#tekahionwake

You are belted with gold, little brother of mine, Yellow gold, like the sun That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine When feasting is done.

You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine, Tissue winged, like the mist That broods where the marshes melt into a line Of vapour sun-kissed.

You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine, Flower sweets, like the touch Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine, Of lips that love much.

You are better than I, little brother of mine, Than I, human-souled, For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine, For others, your gold.

E. Pauline Johnson / Tekahionwake, Ojistoh

Breaking Bad (2008–2013) 5x09: Blood Money

The Truman Show (1998) dir. Peter Weir

Caleb Carr

Garth Ennis, Preacher (#55)

Lily Chatterjee (attrib.)

The Social Network (2010) dir. David Fincher

Tricia Sullivan, Sweet Dreams

THE FLIGHT OF CROWS

The autumn afternoon is dying o'er The quiet western valley where I lie Beneath the maples on the river shore, Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by To seek their evening haven in the breast And calm embrace of silence, while they sing Te Deums to the night, invoking rest For busy chirping voice and tired wing-- And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing. In forest arms the night will soonest creep, Where sombre pines a lullaby intone, Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep, And all is still at last, save where alone A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown. Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day, Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away With rivers where their sweeping waters wend Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in canyons bold to end. O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead, Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown? In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led Their aerial career unseen, unknown, 'Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone? The flapping of their pinions in the air Dies in the hush of distance, while they light Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare, That stand with giant strength and peerless height, To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night. Strange black and princely pirates of the skies, Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know! Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise To unrestricted life where ebb and flow Of Nature's pulse would constitute a wider life below! Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms, A kingly life without a sovereign's care! Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms, And all is cradled in repose, save where Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air. 

Rest in peace, E. Pauline Johnson.  The daughter of Mohawk chief Onwanonsyshon (George Henry Martin Johnson) and the Englishwoman Emily Susanna Howells, Pauline (Tekahionwake) started performing in amateur theatre in the 1880s, and began writing and publishing poetry around the same time.  Her “The Song My Paddle Sings” (Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!/The reckless waves you must plunge into./Reel, reel./On your trembling keel,/But never a fear my craft will feel.) is still consistently anthologized (and no wonder--how well this stamp enthusiast relates!), and while her funeral in 1913 was the largest Vancouver had seen, her popularity declined in the decades following her death (possibly due to her mixed blood), but has since seen a steady rise as interest in First Nations literature has grown.  She died on this date in 1913 at the age of 51.

What of the days when we two dreamed together? Days marvellously fair, As lightsome as a skyward floating feather Sailing on summer air— Summer, summer, that came drifting through Fate's hand to me, to you.

What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonder If you too wish this sky Could be the blue we sailed so softly under, In that sun-kissed July; Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon, With hearts in touch and tune.

Have you no longing to re-live the dreaming, Adrift in my canoe? To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleaming Cleaving the waters through? To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, until Your restless pulse grows still?

Do you not long to listen to the purling Of foam athwart the keel? To hear the nearing rapids softly swirling Among their stones, to feel The boat's unsteady tremor as it braves The wild and snarling waves?

What need of question, what of your replying? Oh! well I know that you Would toss the world away to be but lying Again in my canoe, In listless indolence entranced and lost, Wave-rocked, and passion tossed.

Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steering Across love's shoreless seas; All reckless, I had ne'er a thought of fearing Such dreary days as these, When through the self-same rapids we dash by, My lone canoe and I.

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim, And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould, Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon, In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering, Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight, Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil, Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep, Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest, Wrapped in your nest, Strapped in your nest, Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest; Its hands are your nest; Its bands are your nest; It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak; You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke; But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,— Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep, Winging to sleep, Singing to sleep, Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep, Shielding their sleep, Unyielding to sleep, The heron is homing, the plover is still, The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill, Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,— Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.