In anticipation of Tupelo Press’s forthcoming anthology project, Native Voices, I’m pleased to continue a series of posts honoring Indigenous poetry from North America.
But first, I’d like to say a few words about this exciting and necessary anthology. Tupelo Press is eager to celebrate a more complete version of the story we tell—about ourselves, our past, and what is possible in language. In this book, the first of its kind, every poet will present new poems, as well as an original essay, and a selection of resonant work chosen from previous generations of Native artists. Our anthology is intended to embody the dynamic and ongoing conversations that take place in Indigenous poetry through writerly craft across generational, geographic, and stylistic divides.
With that in mind, I'm thrilled to introduce one of our poets, Deborah Miranda. An enrolled member of the Ohlone-Costanoan Esselen Nation of California, poet Deborah Miranda was born in Los Angeles to an Esselen/Chumash father and a mother of French ancestry. She grew up in Washington State, earning a BS in teaching moderate special-needs children from Wheelock College in 1983 and an MA and PhD in English from the University of Washington. Miranda’s collections of poetry include Raised by Humans (2015); Indian Cartography: Poems (1999), winner of the Diane Decorah Memorial First Book Award from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas; and The Zen of La Llorona (2005), nominated for a Lambda Literary Award. Miranda also received the 2000 Writer of the Year Award for Poetry from the Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers. Her mixed-genre collection Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir (2013) won a Gold Medal from the Independent Publisher's Association and the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Award, and was shortlisted for the William Saroyan Award. It is a delight to feature her poem, "Acorn." Enjoy!
Acorn
That sound inside you is a sacred sound:
heartbeat of a seed, eager to emerge.
That sound inside you is an urgent sound:
life’s sharp, percussive pulse.
That sound inside you is the future,
rattling a polished brown shell
shaped like a goddess, or a breast.
You are what Jesus meant when he said
the meek shall inherit the Earth. You
are what Hillel had in mind when he said,
this is the whole Torah. You are the secret
that begs to be told, a treasure whispering
find me. You are the fingerprint of the Creator
left behind in soft red clay, hardening in sun.
You are the sleek amulet snug in the palm
of my hand; you are the ripe mother of nations.
From your flesh comes invention of all words
for holiness, sacred, celebration, awe.
Palatsa, little rattle, you hold time in your belly –
round and full and kicking its way into life.
For more information about the anthology, our mission, and how you can help, please visit our Kickstarter page.
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