A touching Dicksonian remembrance of the Great Wen diaspore. Gysies, on the other hand, in London and elsewhere (also referenced as unbaptised heathens), are bound up with the idea of freedom expressed, in part, in having no ties to a homeland. That seems to be going beyond the pale, if you know what I mean. Such renegade behavior could be a threat to taxation and the fair collection of farthings in phone booths.
Some years ago, when my daughter finished high school and was preparing to fly across the country to college, and my husband and I decided to go our separate ways, and one of our two brother cats suddenly got sick and died, I read my first book of yours: War Dances. My daughter and I had decided to take a trip to Paris together, as a kind of last hurrah of our mother-daughter bond, a bond which we knew would not be broken, but would quickly morph into some completely unrecognizable ... thing. In the airport, while killing time waiting for our flight, I found War Dances, a book by an author I had never heard of, a book whose strange title triggered memories of my first visit, as a white rich tourist, to an Indian reservation, a visit in which I was hit for the first time with a realization of the enormity of one of the founding crimes of my country. But the book, I discovered, was not so much about being Indian, as it was about being human.
I love the way our grief is so universal that it can remind us of our tribe, whether we are quail, or Spokane in London, or just rich white women saying goodbye to our daughters. I love that the quail speak the grief of dead Indians. It's a kind of solidarity.
Thank you, Sherman. A remarkable poem of grief and love. And I marvel at your numbered sonnet format. I cannot forget:
12. “England,” in our tribal language, now means, “Aren’t we a miracle?” and “Goodbye.”
Lovely, Sherman. Strong lyrical ending, too.
So lovely and sad.
A touching Dicksonian remembrance of the Great Wen diaspore. Gysies, on the other hand, in London and elsewhere (also referenced as unbaptised heathens), are bound up with the idea of freedom expressed, in part, in having no ties to a homeland. That seems to be going beyond the pale, if you know what I mean. Such renegade behavior could be a threat to taxation and the fair collection of farthings in phone booths.
Some years ago, when my daughter finished high school and was preparing to fly across the country to college, and my husband and I decided to go our separate ways, and one of our two brother cats suddenly got sick and died, I read my first book of yours: War Dances. My daughter and I had decided to take a trip to Paris together, as a kind of last hurrah of our mother-daughter bond, a bond which we knew would not be broken, but would quickly morph into some completely unrecognizable ... thing. In the airport, while killing time waiting for our flight, I found War Dances, a book by an author I had never heard of, a book whose strange title triggered memories of my first visit, as a white rich tourist, to an Indian reservation, a visit in which I was hit for the first time with a realization of the enormity of one of the founding crimes of my country. But the book, I discovered, was not so much about being Indian, as it was about being human.
I love the way our grief is so universal that it can remind us of our tribe, whether we are quail, or Spokane in London, or just rich white women saying goodbye to our daughters. I love that the quail speak the grief of dead Indians. It's a kind of solidarity.
Love this one
Oh my. This is heart-achingly lovely. And aching. Thank you. Feels like a pile of quarters, and not sure if it's dwindling or growing. Both maybe.