The White Wampum E-Book

E. Pauline Johnson

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

E. Pauline Johnson's 'The White Wampum' is a captivating collection of poems that explore the intersection of Indigenous and settler cultures in Canada. Johnson's literary style seamlessly weaves together traditional Indigenous storytelling with Western poetic forms, creating a unique and powerful narrative that sheds light on the complexities of identity and cultural heritage. The poems in this collection provide readers with a rich tapestry of emotions, from the haunting beauty of nature to the harsh realities of colonization, all expressed with Johnson's signature eloquence and depth of emotion. 'The White Wampum' is not only a literary masterpiece but also a cultural and historical exploration that invites readers to reflect on the legacy of colonialism in Canada and the resilience of Indigenous peoples. Through her poetry, Johnson challenges readers to confront their own biases and preconceptions, making this collection a thought-provoking and enlightening read for anyone interested in Canadian literature or Indigenous perspectives. Ultimately, 'The White Wampum' stands as a testament to Johnson's skill as a poet and her dedication to preserving and celebrating Indigenous culture.

Leseprobe

E. Pauline Johnson

The White Wampum

 

EAN 8596547216018

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

OJISTOH

AS RED MEN DIE

THE PILOT OF THE PLAINS

THE CATTLE THIEF

A CRY FROM AN INDIAN WIFE

DAWENDINE

WOLVERINE

THE VAGABONDS

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

THE CAMPER

AT HUSKING TIME

WORKWORN

EASTER April 1, 1888

ERIE WATERS

THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS

MOONSET

MARSHLANDS

JOE An Etching

SHADOW RIVER Muskoka

RAINFALL

UNDER CANVAS In Muskoka

THE BIRDS’ LULLABY

I

II

III

OVERLOOKED

FASTING

CHRISTMASTIDE

CLOSE BY

THE IDLERS

AT SUNSET

PENSEROSO

RE-VOYAGE

BRIER GOOD FRIDAY

WAVE-WON

THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS

IN THE SHADOWS

NOCTURNE

MY ENGLISH LETTER

OJISTOH

Table of Contents

I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wifeOf him whose name breathes bravery and lifeAnd courage to the tribe that calls him chief.I am Ojistoh, his white star, and heIs land, and lake, and sky—and soul to me.

Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,Him who had flung their warriors into graves,Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steelTo all—save me, Ojistoh, chosen wifeOf my great Mohawk, white star of his life.

Ah! but they hated him, and councilled longWith subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;How to avenge their dead, and strike him whereHis pride was highest, and his fame most fair.Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:They dared no war-path since my Mohawk cameWith ashen bow, and flinten arrow-headTo pierce their craven bodies; but their deadMust be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walkIn day and meet his deadly tomahawk;They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;So—Niyoh![A]—then they thought of me, his wife.

O! evil, evil face of them they sentWith evil Huron speech: “Would I consentTo take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe?Have wampum ermine?” Back I flung the bribeInto their teeth, and said, “While I have lifeKnow this—Ojistoh is the Mohawk’s wife.”

Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.They flung me on their pony’s back, with thongRound ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleaptThe one I hated most: his eye he sweptOver my misery, and sneering said,“Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead.”

And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashedThe horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,On, on we galloped like a northern gale.At last, his distant Huron fires aflameWe saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.

I, bound behind him in the captive’s place,Scarcely could see the outline of his face.I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:“Loose thou my hands,” I said. “This pace let slack.Forget we now that thou and I are foes.I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;I like the courage of thine eye and brow;I like thee better than my Mohawk now.”

He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste.I wound my arms about his tawny waist;My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;One hand caressed his cheek, the other drewThe weapon softly—“I love you, love you,”I whispered, “love you as my life.”And—buried in his back his scalping knife.

Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,Back to my Mohawk and my home, I lashedThat horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.Plunging thro’ creek and river, bush and trail,On, on I galloped like a northern gale.And then my distant Mohawk’s fires aflameI saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,My hands all wet, stained with a life’s red dye,But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high—“My Mohawk’s pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I.”

[A] God, in the Mohawk language.

AS RED MEN DIE

Table of Contents

Captive! Is there a hell to him like this?A taunt more galling than the Huron’s hiss?He—proud and scornful, he—who laughed at law,He—scion of the deadly Iroquois,He—the bloodthirsty, he—the Mohawk chief,He—who despises pain and sneers at grief,Here in the hated Huron’s vicious clutch,That even captive he disdains to touch!

Captive! But never conquered; Mohawk braveStoops not to be to any man a slave;Least, to the puny tribe his soul abhors,The tribe whose wigwams sprinkle Simcoe’s shores.With scowling brow he stands and courage high,Watching with haughty and defiant eyeHis captors, as they council o’er his fate,Or strive his boldness to intimidate.Then fling they unto him the choice;

“Wilt thouWalk o’er the bed of fire that waits thee now—Walk with uncovered feet upon the coalsUntil thou reach the ghostly Land of Souls,And, with thy Mohawk death-song please our ear?Or wilt thou with the women rest thee here?”His eyes flash like an eagle’s, and his handsClench at the insult. Like a god he stands.“Prepare the fire!” he scornfully demands.

He knoweth not that this same jeering bandWill bite the dust—will lick the Mohawk’s hand;Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk’s feet;Will shrink when Mohawk war-drums wildly beat.

His death will be avenged with hideous hateBy Iroquois, swift to annihilateHis vile detested captors, that now flauntTheir war clubs in his face with sneer and taunt,Not thinking, soon that reeking, red, and raw,Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.

The path of coals outstretches, white with heat,A forest fir’s length—ready for his feet.Unflinching as a rock he steps alongThe burning mass, and sings his wild war song;Sings, as he sang when once he used to roamThroughout the forests of his southern home,Where, down the Genesee, the water roars,Where gentle Mohawk purls between its shores,Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell;Songs of the Iroquois invincible.

Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes,Dancing a war dance to defy his foes.His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink,But still he dances to death’s awful brink.The eagle plume that crests his haughty headWill never droop until his heart be dead.Slower and slower yet his footstep swings,Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings,Fiercer and fiercer thro’ the forest boundsHis voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.One savage yell—

Then loyal to his race,He bends to death—but never to disgrace.

THE PILOT OF THE PLAINS

Table of Contents

“False,” they said, “thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn;Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne’er was born;Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,Show the white thine Indian scorn.”