Mi’kmaq Work Poetry
A poem by Shirley Christmas
Basket Stories
Seated in a make-shift shelter, the old woman
worked as she had done so in the past.
Lingering in the air is the unmistakable
smell of sweetgrass.
Skilled are the hands as she adds the final
touches to her basket.
Unknown to her are the replicas that we see
today made of plastic.
Basketweaving, telling stories. This, she
knows so well.
Her work is art, an original where each
design is a classic.
From where had they come? Only her songs
and stories could tell.
With precision and skill, her work remains
flawless of mistakes,
as she sings softly while weaving a
basket into place.
From time to time, she’d look at it from
side to side,
Then continue her song that had followed
her remarkable stride.
Weaving baskets is what she knows, this
I know from stories told.
This poem originally appeared in Sons of Membertou: Poetry, Stories & Legends, by Shirley Christmas. Published in 1993 by Capers Aweigh Small Press.
ⓒ 1993 Shirley Ann Christmas
The poetry of Lindsay Marshall
Alexander standing in tall grass on Chapel Island
Nothing will be wasted this day.
The C@P Society of Cape Breton.
Every summer since his youth he would make his way across by boat. A red apparition in blue water.
Carrying his lunch in one hand, a scythe with the other, he would walk like a man with a mission.
His purpose: to cut the tall grass for the many who would arrive at their Mecca. A resting figure standing alone on the lonely island, leaning his elbow resting on the scythe and his hand on his chin. The scent of newly cut hay everywhere, the light breeze carrying it away. A bead of sweat running down his face past the turquoise blue eyes, the Indian nose, through the white stubble and finally falling, quickly evaporating into the air before it hits the ground. The once proud tall grass fell easily from his steady measured swings of the scythe. The slain grass will be resurrected again to serve as bedding for their wi’kuoml. Bunches and bundles to serve as fire starters for their tea and foursense. Nothing will be wasted this day.
For Alexander (Santi) Marshall
This poem originally appeared in Clay Pots and Bones – Pka’wo’qq aq Waqntal, by Lindsay Marshall, published in 1997 by Solus Publishing.
ⓒ 1997 Lindsay Marshall
My Four Mi'kmaq Medicine Mothers
Come look, I have a picture,
A picture with 375 years of knowledge,
power, beauty and healing.
These are my four Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son.
This one see, she has a doctor of words
for a daughter.
Ah see this one, a nurse the first
in white, a healer.
The third, a keeper of old knowledge,
her daughter a teacher.
My last Mi’kmaq Medicine Mother,
master craftswoman and a doctor.
These are my Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son.
They are my four directions,
my four parts of my being,
spiritual, physical, emotional
and environmental.
All bases covered,
all my healing done by my
Four Mi’kmaq Medicine
Mothers and I, their son,
healed ready for the
next part of my journey.
This poem by Lindsay Marshall originally appeared in The Mi’kmaq Anthology, published in 1997 by Pottersfield Press, edited by Rita Joe and Lesley Choyce.
ⓒ 1997 Lindsay Marshall
Andrew's Axe Handles
For fifty years he shaped sticks of ash to eel spears, strips of wood for basket making and axe handles. Andrew’s hands were his only proof of his work. Each hand had its own calloused look, scars and shape. Uncle’s right thumb was thick from holding the Mi’kmaq crooked knife. His left hand worked hard in keeping the wood still while sitting on the te’sipew. Etched on the handle that was worn smooth with continuous use were his initials A.B. Everyday, finishing old tasks or starting new ones. The carving stopped long enough to sell his handmade wares. Early mornings the sun would rise to meet him. His mud coloured eyes squinting back against the morning glare. In the evening the sun would pass him on the way home with his pack full and heavy.
For Andrew Battiste
This poem by Lindsay Marshall originally appeared in The Mi’kmaq Anthology, published in 1997 by Pottersfield Press, edited by Rita Joe and Lesley Choyce.
ⓒ 1997 Lindsay Marshall
The poetry of Rita Joe
17 When I was small
When I was small
I used to help my father
Make axe handles.
Coming home from the wood with a bundle
Of maskwi, snawey, aqmoq,
My father would chip away,
Carving with a crooked knife,
Until a well-made handle appeared,
Ready to be sand-papered
By my brother.
When it was finished
We started another,
Sometimes working through the night
With me holding a lighted shaving
To light their way
When our kerosene lamp ran dry.
Then in the morning
My mother would be happy
That there would be food today
When my father sold our work.
This poem originally appeared in Poems of Rita Joe, by Rita Joe, published in 1978 by Abanaki Press. It was republished in We are the Dreamers: recent and early poetry, by Rita Joe, published in 1999 by Breton Books.
ⓒ 1978, 1999 Rita Joe
23 We make baskets of ash and maple
We make baskets of ash and maple
Good wood.
Intricate designs, carefully woven,
nothing crude,
Perfection binding.
Women of peace,
We weave each day.
This poem originally appeared in Poems of Rita Joe, by Rita Joe, published in 1978 by Abanaki Press. It was republished in We are the Dreamers: recent and early poetry, by Rita Joe, published in 1999 by Breton Books.
ⓒ 1978, 1999 Rita Joe
25 They made their dishes of bark
They made their dishes of bark, sew with fir roots so well
they held water.
They gathered dry fuel which did not smoke in the wigwam.
Their kettles made of wood always had soup to feed
family and stranger.
They hunted fur-bearing animals, dressed skins,
made clothing and moccasins, corded snowshoes, put
up and took down wigwams.
These and many other things kept the L’nu working
This poem originally appeared in Poems of Rita Joe, by Rita Joe, published in 1978 by Abanaki Press. It was republished in We are the Dreamers: recent and early poetry, by Rita Joe, published in 1999 by Breton Books.
ⓒ 1978, 1999 Rita Joe
The Art of Making Quillboxes
In July, August, September and October
When it is the warmest part of summer
Maskwi’ is ripe for stripping
To make quillboxes.
We look for the tree
The trunk is the size of the bucket
The bark is good, we carve and cut
It peels away, coming to me
Now we look for quills
We see a porcupine
And throw a cloth on his back
Jumping behind, he aims the arrow
As if to say, “Leave me alone”
He waddles away
Now we have maskwi and kowi
To make quillboxes
The art of my people standing the ages
The skill like no other.
maskwi – birchbark
kowi – quills
This poem originally appeared in L'nu and Indians we're called, by Rita Joe, published in 1991 by Ragweed Press.
ⓒ 1991 Rita Joe
The Indian Blacksmith
Andrew Battiste of Eskasoni
Under the shade of leafy shelter
The Micmac swings the hammer
His brow shines with sweat
From the hot embers of his forge
The twang of the heavy beat, the sound of steel
The dying craft
Eel spears, drawknives, crooked knives
And lape’so’qn
The aboriginal cutter of basket strips
Throughout the years he worked
Singing songs to Niskam
Telling of traditions he knew
Now he is gone, his questions unanswered
“Why don’t they understand my culture?
That I must cling to.”
He shared his talent but others cannot see.
lape’so’qn – cutter of strips
Niskam - God
This poem originally appeared in L'nu and Indians we're called, by Rita Joe, published in 1991 by Ragweed Press.
ⓒ 1991 Rita Joe
Axe Handles For Sale
In Barney’s River he knew they stood
The white ash for axe handles
He made splendid.
The load of logs he brought home
Soon to be quartered and hewed on workhorse-bench.
Then carving carefully with a crooked knife
The simulated handles appeared in magic
Solidly held in his hand with might.
A few hours sleep
Then fiery spirit of ambition
Sandpapering the handles to smooth finish.
In dozens and dozens ready to be sold
The morning sunshine reflected his joy
The Indian and his trade multiplied his satisfaction.
This poem originally appeared in Song of Eskasoni, more poems of Rita Joe, by Rita Joe, published in 1988 by Ragweed Press.
ⓒ 1988 Rita Joe
Basketmaker
The art forms in mind
The production originates.
Imagination plays the tune
Where creation settles.
If the bloom is to succeed
The flowery must be in wonder.
For the viewer eyes the end formation
Of the task in mind
The basketmaker promises.
This poem originally appeared in Song of Eskasoni, more poems of Rita Joe, by Rita Joe, published in 1988 by Ragweed Press.
ⓒ 1988 Rita Joe
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© C@P Society of Cape Breton County, 2009
