Your scarlet face appears before me,
wrinkled with wisdom, scarred with strife,
gazing upon my kelly green soul
with unrelenting sorrow.
Your solitary tear falls upon it,
leaving an indelible stain
that paints your magnificent tale,
planting roots of shame.
For I gaze upon this blood red blotch
and see the forgotten past.
Hunger, war, sadness, and loss,
the stories still untold.
Tradition and pride, harmony in nature,
tales from many moons ago.
A dusty legacy upon my shelf,
untouched and gathering dust.
With an unflinching frown
you brush aside my shamrocks and harps,
my tri-colored flags,
and with an unknown toungue
but crystal clear tones
you scorn me for my crime,
my blissful ignorance attacked.
Is there no room, no space in my heart,
to honor the legend within?
Or is it dishonor, perhaps my guilt,
or lazy, uncaring ways,
that mute my own Mohawk self?
I beg you for answers
and hope for the truth
but even here, in our moment alone,
my ears still fail to listen.
Forced into darkness, left in the corner,
only now your pain thunders through.
Drawing out visions and driving new sounds,
in this frozen solitude of night,
your presence brings forth the past
and my pulse echoes your drum.
Still, my words do nothing
to assuage your shame
and my promises give false, empty hope.
The broken promise is a gift you know well.
When given by white men in bargains for land
it stung and it burned at all you held dear.
But now, the anguish runs deeper,
as they are given by me,
one of your own,
who has forgotten.
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Author notes
My ancestors are almost 100% Irish... the one exception being my great-grandfather who was Mohawk Indian. While I embrace my Irish ancestry on a routine basis I often let the Mohawk legacy go ignored. This poem comes from that sense I feel when, on a quiet night, I am reminded of that one ancestor who never set foot on Irish soil. I am eager to see what people think as I struggled with this one quite a bit, trying to get a nice flow to it and trying to give it some real emotion. Still not sure if it works as it is but after a long time editing and reading I think it is time for a test flight. Not fully sold on the title, either. Wow... that was a bit long for a note, eh?
So... what do you think?
Comments
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But you haven't forgotten...
All those words before that statement of your neglect tell us the opposite. You haven't forgotten, you've listed the reasons for your ancestor's pain and your shame at being of another culture that may have taken part in the decimation of the Indian culture. I get the impression that you have shed tears over this and you mentioned the title so I would suggest simply "Tears" - yours and his. Indians have been my heroes since I was old enough to know anything about them so I identify strongly with this. Lad has a moving poem on the site about the Ghost Dance, if you haven't seen it. The rhythm and flow of the piece is fine, a good write. Cheers MJ -
This hits the mark ... sorry for the pun
Family history is so fascinating and clearly, none is more so than yours.
Why celebrate one side and bury the other? I think the theme is more universal than some might think - in my own family the english side dominated and the eastern europeans, until very recently, were ignored in just the same way. And shame lies at the heart of it - an accurate observation, Mark, and resonant. Your poem brings these thoughts and memories back to me, vividly. I like it very much.
To improve it even more, I'd like to see you trim your language, make it more concise. Of course you may not wish to explore the following, which I include not as a suggestion but as an example of how you might increase its weight and hitting power:
Take your first stanza:
Your scarlet face appears before me,
wrinkled with wisdom, scarred with strife,
gazing upon my kelly green soul
with unrelenting sorrow.
just could lose a few syllables and tighten up the images:
Your scarlet face appears before me,
wrinkled, scarred, (and) wise,
gazing upon my kelly green soul
with sorrow.
Why would you need more? The material is so very strong- you can trust it to carry you.
Then you construct a metaphor:
One tear falls on it,
leaving a stain
that paints your tale,
planting roots of shame.
A tear does not plant - but it could "drench" or otherwise water... or kill as it's salt... you get my drift, you could come up with a million metaphors that put us BAM - where you want us to be.
I'm not even sure "indelible" is needed but maybe... I wouldn't presume to dictate your choices.
I think you could take a scalpel to this piece - drop the "drop" in the title, get rid of the excess everywhere. You have a fine piece of marble here - Carrerra. Michangelo would be using the sharpest possible chisel, every stroke would count. Are you going to settle for working like Bandinelli? He was no slouch, the calibre of his work was good, yet there's a but isn't there?
Best
RA
language: 3, rhythm: 4, subject: 4, tone: 3, form: 3.
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Many thanks...
Thank you for the very helpful and encouraging suggestions. The time you took on this detailed and thorough review is greatly appreciated! -
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Sometimes I think I'm really horrid to you
...yet please know I woudn't bother with critiquing your stuff so closely if i didn't see something in it that's far beyond the general run of things.. forgive me? RA -
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I see nothing that I need to forgive you for and I have never felt you were horrid to me. You make valuable suggestions that improve my writing and there is nothing horrid about supportive honesty. Don't sweat it! =)
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Ok, best wishes.
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Mark, I think this is wonderful: literally, full-of-wonder. I'm a sucker for AmerIndian-tinged poetry, and yours here reaches deeply inside me.
In my reading of it, I sense the poet's guilt and shame, his neglect of what is still part of this country's and the poet's blood, but we've all managed to forget it all for our convenience.
We refuse to admit that there are thousands of people living among us who are not like us - who still keep what we're so rapidly throwing away, in your words: "Tradition and pride, harmony in nature, / tales from many moons ago..." - very nicely and gently said, with a deep touch of regret.
It does my heart good to see another poem on the site that tries to reach back and try to recover our rich past, before the Europeans (including the Irish!) came here and pushed, pushed, pushed. The poem makes me think of Longfellow's lines:
"Of all the words of tongue or pen,
the saddest are these: what might have been."
You might want to check into Sherman Alexie's novels and short stories, all of them in any good bookstore. He's an Indian who writes about contemporary Indian life, with swaths of history, in a brilliant and very readable way. He's also the screenplay writer of a fantastic movie of about 7 or 8 years ago: "Smoke Signals", easily available for rental.
Lad -
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I'll do that...
As always, thank you so much for you comments, Lad. They are consistently meaningful, helpful, and highly appreciated. I will also look into those works by Sherman Alexie. They sound interesting and I look forward to taking a closer look. Thanks again for taking the time on such an in depth review.
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VERY WELL DONE I always delve into social matters from time to time...as the white wife of a Black man kinda have to, lol! I guess the one thing I noticeed was that Indians faces are not scarlet....I would think burnt umber or rust or clay red........thats all. great poem well done!
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Thanks...
Thanks for the thoughtful and encouraging reply. I agree that the face is not really "scarlet" but couldn't come up with another color that sounded just right to me. I took some leeway and thought scarlet might be close enough but I will certainly keep working on it and trying new things. I appreciate the time and effort you took in reading it and reviewing it. Thanks...
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