Burning in This Midnight Dream

Louise B. Halfe – Sky Dancer

• Editore: Brick Books
• Anno: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781771315524
• Argomento: Politics & International Relations
• Categoria: Colonialism & Post-Colonialism

A deeply scouring poetic account of the residential school experience, and a deeply important indictment of colonialism in Canada.

Many of the poems in Louise Halfe's Burning in This Midnight Dream were written in response to the grim tide of emotions, memories, dreams and nightmares that arose in her as the Truth and Reconciliation process unfolded. In heart-wrenching detail, Halfe recalls the damage done to her parents, her family, herself. With fearlessly wrought verse, Halfe describes how the experience of the residential schools continues to haunt those who survive, and how the effects pass like a virus from one generation to the next. She asks us to consider the damage done to children taken from their families, to families mourning their children; damage done to entire communities and to ancient cultures.

Halfe's poetic voice soars in this incredibly moving collection as she digs deep to discover the root of her pain. Her images, created from the natural world, reveal the spiritual strength of her culture.

Originally published in 2016 by Coteau Books, Burning in This Midnight Dream won the Indigenous Peoples' Publishing Award, the Rasmussen, Ramussen & Charowsky Indigenous Peoples' Writing Award, the Saskatchewan Arts Board Poetry Award, the League of Canadian Poets' Raymond Souster Award, and the High Plains Book Award for Indigenous Writers. It was also the 2017 WILLA Literacy Award Finalist in Poetry. This new edition includes a new Afterword by Halfe.

" Burning in this Midnight Dream honours the witness of a singular experience, Halfe's experience, that many others of kin and clan experienced. Halfe descends into personal and cultural darkness with the care of a master story-teller and gives story voice to mourning. By giving voice to shame, confusion, injustice Halfe begins to reclaim a history. It is the start of a larger dialogue than what is contained in the pages." —Raymond Souster Award jury citation

tipiskâwi-pîsim 1 — the dark moon

 

Like the wise women before me

I placed a mirror between my thighs,

examined the blue clematis, the summer storm

still moist from last night’s tumble. On the land

we have a crocus hill where the fall snakes hibernate.

They bask on the warmth of a large rock

before the final autumn slither

into a ground squirrel’s winter hole.

My fingers move the blue flax on the grassland

between my legs,

the flower’s pistil, the lovely scent of musk.

Years ago in boarding school I held a book

in front of my skirt

fumbled with a napkin

afraid my bulge would reveal the trickle

from my medicine site.

 

I was told never to step over men

while I was in my moon.

For a long while I thought I’d kill them, unaware

my bleeding would release a song for their starved souls.

I was told to keep my legs crossed, unaware

that I could use my scissors, engulf their slithering snakes

and receive their tiny deaths. I was never told

rivers that crossed could make a cosmic child.

It would flow,

river upon river upon river.

 

Age has released me from that dark moon

though she still presides in my dreams

commands my soul to learn its lessons.

I am the loosestrife growing in wetlands

a marsh marigold that blooms

in the wake of my coming.

pakosêyimo — hope

 

When memory wakens it becomes a flash flood

and offers no forgiveness,

I’ve struggled tonight with what needs to be pulled

from my gut.

 

It’s 1971, I don’t remember

the night’s celebration, I wish I could speak

as if I were a white teenager and brag about that party

like so many I’ve heard. I had an interview that morning,

showed up with spirits

clinging to my breath and an air that said

I’ve been doing this all my life, joking and being familiar

with the panel of questioners. I was their troubled youth

and they wanted to save whatever grace was left.

 

My sister collected money,

put me on a plane for a taste of Jamaica.

I danced to mule train, witnessed song and laboured

in the making of a brick school on a mountain top.

I played hard, drank that Jamaican rum,

shared my brother’s motto and worked to die young.

 

I was the heroine of small books I read

wore a leather jacket, had the mouth

of a truck driver, but

no other speech.

mâmitonêyimisow — she thinks about herself

 

Have you heard a buffalo snort and paw? A bear grunt?

A goose honking from the lake?

Watched a horse flick its tail and dance?

Or seen an oriole flash orange in the trees?

Felt a hornet’s sting?

She was all of these, that was my mother.

I knew her no other way.

 

I am like many, curious to know the secret lives

of parents. What did they hide in their dens?

Stained and rumpled sheets. Cast away

clothes. Lying with others.

 

Yet for years I hated her

absence.

She was in the cabin but sunk into the walls.

They were prisoners of Indian Affairs.

I saw no escape. Not for them. Not for me.

 

Mother’s life was like the rings in a tree

her skin dark, rough, bruised, exposed

but I never saw it. I pushed, demanded

that the strength that kept her alive

would salvage both of us. In the end I gave her spoonfuls

of gentle love, kindness, respect

even though our landscape was parched.

His Name Was Boy

What to say about my brother

at Blue Quills he bent to tie my skates

his fingers

stiff from the icy wind.

In the din...