[This "remarkable collection," says reviewer Rader, "is the most
inclusive and the most comprehensive anthology of Native American
poetry to date."] [[link removed]]

PORTSIDE CULTURE

AMERICA STARTS HERE  
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Dean Rader
November 9, 2020
Los Angeles Review of Books
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_ This "remarkable collection," says reviewer Rader, "is the most
inclusive and the most comprehensive anthology of Native American
poetry to date." _

,

 

_When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through
A Norton Anthology of Native Nations Poetry_
Edited by Joy Harjo, with LeAnne Howe, Jennifer Elise Foerster, and
Contributing Editors.
W.W. Norton
ISBN: 978-0-393-35680-9

2020 WORKED HARD to be one of the worst years in recent memory, but
for readers of Native American literature, this era is proving to be
among the most exciting in the history of Indigenous writing,
especially for poetry. To wit: Joy Harjo has just begun her second
term as poet laureate of the United States, the first Indigenous poet
to hold that position. _Whereas_, a 2017 debut collection of poems by
Layli Long Soldier, was named a finalist for the National Book Award,
shortlisted for the prestigious Griffin Prize, and won the National
Book Critics Circle Award. A new generation of Indigenous poets like
Tommy Pico, Sherwin Bitsui, Jake Skeets, and Natalie Diaz are actively
changing how the American poetry establishment thinks about Native
poetics. And in October, Cambridge University Press issued the first
volume of a massive history of Native American Literature, which will
serve as a companion to 2014’s _Oxford Handbook of Indigenous
American Literature_. Finally, after being largely ignored for decades
— centuries — it would appear that Indigenous American writing
just might be receiving the popular and critical attention it
deserves.

Nothing underscores this trend more than the improbable but rather
remarkable explosion of Native American poetry anthologies. In the
last three years, three different but equally ambitious compilations
of Indigenous poetry have hit the shelves. The first, _New Poets of
Native Nations_ (Graywolf, 2018), edited by Heid E. Erdrich features
21 poets whose first books were published _after_ 2000, making it a
particularly current and relevant collection. In 2019, _Native Voices:
Indigenous American Poetry, Craft and Conversations_ (Tupelo Press)
appeared, edited by CMarie Fuhrman and me. This book focuses on
Indigenous poetry published since 1960 and includes essays on poetic
craft by most of the poets. Its aim is to highlight the aesthetic
contributions and innovations of Native poetics. And now, just over a
year later, the third — and perhaps the most anticipated —
compilation has made its appearance on what has become a surprisingly
crowded stage: _When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs
Came Through: A Norton Anthology of Native Nations Poetry_, edited by
Joy Harjo with LeAnne Howe and Jennifer Elise Foerster. It is a
remarkable collection and a vital addition to the vast Norton
anthology lineup.

With 161 authors, 400 pages of poetry, over 300 years of coverage
(1678–2019), and more than 90 nations represented, the Harjo/Norton
is the most inclusive and the most comprehensive anthology of Native
American poetry to date. Because so many poets and nations are
included, no poet is given more than three poems, and most get only
one or two. This may surprise some readers, but such an approach
foregrounds historical breadth rather than authorial reputation. In
this sense, _When the Light of the World Was Subdued_ is an unusual
anthology in that it seems to have no interest in individual
canonicity. It prioritizes genealogy over gatekeeping. Or, put another
way, the anthology is less about _poets_ and more about _poems_, which
aligns with much Native aesthetic production. Native poets rarely, if
ever, wax on about individual genius; they ground their poetics in
community, story, tradition, and participation. Harjo, Howe, and
Foerster have done a marvelous job demonstrating how Indigenous poetry
is a not a banner but a quilt.

In addition to scope, the editors make other fascinating editorial
decisions. One is the book’s arrangement. Instead of presenting the
poets chronologically, this collection is organized by region. Each
region features a contributing editor (or editors) who provides an
introduction to the poetry of that section/region. They are: Northeast
and Midwest (Kimberly M. Blaeser); Plains and Mountains (Heid E.
Erdrich); Southwest and West (Deborah A. Miranda); Southeast (Jennifer
Elise Foerster), and Pacific Northwest, Alaska, and Pacific Islands
(Cedar Sigo, Diane L’xeis’ Benson, and Brandy Nālani McDougall).
This editorial cartography serves at least two important purposes:
first, it makes the argument that not all Indigenous poetry (and not
all Indigenous poets) are the same. Second, it reorients readers to
geographical locations where landforms, animals, seasons, bodies of
water, mountains, and botanical life are part of the
landscape/worldview/language of tribal communities. Consider how
different the landscapes (and languages) were (and are) of the Acoma,
Onondaga, and Tlingit. Those distinctions are often reflected in the
poems, not only in content, but sometimes also in form. A third
subtextual effect of this design might also be to remind readers of
the times, means, and nations of contact as well as the horrific
realities of relocation and removal. For example, French contact in
the upper Midwest differs from Spanish conquest in the Southwest,
which differs from the history of the tribes of the Southeast who were
removed to what is now Oklahoma. Allowing the poems of the regions to
have conversations with these events (and each other) accentuates
shared experiences. It makes the subtle argument that Indigenous
America is a nation of many nations. There are macro convergences,
yes, but there are also discrete regional particularities.

For me, “Pacific Northwest, Alaska, and Pacific Islands” is a
particular treasure. I’ve been reading, teaching, and writing about
Indigenous poetry for over 20 years, and in this section, there are a
handful of poets that not only had I never read, but that I had never
even heard of. One example is Lincoln Blassi, whose “Prayer Song
Asking for a Whale” is printed first in St. Lawrence Yup’ik then
translated into English. There is something about seeing the original
language on the page and trying to say or sing it that underscores its
sacredness, especially considering that it is a prayer for the
emergence of a whale — the intentional and unintentional metaphorics
of that feel ominous yet beautiful. Two other standout poets in this
section whose work I did not know include Iñupiaq author Cathy Tagnak
Rexford’s fantastically smart poem “The Ecology of Subsistence”
and Haunani-Kay Trask, whose “Night Is a Sharkskin Drum” is a
masterclass of compressed lyric imagery and intensity. One of my
favorite emerging poets is the Nimíipuu, Nez Perce writer Michael
Wasson, so I was thrilled to see him among these voices. His “A Poem
for the háawtnin’ & héwlekipx [The Holy Ghost of You, the Space &
Thin Air]” is not to be missed.

Those familiar with Native American poetry will find many of their
favorite poets represented in these pages. Each of the section editors
have poems in the anthology, as do Harjo, Howe, and Foerster (but,
again, never more than three). Some readers may not be familiar with
Jennifer Elise Foerster and could be surprised to see her name
alongside icons like Harjo and Howe, but Foerster is an excellent
poet, and I hope this anthology serves as a springboard for her work,
especially as it is placed alongside other luminaries like Paula Gunn
Allen, Luci Tapahonso, Simon Ortiz, Sherman Alexie, N. Scott Momaday,
Zitkála-Šá, Louise Erdrich, Elise Paschen, Jane Johnston
Schoolcraft, Gerald Vizenor, Ray Young Bear, Leslie Marmon Silko,
Linda Hogan, James Thomas Stevens, Janice Gould, and many others.
There is also a generous selection of younger poets — Diaz, Skeets,
Pico, Bitsui, and Long Soldier, of course — whose work is fabulously
rich and deserves wider readership, like dg nanouk okpik, Bojan Louis,
Julian Talamantez Brolaski, Orlando White, Laura Da’, Tanaya Winder,
and Santee Frazier. It is exciting to see their poems enter into
conversation with those of earlier generations of poets from the same
regions.

While work by most of the younger poets tends to skew toward the
formally experimental, all of the poets in these pages share a
commitment to narrative, place, identity, and history. One thread that
runs throughout is deep anger toward the colonial project, though
“anger” feels like an inadequate word. I loved coming across so
many modes of resistance over so many years and across so many
nations. One example that comes to mind is Elizabeth Woody’s
“Translation of Blood Quantum,” a three-part poem that is
impossible to paraphrase and must be experienced. Its takedown of the
insane laws surrounding tribal affiliation and blood quantum is
extensive. Here are the opening lines:

31/32 Warm Springs–Wasco–Yakama–Pit River–Navajo
1/32 Other      Tribal roll number 1553

_THIRTY-SECOND PARTS OF A HUMAN BEING _

Here and in the rest of the poem, Woody explores how the long history
of unfair laws targeting Native communities have not only fragmented
nations and communities but engendered a fragmented sense of
individual identity.

Though it takes a slightly different approach, I also want to call
attention to Tacey M. Atsitty’s “Sonnet for My Wrist,” which
begins:

I tend to mistake your ribs for a hand towel,
it hangs on a nail above the washbowl, the hand towel,
ripped. There’s something wearing about the end curve
of thread. When I sleep I keep my palms open. Verve:
_we were lovers in a field of gray. _In Navajo, we say something
rote: I’ll radical when you hurt me something

Note how differently the two poems make their entrances on the page.
Atsitty’s sense of play is refreshing here. She kicks it old-school
with heroic couplets but has some fun with line breaks and repetition.
I also recommend Esther G. Belin’s wonderfully meta “Assignment
44,” a strikethrough poem in the form of a writing prompt, as well
as the collaborative masterpiece “Dreams of Water Bodies 
Nibii-Wiiyawan Bawaadanan” by Kimberly Blaeser and Margaret Noodin,
a vertical poem in English on one side and Anishinaabemowin on the
other. Space prohibits me from listing more must-reads, but in all
honesty, wherever one opens the book, one will encounter a poem that
feels urgent, timely, necessary.

Harjo, Howe, and Foerster have put together a fantastic anthology when
it comes to reading and teaching, but when it comes to reviewing,
there is virtually nothing scandalous for me to write about, even
though, in the last decade, big poetry anthologies have emerged as
lightning rods of controversy and criticism. In 2000, Cary Nelson’s
_Anthology of Modern American Poetry_ (Oxford University Press), was
brutalized by major critics like Marjorie Perloff for foregrounding
subject matter and identity politics over literary merit. Similarly,
_The Penguin Anthology of Twentieth-Century American_ _Literature
_(2011), edited by Rita Dove, enraged many for its attempt to level
the playing field of modern American poetry by including more work by
poets of color. Harvard’s Helen Vendler leveled a ruthless critique
of Dove’s editorial vision in _The New York Review of Books_,
prompting a defense by Dove in the same pages. More recently, the
always entertaining Michael Robbins penned a gleefully lacerating
takedown of the second edition of _Postmodern American Poetry: A
Norton Anthology _(2013), edited by Paul Hoover, for both his
curatorial choices and his author headnotes. While at it, he also
takes Dove to task for similar reasons, claiming she and Hoover
“deserve each other.” It is worth asking why readers (mostly
critics) get so worked up about the makeup of anthologies, when
inclusion or exclusion no longer necessarily means much in terms of
canonicity, particularly when what we think of as “the margins”
and “the center” are always in flux.

What makes this particular anthology unique (and useful) is its
reluctance to play the hierarchy game or the poetic school game or the
identity game. Harjo’s organizing principle appears to be equal
parts generosity and pedagogy. One thing it teaches is that Indigenous
American poetry is more than the few canonized poems readers _already
_know. In fact, Harjo does not include her most iconic poems, like
“She Had Some Horses” or “The Woman Hanging from the Thirteenth
Floor Window,” in part, I think, to suggest that an anthology like
this — like poetry in general — is more than a collection of
greatest hits. What if we approached an anthology not as a grab bag of
lists but as a map? To me, this book is a cartography of how Native
writers have turned to poetry for centuries as a way of marking,
naming, and preserving external and internal landscapes. Ultimately,
this Norton anthology also teaches us how the history and literature
of America is simultaneously the history and literature of Native
America. You can’t know or claim to be a full citizen of the former
without seriously engaging the latter.

Unlike most anthologies, the main story of this one is how and why
Native poets write, not who is in or who is out. Of course, there are
some excellent poets not included in the Harjo/Norton, but this will
not detract from their reputation or readership. Similarly, there are
some largely unknown and unread poets who will probably not
necessarily grow their readership or book sales simply because they
appear in these pages. But this is part of the anthology’s
greatness: it decenters the individual author and his or her
accomplishments in favor of supporting an entire community. Rather
than an assemblage of solos, _When the Light of the World Was Subdued,
Our Songs Came Through_ is a chorus. And right now, we need as many
powerful voices in union as we can get.

¤

_Dean Rader has written, edited, or co-edited 11 books. His debut
collection of poems, _Works & Days_, won the 2010 T. S. Eliot Poetry
Prize, and _Landscape Portrait Figure Form_ (2014) was named by The
Barnes & Noble Review as a Best Poetry Book._

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