáan, it will
be just as if I will have named all of you,
those who are my sisters-in-law, yes.
Can I reach the end, my brothers' children?
Yes.
Can I reach the end?
These terns I haven't completely explained, yes, these terns.
Your father's sisters would fly out
over the person who is feeling grief.
Áawé.
Then they would let their down fall like snow
over the person who is feeling grief.
Your brother's children are listening to you.
That's when their down isn't felt.
That's when I feel it's as if your fathers' sisters are
flying back to their nests with your grief.
Thank you.
Yes.
Here someone stands, here, my mother's mother's
brother, his hat.
Yes, to the mouth of Taku he went by boat then for that hat,
to his grandparents, to his grandparents.
Excuse me.
It's dry in Tucson.
From there it's said he acquired the Frog Hat.
Along with it came the shirt from Weihá.
Yes, it also came from Taku.
That is why I keep saying "Thank you"
that they're standing in front of you at this moment.
Thank you.
Yes, during the warm season this father of yours would come out.
That's when I feel it as if your father's hat has come out
for your grief.
Yes, your grandparents hat.
With your grief he will burrow down, with it, with your grief
he will burrow down.
Your brothers' sons are listening to you.
Not that it can heal you my brothers' children,
my father's--
Thank you.
--my fathers' sisters my sisters in law.
And now yes, it is like the saying,
"They are only imitating them lest they grope aimlessly,"--
Thank you.
--the way your grandparents said.
That's why it's as if your fathers are guiding them.
Here is one.
Here's someone stands wearing the hat of Yookis'kookéik,
this grandfather of mine.
Hó, hó.
He too has stood up to face you.
Yes.
Hó, hó.
Koowunagáas--
He has stood up to face--
Thank you , indeed.
--you--
Thank you.
--yes, the Loon Spirit.
Yes.
here, is the one this brother of mine explained a while ago.
How that tree rolled for a while on the waves.
Then when it drifted to shore the sun
would put its rays on it.
Yes.
It would dry its grief to the core.
At this moment the sun is coming out
over you, my grandparents' mask.
That's it.
Thank you.
At this moment my hope is that your grief be
like it's drying to your core.
It shall be.
Thank you.
Géelák'w headdress, yes.
Your father's sisters would reveal their faces from it,
from Géelák'w, yes.
That's the one there now.
Someone is standing there with it, this headdress--
Thank you, indeed.
--my grandfather's headdress.
Thank you
Yeah.
[CLEARS THROAT] And then there was a celebration in 1980.
And at the celebration, were all of our elders
who were concerned about the language, and also
the state of our culture, and our children.
They seem-- our children seem to be drifting away.
And we're over here.
So they decided they'll have a conference.
And one of the elders brought out the--
a group of dancers he was working with at that time,
and explained to them we would have
to mix our genres, our songs, and our art,
I guess, and so here he is, saying--
"People of honor, the lifelines of these grandchildren of mine
who entered here strand off in many directions,
into Kaagwaantaan and time, into L'uknax.ádi, into Chookaneidí,
into Deisheetaan.
Their lives point in many directions.
This is why it may seem as if they've combined these songs
their grandparents left for them.
Yes, when they use them, even from long ago,
we have placed our grandchildren high above ourselves.
Yes, we cherish them, even those things we treasure,
we use to offer up to those who are our grandchildren.
That is why, now, we made these songs their vision.
If they're not right, or if they go against your feelings,
please forgive them.
Yes, they will dance to Shaawát Guwakaan's song,
following this will be Káataan's.
Is that right?"
That's it, then he starts singing.
That explains how we traditionally
feel about our grandchildren, and why we make our art,
and continue to do ceremonies.
We'll have a little switch into the other part of the program,
now.
We like to do that Tlingit oratory first,
because it's the hardest on Nora's voice,
and it's the most intense.
So I'm going to read some of my own poetry for about 15 minutes
or so.
And then Nora will be back, and she'll read some of her poetry.
For a change of mood, here, I'm going
to have a costume change, too.
One of my big heroes is T.S. Eliot.
[LAUGHTER]
So to put you in the right frame of mind--
And I think he was the one that said
that, poor poets plagiarize and great poets steal.
So, we'll-- so maybe you'll be--
think that you're in England.
We have T.S. Eliot and, anyhow, here we go.
We're real happy to be here, as Nora mentioned.
And what I want to do for my part here is,
kind of, give you a little sample of the kinds of work
I do--
my own writing and translation.
And I like to compare poetry readings to weddings,
because you have something old, something new, something
borrowed something blue.
So I'll read some of my old stuff
from a couple of older books-- the frames of reference
in this one called Phenologies.
And then I'll read some newer things.
For borrowed, I'll read some translations.
I'm working on some material from Central Siberian epics.
I'll read you an excerpt of one, and that's the borrowed.
And also for borrowed, I'll read some of my translations
from the Greek anthology.
And that's the way I'll interpret blue tonight
as sort of pornographic.
Because the Greek anthology stuff is at least R-rated.
I left out the X-rated stuff tonight--
I thought there might be some kids here.
And that's because we're coming up
on Valentine's Day, which is one of my happiest feast days
of the year.
So I always like to read a little bit
of 2000-year-old Greek pornography,
to get everybody in the mood.
But anyhow, let's get in the mood.
As I say, it's nice to be here.
We're the snow birds escaping from the kind of weather
I'm going to read to you about.
But I think, now, that it went almost down to freezing
last night.
You can identify with this.
These are some poems I wrote about 25 years ago, when
I was living out in the outskirts of Anchorage,
up on a mountaintop, without any water or electricity,
and stuff like that.
So I'll just read a few of these,
it'll give you an idea of that time and that place.
And these are from approximately December, January,
so it's the same time of the year, 25 years ago.
"Evening, December 1.
Orion climbing over flat top.
Take the old-- [AUDIO OUT] inside so the Jeep will
start by morning star.
It didn't.
Winter now-- using the wood stove to supplement the oil.
December 31, approaching midnight.
Silence.
The sound alone of my down parka being lightly fallen
on by snowflakes.
January.
Silence, and the tapping of chickadees on birch,
the crunch of boots on snow."
This one I call "Conceptions of Snow."
Those of you who are linguists or polyglots
will recognize a few of the words in it.
"Underfoot-- snyek, snyek, skiing
schnee and first-falling snow.
Snowshoe partitive-- lumi, lunta.
Scene in sounds-- dliet.
Neige.
[AUDIO OUT] no?
No, never-- as unsound as conception of the snow."
There was a Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams,
kick which I still am.
It seems to be ongoing.
So I wrote this, called "Nuances of Dawn."
"Morning Star over Soldotna, cow moose still
where bedded down at dusk on the frozen Kenai River.
I think of Williams, Wallace Stevens, and archetypes of dawn
at 25 below.
January 10-- 20 below, two moose on the homestead road,
Orion over McHugh Peak, Telemann Concerto in B-flat Major.
Wood stove at full roar, car battery on the table
by the oil stove.
Thoughts While Bringing in Firewood, January 17.
Cold night, Orion rising over Flattop by quarter moon.
Cold, but colder down below in Anchorage, at minus 35
with no security of wood.
Reports from the Interior-- how people
keep oil drums on the stove, to keep the stove oil warm enough
to flow.
Reports from the Interior-- how wonderful silence
feels at 70 below."
And the last from this sequence that I'll read
is called "Winter Walk."
"Recalling now that moment in Wisconsin on a winter walk,
our path met the line of tiny animal tracks, straddled here
and there by brush marks till they stop--
this must record some wingtips touching snow."
I'll read a couple of poems from "Frames of Reference."
And I steal most of my great ideas from kids.
And so I'll read a couple of poems that we wrote for our--
I wrote for my grandchildren.
This one is called "A Birthday Poem for Amelia,"
and it has an epigraph, which is one of my favorite quotes
in all of world literature.
It's from Gilgamesh, where the question that's raised
is, why do people have to die?
And the gods answer, well, being eternal and immortal
isn't really all that it's cracked up to be.
It's kind of dull in eternity.
And it really it's much more exciting to be a human being,
because you're aware that it's a very ephemeral thing,
and it's going to end.
And so, then, the god tells him, "Cherish
the little one holding your hand,
this is the lot of mankind."
And that's the epigraph.
"Holding hands, we walk the April puddles.
"Look at the mountains flying!"
It takes a two-year-old to see stability
in mist, and other evaporating life.
I take my yarn hat and dry the playground swing
after Juneau rain."
I know we've got some horse people in here.
So I'll read one called "Riding Stable."
This is for Theresa's sixth birthday.
"Giving horsie rides, I join the children stable--
fathers, uncles, relatives, and friends,
the first time in years I've horsed around like this.
I see myself a saddle-bred five-gaited, racking out,
and now a Tennessee Walker, under mountain
ash and clothesline.
I want to strut my stuff, but Dominic wants gallop,
so we canter with a left lead in a blending
of our fantasies of horse shows and the open range
in this class for two-year-olds and up."
So that's a couple from there.
I'd like to read a couple of older ones now.
Very often, I start with this next one
by way of introduction about who I am.
And it's called "A Genealogy of Beer."
And I forgot to tell what time it was when I started.
So give me the high sign if I should be reading faster here.
"The Genealogy of Beer--
A Blend of Beck's and Guinness Stout."
And this is in memory of two of my ancestors, Timothy Donoghue
and his wife.
"The Irish plumbers spot my empty case of Guinness Stout.
Amazed, they ask me where I learned to drink it.
I trace my bloodlines on my mother's side--
the Burkes and Cavanaughs from Galway,
my mother's father's mother's line.
The farthest back we go is Donoghue, from Ireland,
1839 to Merrickville, Ontario.
Timothy Donoghue, from Bandon, County Cork,
who studied to be a priest.
Before he was ordained became an Anglican--
how fortunate for us--
and on the boat to Canada met and fell in love--
Jane Kingston, too-- [AUDIO OUT] County Cork.
So here we are, through lines of Newman.
The borderline is "Grier," my mother's father.
English?
Irish?
Scotch?
It all depends on who you're talking to.
My father's side transparent from the name, Dauenhauer,
Dauben-hewer, stave maker, localized
in German wine-producing areas.
We're back to "hugh," with Dono-ghue and Dauen-hugh.
My name's a barrel of a medieval name emptied
of its former meaning, old names and countries always being
drained--
the working draft of North America,
filled with spirits from around the world."
One of the things that we're concerned with a lot is,
as Nora mentioned, and as Mark did in the introduction,
is Tlingit language and culture.
And several of the people who are in our biography book
went to Chemawa school.
So a few years ago, we had the opportunity
to go to Chemawa cemetery, and sing
a requiem for all of the students who had died there.
And we were looking for the graves of students
from Alaska who had been there.
And I wrote this poem that I'd like to read.
"In my arms, I carry Jon--
age one, part Tlingit--
as we search the grass for grave markers of departed Tlingit
students, relatives, or in-laws.
When we find the 1918 graves of Aleuts whose names survive--
Merculieff, Ermanoff, Rukovishnikoff. I softly sing them memory eternal
in Slavonic.
A sunny day in spring, the last of April.
A muggy afternoon of nettles, bees--
Amtrak clacks the tracks that separate the cemetery
from the old brick school building, now abandoned.
Passing through to Portland, sounds its horn.
Again I have-- [AUDIO OUT] changing arms.
Keeping up the search for Tlingit names
like Zuboff, Dick, and Jackson.
My shoe tip clearing, polishing, the name
plates on graves of those who never made it home."
I'll read one called "Sugar Blues."
This is another Valentine's Day poem.
I wrote this in 1988, but I got the epigraph the other night.
We're very happy to be staying in the poetry cottage, which
is well stocked with books.
And Nora was reading Ferlinghetti,
and Ferlinghetti had this great poem about underwear.
And I'd forgotten all about it-- it's
been years since I'd read Ferlinghetti's underwear poem.
So Nora was reading it to me, and he
has this great line in there.
And it says, "Poetry is the underwear of the soul."
And I thought, that's it.
This is the epigraph that this poem has
been waiting for since 1988.
So I'm going to read it to you, now.
It's called "Sugar Blues--
a Four Feast of Saint Valentine's Day,"
"Beyond the custom lingerie, I feast my eyes--
edible underwear.
Below, erotic photographs examine fine print caution
at the edge of boxes--
may be hazardous to health, this product
is composed of saccharin which causes
cancer in laboratory animals.
So I commit, instead, the deadly sin of pride.
Sweetheart, honey pie, my fetishes
embrace no sugar substitutes."
[LAUGHTER]
A little more on the serious side--
the most recent poems that I've done, I'll read two of.
The center part of this group is called The Turning Point.
And that's the point that I know several people here in the room
tonight have reached when mommy and daddy no longer take
care of you, but you take care of mother and father
in their declining years.
And it's the kind of experience that we all
go through at some pivotal point in our life.
And these are two poems from that.
"Empty house of childhood, memories
echo in the stillness of the night as I return and enter.
No one home, answering the telephone or door.
Your latest stroke has meant intensive care across the city.
Traveling from four time zones away,
I turn the key and hear only the tick-tock of heirloom clocks--
metronomes of other times of life.
I settle into silence and adjust."
And my father's ritual every morning is his fire.
Winter, summer, rain or shine he lights his fire
and I finally, I think, begin to get a feeling for this
is called "Dad's Daily Fire."
Like orange maple leaves and branches, flames and each log
sustaining fall well into winter or as hands and fingers rise,
a ritual salute to morning victory and skirmishes
with death."
I'd like to read a couple of real short poems
from the Greek anthology and then
I'll read this excerpt from the epic to finish with.
This is my borrowed and blue stuff.
The only thing I have in way of lectureship
to the younger generation here is each generation
seems to think it's the first generation to invent sex.
So that it's a very humbling experience
to read Greek poetry from 2000 years ago,
and not only recognize the emotions
but realize that that's where we got a lot of our symbolism,
like Cupid and his arrow and all of this kind of stuff.
So here's Cupid's arrow for you.
This is by a gentleman named Asclepiades, who
was flourishing around 270b.
I can identify with this poem from my college days
so this is for all the guys in the audience here.
"The winter night is longer than the stars and stormy.
Back and forth I pass her door in darkness,
rain soaked wounded by desire for her who
treats me with deceit.
Not love did Aphrodite strike me with but grief.
The red hot arrow sizzles in the rain."
Good stuff, huh?
All right.
OK, this is one for the ladies in the crowd by a guy named
[? Kapitonos ?].
We have no idea when he lived.
It's a very short one but this is for the ladies.
"Beauty without charm just pleases us
but does not hold like bait floating without a hook."
OK, good stuff.
Good stuff here.
Meleagros. This guy lived or flourished--
[AUDIO OUT] and he was the first editor
of the Greek anthology, which is a collection of poems that
took about 1,000 years to put together from about 200 BC
to 900 AD.
So here's Meleagros. Another good one here.
"Timarion, your kiss is glue.
Your eyes are fire.
Look at me, I smolder.
Touch me and I'm stuck."
Another one by Meleagros. "Asclepius, lover of love."
"With clear blue [AUDIO OUT] and voyages of love."
We meditate on that one.
Marcos Argentarius, another writer well-represented
in the anthology, probably around 1st century AD.
"You do all the work, Melissa, of the flower loving bee.
I've learned by heart now how you
let the honey drip from your lips, sweet kiss by kiss.
Then how you sting me when it's time to pay."
One of my favorites is Rufinus and we have no idea when
Rufinus lived.
Some people think he was the Roman period
around the time of Christ.
Others that he was Byzantine around 500 so just no way.
But I translated this one for Nora 20 years ago.
So I used to like the poem.
Rufinus says a lot of poems about getting older.
So I kind of like that to these other guys
they're always chasing the eternal chicks
but Rufinus was in there for the long haul here.
"I see you now, my lady, with your iridescent hair.
Now Raven black, now lighter but still the same brilliance
graces it and still the same god of love
will dwell within it when your hair is gray."
And I'll read one more here.
Paulus Silentarius, he lived or flourished in the 560 AD
and he was an official in the Court of Justinian
in Byzantium, otherwise known as Turkey these days.
So this will get you in the Valentine mood here.
"Let's throw away our clothes, my lovely.
Lie naked, flesh to naked flesh entwined.
Let nothing lie between us.
Your sheerest next to nothing seems a fortress wall.
Let breasts and lips be yoked, the rest be veiled in silence.
Kiss, I hate a wagging tongue."
OK, I'd like to finish up now with this--
a little change of pace now.
This is a very brief excerpt but it reads, I think,
fairly rapidly from the Altaic oral epic called
Ochi-Bala.
And let me just say a couple of things about this.
This comes from Altai, which is in Central Siberia,
and Ochi-Bala means younger daughter.
And the thing that really intrigued me about these epics
when I started getting into them,
this particular one from Altai and one that I've just
finished, which is twice as long as Beowulf called
Alamji Mergen is the role of women.
And we have the stereotype that these guys are real macho.
These are the Turks, the Mongols,
this is Genghis Khan and the boys.
But in the epics, the women play these incredible roles.
And the one I just finished, the hero gets killed off
in chapter 8 and it's his sister that comes to the rescue
and she has to go through all these trials and tribulations
when the bride come bring her back,
restore the brother to life and so on.
And this one that I'm going to read, Ochi-Bala,
the bad guys have usurped the kingdom or the [INAUDIBLE]
and what you get what I'll read now is the very end of this
where she comes home and just cleans up and kills these guys
left and right.
And I imagine her as kind of an Altai Wonder Woman
with the bracelets and the whole nine yards
and she's rapelling down into this cave
where this guy-- and this guy is kind of a slob
and you can see he's been guzzling
all of her wine and her stuff and eating them out
of house and home and now she comes rappelling down
into the cliff or into the cave with her sword
and she's going to just clean up.
Now, the only thing that I can say by way of apology
is all of my translations end up sounding like Beowulf so that
could be good or bad, depending.
But the original is an eight syllable
line, sort of, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom.
And it's sung and it's accompanied by like a lute,
or it's a thing called topshuur in Altai,
and it's also throat singing.
If any of you have ever heard throat singing
and don't ask me to imitate it but they can do two or three
voices at once and [MIMICKING].
And then there's going to [MIMICKING] whistling.
And they can get both of them or three
of them going at the same time within octaves
and it's the most incredible thing you've ever heard.
And so they kind of chant the story
and then they go into this throat singing.
So you'll have to imagine that because none of that
comes through in the translation.
So anyhow, here's the end of Ochi-Bala.
And this is for the ladies in the audience,
and Adele and all of the--
I know we have a lot of feminists here
who've contributed to getting us down here.
So this is for the ladies in the audience tonight.
"Younger daughter, Ochi-Bala,
unlocked the entrance to the subterranean chamber.
She let down a line into the darkness
and lowered to the top of a huge boulder
with a sheer cliff face.
The brownish rock was bright as before shining like the moon.
It was flowing with silver, glowing
with gold and a clear sun beam.
But an icy wind from the undimming cliff
filled the dead quiet corners of the cave and a blood chilling
wave.
Great Khan, most radiant giant, 'Tell me now,
is the Ochi-Bala standing before you or the cold
cliff?
If you can't believe your own eyes then come on down and feel
me for yourself.'
Not stopping to wipe spit from his face,
he looked at her with his bloodshot eyes and knew at once
he had mistaken Ochi-Bala
for the Shining boulder.
Until that moment he had rejoiced.
[? Khantaji ?] had boasted of his strength but now an impotency
tore out his hair tuft by tuft.
Said Ochi-Bala, 'Well now,
does the wine I gathered here taste good enough for you?
Well now, is the arak that I distilled strong enough
for you?
Well now, how does my golden toast of welcome
strike your soul?
You came to my Atlai with war.
You thought you'd try to finish me.
My nation is not meant for misfortune.
My people do not live to perish.
Our herds are not grazing to be eaten by your shabby horde.
Do lords not live under the moon or light
to be clouded, eclipsed by me?
The man is not yet born who can overrun Altai and Lord it
over my people.
I was born to live in freedom.
My father, I call an enormous pouring Sunbeam and one
of the gentle moonlit cliffs I've
called my mother for centuries.
You wanted to disgrace our peaceful girls
and shame our sisters.
Two times you started war, twice you overran our land.
You are too greedy.
You need to be punished.
You wanted someone else's land as carrion to drag
in the dust.'
Hardly had the high thunder of her speech ended,
when the mighty Ochi-Bala cut
[INAUDIBLE] bay in two with her flashing sword.
Broke [INAUDIBLE] in pieces.
Taking up huge boulders, she covered his bones
with a stony mountain so that Khan would never
rise again to his dying day to the end of his years.
Now 70 Khans scurry in a row in [INAUDIBLE] Now 60 Khans
rush in reverence all at once.
Then little sister gathered her people and gave instructions.
'The fountain of our misfortune has now dried up.
[INAUDIBLE] bay exists no more and all
that's left of his court and palace is a smoking mountain.
Drive off the livestock of the Khan.
Graze now where the grass is thick.
Warriors lead the people to their lawful places and low
bows to the Earth.'
The khans bowed down before her who freed her people
and they all made songs to the glorious girl."
Thanks.
Let me see.
What was I going to read?
I'm going to read "Dancing with Machines" or "Salmon Egg
Puller".
Well, my voice can still function.
"Salmon egg puller, $2.15 an hour."
When we used to go to the canneries a few years ago,
when salmon with salmon industry was thriving in Southeast
Alaska, there was a lot of salmon, a lot of egg pullers,
a lot of cannery workers.
We don't do this anymore but we do think about this
and I'm one of those who still think about it
and talk about it.
So here's "Salmon Egg Puller."
What we did was we took the roe from the salmon,
and when they came to the canaries,
they had to remain cold or kept cold so
that they'll remain fresh.
So here it is.
"Salmon egg puller, $2.15 an hour.
You learn to dance with machines,
keep time with the hitter.
Swing your arms, reach inside the salmon cavity
with your left hand.
Where are the heads?
Grab lightly, top of a sac, with fingers.
Pull gently but quick.
Reach in immediately with right hand for the lower egg sac.
Pull this gently.
Slide them into a tube to catch the eggs.
Reach into the next salmon.
Do this four hours in the morning with a 15 minute coffee
break.
Go home for lunch, attend to the kids and feed them.
Work four hours in the afternoon with 15 minute coffee break.
Go home for dinner, attend to kids and feed them.
Go back for two more hours.
Four more hours, reach, pull gently.
When your fingers start swelling,
soak them in Epsom salts.
If you didn't have time, stand under the shower
with your hands up under the spray.
Get to bed early if you can.
Fingers are sore, start dancing immediately.
The pain will go away after I see fish with eggs."
And I'll read something from my new collection.
I'd like to read this poem for my grandfather, Jim
Nagataak'w, who was blind and nearly deaf.
It's also thinking about--
[AUDIO OUT] life that passed.
"I was telling my grandfather about what
was happening on the boat my father
and his brothers were trying to anchor
against the wind and tide.
I could smell him, especially his hair.
It was a warm smell.
I yelled as loud as I could telling him what I saw.
My face was wet from driving rain.
I could see his long eyebrows.
I could look at him and get really close.
We both liked this.
Getting close was his way of seeing."
And my poems are really short.
Very few long lines.
This is one I call "Grand Canyon 2".
As for Joanne Townsend to us here.
A couple of years ago just before we were--
Grand Canyon 2 for Joanne Townsend.
"All my senses are alive, out on the edge from my toes
to my fingertips.
But they play tricks on me.
Become Raven circling over me.
Every hair on my head seems to reach for him,
ready to pull me over from Maricopa Point to Precambrian."
I wrote this one for my friend from one of the villages
and it's just a sample of [? what subsistence ?] food is like.
I guess you've heard of subsistence foods.
It's a very-- getting into politics now
and we don't know if we'll still have subsistence foods.
"Ernestine's house, Hoonah. Six AM.
I woke to smell of smoke of fresh wood
crackling from the stove mingled with the feeling of brown, bear
den clan house radiating family's care.
The taste of smoked deer meat coming out
of container of seal oil.
Caverns of memory."
And now, I would like to read a play that I wrote for--
what is the theater called now?
Naa Kahidi Theater.
Naa Kahidi means clan house
so this is a play I wrote from two Raven stories,
or one Raven story told by Willie Marks who is my father.
Characters are storyteller,
Raven in white, then Black.
Ganook, a petrel.
Props: bottle of soda.
Dog doodoo in a tube, or dog mess real or fake.
Water wheel made from roots, bentwood box container.
Black gauze for the smoke.
Music, Raven's song.
"Du yaa kanagoodie."
"White Raven walking along a beach.
He was looking for water.
There was no water.
There was never any water for people to drink,
but he thought he'd look anyway.
Only after it rained would people get to drink water.
But there was someone who was known to have water.
The one person who had water was Ganook.
Ganook lived out on Deikee Noow, but Deikee Noow was way out there on the ocean.
He was Raven's brother-in-law and the grandfather
of the Alaska Native birds.
Raven paced back and forth on the beach.
Every now and then he looked out at Deikee Noow. 'Raven, how can
I get out there?'
And then an idea.
'Raven, I think I'll go out there
on a trip to see my brother-in-law, Ganook.
Raven flew way out there, nearly dead from dehydration.
Raven landed on Deikee Noow.
He was so weak he almost collided
with his brother-in-law.
He said to Ganook, 'Hey partner, how are you?
I'm just out here on a small vacation.
I asked for administrative leave.
I have a paid vacation but I didn't get any per diem.
Can I stay with you?'
Ganook hardly said a word.
He would do only [MIMICKING] in a while.
In fact, he wouldn't talk to Raven at all.
Raven thought, 'He has an attitude problem.'
No matter what Raven said to him, he didn't answer.
He stayed by his water.
He was preoccupied with his water.
All he did was sit on the lid of this marble
container for his water.
At times he would sit by the container but he never lifted.
Once in a while he would stand by it
to stretch a while, hanging on to the lid just to make sure
the lid of the water was on straight
and that no one bothered it.
Still thirsty, Raven thought, 'How can I get that water?'
He was so thirsty his mouth felt like it
was coated with glue inside.
He imagined Perrier in green bottles, spritzers
in all flavors, Italian sodas, birch beer, root beer
and Tumwater.
And--" where am I?
"He wanted Ganook to get up from his water
and leave the marble container so he could open the lid
and have some.
He thought, 'I must get that water.'
An idea, while Ganook was asleep,
Raven brought in some dog doo-doo
Holding the dog mess gingerly, he smeared the bottom of Ganook
with it.
Raven thought, 'I hate to do this,
but I've just got to have some of that water.'
The doo-doo smelled.
In fact, it was as smelly as smell he ever smelled.
Then he started to shake Ganook by his shoulder
to wake him from his sleep.
Raven turned his head away from the smell of the doo-doo.
Raven kept telling him, 'Hey, hey hey, hey.
Partner, partner, wake up.
Hey, wake up.' Ganook slowly opened his eyes,
looking up at Raven.
Raven continued, 'You did something there.
It's all over your bottom and it smells bad.
Yuck yuck, yuck, yuck.
Hey, partner, you have to go out and clean yourself up.
You got a problem there.
It's gross.
I think you should go outside and wipe it off.'
Ganook was sheepish and embarrassed. Raven, 'Phew yuck.'
Raven gagged at the smell.
This was when Ganook went outside
to wipe the doo-doo off.
Even he could hardly stand it.
He was [AUDIO OUT].
As soon as Ganook went out, Raven,
avoiding the smell of smear on the lid,
grabbed the lid off the water and threw it aside.
He stuck his head in and with all his might
gulped as much water as he could.
He swallowed the first of it.
Just picture Raven so skinny, look, drinking all this water.
He was very skinny.
While he was still gulping the water,
Ganook threw open the door yelling at Raven,
'Are you at it again?
Are you at it again?
Are you-- my precious water.
You never stop, do you?
You doo-doo butt Raven.'
At that, Raven flew out the smoke hole.
Ganook at the same instant yelled,
'Grab him my smoke hole spirit.
Grab him.' The spirit at the smoke hole grabbed Raven.
Although he flapped his wings he couldn't move.
He flapped his wings in one place.
He kept on flapping there at the smoke hole.
Then Ganook built a fire under him.
He used pitch soaked wood because it makes good smoke.
It was tough for Raven, especially when
the smoke was billowing up.
His eyes started to water, his eyes were running
and he wanted to sneeze from the smoke.
He was inhaling smoke and he wanted to cough so bad.
But he thought, 'I've got to keep the water
for my children.'
Over the smoke hole he flapped.
He kept on flapping.
'Oh, that smoke.
Won't he ever stop putting on the sapwood? He just
flapped there.
The white Raven was flapping.
Raven was white.
Before Ganook's fire, he was originally white.
He had the water in his mouth and inside of him.
He held it in his mouth with all his might
while he was flying at the smoke hole.
It was very difficult to hold the water.
His eyes were bulging from the pressure.
It was tough for him but it was for all the people
and for the world.
So that everyone and all the animals
could drink fresh water.
Ganook continued to smoke him.
He piled his wood high.
Only after Raven was so black, a hunk of coal,
Canuck said, 'Spirit over my fire, let Raven go.
Let him go.'
With the last of Raven's strength,
he flew away looking like a little hunk of coal in the air.
By this time he could hardly hold the water in his mouth.
He thought, 'I'll try to hold the water even if some of it
dribbles.'
He dribbled from his beak.
These dribbles from the corners of his beak
made the streams in Southeast Alaska.
This is what became the streams.
An idea, I'll spit them out,' he thought.
Maybe the water he spit out made the first rivers.
The huge rivers coming down from the North, the Yukon, Copper,
Alsek, Chiltak, Taku, Sitkine, and the Nass.
But when he was naming them, who wrote it all down?
Was there someone there with a pencil and pad
to transcribe his story?
Anyway this is how Raven spit out
the rivers by mouthfuls throughout the world.
Then he designed the waterfalls, the falls that
don't have lakes at the head.
Even today you could see the waterfalls
pouring from the mountains.
Raven thought, 'How shall I design the falls?'
An idea, he gathered the mountain ferns called
Shaa Luka Leet'i in Tlingit and he wove them into a wheel.
While he was spinning it like a wheel,
he spit water on it as it turned.
Spit out the water that he still had left in his mouth.
After he spit the water on the wheel,
he rolled the wheel holding the water
over the side of the mountain.
The wheel released the water as it fell.
This is how Raven made the waterfalls on the mountainside.
This water flows in a circle that's why it never runs out.
This is how we got the water in the world.
This is how Raven invented the hydrogen cycle."
I'd like to read one more and then I'll quit.
Last summer, a bunch of Hawaiians came to Juneau
and everybody was expecting them and things
were happening to welcome them.
There were dinners being organized,
and some of the ladies from the ANS and the corporation
got together and organized their pow-wows, or their luaus.
And so I got ready and wrote my poem.
The name of the canoe that they made out
of Southeast Alaska cedar is [TLINGIT], which
means steering by the stars.
So the name of this poem is "Constellation course:
hanging loose."
"Extreme anticipation, you are like medicine to all of us.
All the Tlingits of Southeast Alaska
were as if in a tight pool turning when we heard
the Hawaiians are on their way.
From Ketchikan, we heard of you.
From Wrangell, Petersburg, Angoon,
Hoonah, Haines, all your ports of call
when you are nearing Juneau as news of you grew stronger.
The tide rushed in full bore taking us along
on a current of anxious to see you.
Symptoms of love medicine smitten
helplessly waiting to see you.
Anticipation to the Max.
Aloha."
Thank you.
Thank you
Thank you all for coming.
I hope you'll join us for a reception.