Three Poems

By Janet Rogers

Confederation 150

Ah Canada
Standing defiantly behind a line
That doesn’t quite protect or define
As it was wished
And won by war
These spoils are yours
But the landmass remains intact
So what can you claim?
With flimsy parchment that proclaims
Ownership citizenship
A severe superficial-ness
Taking and overtaking
The dismissing and denying
Buried under layers
The ice is petrifying
Offering hard rock shields
Labeled Canadian
A nationalistic resource
Where nothing cultivates
With nothing to trade
Did you think
The steel staples
Would hold it together
Did you remember
To ask permissions
Or make paper consultations
Using the Queen’s English
Ah Canada

Do not slip me the tongue
And call it a French kiss
How do two languages survive 65 or more?
An agenda of insults with your
Ideas of Colonial distinction
Pretty little tricks of lyrics
Written in anthems
Sung from the immigrants’ hearts
Your crests in cloth tells all
As bookended red nations
Stand divided on either side
Of a dying maple leaf
A thinly penciled treaty
And centered-symbol almost stable
Until autumn’s justice sucks the truth from it
And we begin again.

Offerings in song
To join in false chorus
Another choice
To remain forgetful
But your soldiers stay true
And their patriot hearts
Continue to glow with pride
While we the originals
Write our own journals
After disrupted chapters

Leaving my people to
Fight, flee or die
The strength of our identity
Quite independent of yours
Was formed before you were born
And doesn’t include hops and hockey
Who are you, exactly?
Listening to the mother Corp
With terrestrial signals Constantly talking
Mining stories and rewriting ours
Your race-hate-filled comments
Take this country’s temperature and count its votes
There is no home
If there is no native land
Sing about it all you want
The harmonies will always
Be off-key to me
Interesting times indeed
And the Chief reciting
His lament 50 years previous
Said it all from the West
Ah Canada
How many of me
Had to die so you can be you
Reconcile is not something you read about
It’s something you do

See Janet perform this poem over at Arc Poetry Magazine

Klee Wyck Woman

her enormity
sat mouse-like quiet
a paradox of celebrity
and misdirected disdain
she was a woman wanting
to find herself
her true self
inside fascinating landscapes
she was the gaze
respectfully reflecting
not taking away or manipulating
but inventing a style
for a spirit satisfied
Blunden
breathing in
cedar-spiced oxygen
hearing language
lost in time
verses in pigments
poetry in colour
sounds of universal truths

inside Indian church
amplifying the sacred
something not offered
by man or friend
Klee Wyck Woman choosing
a gypsy’s life
staying the course
creating mysteries
cousins and kin
in search of
exquisite silence
the sacred symphony
close so close
making secret agreements
and last chance proposals
drafting pacts and promises
where everyone wins
rejecting glamorous interpretations
conveying from her own soul
her true purpose
it was worth it

a grand sacrifice
not sacrifice at all
but massive investments
for the next time
defending dark canvasses
from a small world
of short-sighted critics
a decisive individual
supported but not dependent
on what others thought
the ground work she laid
resolute decisions made
new territory for
the north american woman
to consider for herself
she held space
instinctively knowing
there’d be more
and more to grow
this sisterhood of
painters and singers

poets and lovers
but the territories she could not save
she preserved for future view
we can see what she saw
in Kispiox
and that now gone
she continues to enchant us all
she the woman
she the artist
she who lost and found herself
by giving ego over
the nature the people
the originals who named her
in their language
laughing one
a respectful giggle
echoes off in the distance
pleased by all the visitors
curious (embarrassed)
by all the fuss
still kicked up

Bank-notable E. Pauline

(in response to poet E. Pauline Johnson making the short list of women considered)

Have you seen her iconic profile
With bear claw necklace
Gifted her by a writer, admirer
Soft features and youthful gaze
Looking sideways
Towards a future unknown

We don’t vote
We have our own
Councils and culture
Our own governance and authority
We still engage through currency
And why shouldn’t we further exchange
In dollar bills decorated with the face
Of this beautiful brown poet

Many may not know it
But she traversed these territories
Nineteen times across a much more rugged country
Still taking shape
The landscapes inspired her pen
Early trains carried her in to
Small cities and more remote places
She took to on foot

All the trouble made
For the love of poetry and stage
But also for a chance to say
What she saw
And what she saw
Was natural magnificence
And man-made injustice

Should Pauline J. be featured on our legal tender?
I’d say so—and it better be a sawbuck or more
For we are all passing through
Processing a current state of reconciliation
Making our way to the other side of it
This paper and currency will survive us
Long after we return to the earth

So who else should be there
Overseeing and perpetuating
The original relationship
Between us and they?
Double Wampum is her name—Tekahionwake
We call it Wistah—shiny silver things
Or Ojistoh—like the white stars
Her chieftain father and English mother
Made this star for us
To claim as our own
A legacy large enough
For poetry, biography
Opera and theatre

We have good reason to celebrate her
And place this lady on bank notes
With every transaction
She’ll be there
To remind us
Remember
Remember how we got here
Remember how we survived
Remember ally ship is of utmost importance
As it was then, as it is now

She will speak to us
Of the original glory
Of the lands
From an unprecedented
And permanent place
A place amongst us all
But especially for young women
Thinking what mark can I make?

They will see
A sister revered
151 years after confederacy
a territory we can all share
Yes Pauline J.
Your gifts and purpose
Still serve us today
Through you we express
A great sense of pride
Extending beyond the binaries of identity
Yet still rooted in this massive land
Of that we cannot deny

Photo by Flickr User Dale Simonson

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