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Articles by Laura Da’
The High Roads - High Country News
The arroyo looks dry but there’s water inside the bright-lipped cholla and yellow cactus, the belly of a fleeing rabbit, and the snake’s bright stripes of pale on black crossing the junction of the Camino Real and the Armijo route where I once cradled a child’s twisted ankle and carried him back along the brush to the parked school bus. That summer the police came to the school and village looking for whomever might have cut the silver leg from the statue of Oñate in Alcalde.
The High Roads - High Country News
The arroyo looks dry but there’s water inside the bright-lipped cholla and yellow cactus, the belly of a fleeing rabbit, and the snake’s bright stripes of pale on black crossing the junction of the Camino Real and the Armijo route where I once cradled a child’s twisted ankle and carried him back along the brush to the parked school bus. That summer the police came to the school and village looking for whomever might have cut the silver leg from the statue of Oñate in Alcalde.
Laura Da’, Author at High Country News
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Your autumn media list from UW authors and artists
This spring, 18,883 degrees were conferred upon graduates of all three UW campuses. We estimate there are just under 600,000 living alumni of the UW. And the UW supports or sustains 100,520 jobs, making it the fifth-largest employer in the state. No wonder we’re always hearing about new books, music, podcasts and film projects from the UW community. Read on for a few recent accomplishments from Huskies in the media. by Emily M.
The Honest Tongue
I use a trick to teach students how to avoid passive voice. Circle the verbs. Imagine inserting “by zombies” after each one. Have the words been claimed by the flesh-hungry undead? If so, passive voice. I wonder if these sixth graders will recollect, on summer vacation, as they stretch their legs on the way home from Yellowstone or Yosemite and the byway’s historical marker beckons them to the site of an Indian village— Where trouble was brewing.
Poem: Nationhood
Anasayfa » English News » Poem: Nationhood This prose poem by Laura Da’ juxtaposes the loss of land and Shawnee culture with the birth of the speaker’s son. It deploys flat and … This prose poem by Laura Da’ juxtaposes the loss of land and Shawnee culture with the birth of the speaker’s son. It deploys flat and journalistic language to describe the violence of colonialism in America.
Poem: Nationhood
https://www.nytimes.com/2022/09/01/magazine/poem-nationhood.html Send any friend a story As a subscriber, you have 10 gift articles to give each month. Anyone can read what you share. Sept. 1, 2022, 5:00 a.m. ET This prose poem by Laura Da’ juxtaposes the loss of land and Shawnee culture with the birth of the speaker’s son. It deploys flat and journalistic language to describe the violence of colonialism in America.
The Meadow Views: Sword and Symbolic History
When skirted by a river’s confluence, a mountain range, or other natural boundary, a meadow is an optimal gathering place; lush cradle with its own established treaty rites of diplomacy and abundance. The word meadow’s English etymology precedes the dissolution of the monasteries and the routine cadastral measurement of land. So it leaves a soft cast in the throat, a taste of Edenic green in its syllables.
Bead Workers by Laura Da’
A poet and a public-school teacher, Laura Da’ studied creative writing at the University of Washington and the Institute of American Indian Arts. She is the author of the collections Instruments of the True Measure (University of Arizona Press, 2018) and Tributaries (University of Arizona...
The Only Place in the U.S. with Zero COVID Deaths
Terisa Siagatonu is a queer, Indigenous, Sāmoan poet. A Kundiman Fellow, she lives on unceded Ohlone Territory temporarily known as the Bay Area. sign up for poem-a-day Receive a new poem in your inbox daily Email Address About This Poem “I wrote this poem from the place where most of my poems originate: in the urgent, tender truth of what U.S. imperialism, militarism, and colonization have done to my country, my people, and the world’s imaginings of who Sāmoans (and Pacific Islanders) are.
Q&A: David Treuer of Pantheon
David Treuer is a writer and teacher who radiates curiosity on and off the page. The author of seven books, he grounds the reader with precise intelligence and generous humanity in both his fiction and nonfiction. His most recent book, The Heartbeat of Wounded Knee: Native America From 1890 to the Present (Riverhead Books, 2019), was shortlisted for the National Book Award and longlisted for the Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence.
The Field of Stories: A Q&A With Joy Harjo
Seattle to Tulsa is a three-day journey by road. From the saturated green coast of fiddlehead ferns and roadside waterfalls to long, arid rings of inland prairie, mountains, and rivers of all description, all must be crossed. As Joy Harjo and I talk from our respective homes, her warmth makes the space diminish; I imagine the road between us beginning in Seattle, where I am, and crossing the Cascade mountains, to the towns of Cle Elum, Deer Lodge, Crow Agency, Cheyenne, Wichita, and Tonkawa.
Distracted from COVID-19, Attention Shifts to MIA Maiden from Land O’Lakes Butter Box by Tiffany Midge - Poems | Academy of American Poets
Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? Do you grieve their loss? Have you thought twice about your braids? With that long, black hair, you looked overtly Indian. If vanity equals vice, then does vice equal braids? Are you warrior-pretend? Are you horseback-never? Was your drum-less, drum-less life disguised by your braids? Hey, Indian boy, why (why!) did you slice off your braids? You have school-age kids, so did head lice invade your braids? Were the scissors impulsive or inevitable?
1918, Iva Describes Her Deathbed by LeAnne Howe - Poems | Academy of American Poets
No, it wasn’t like that—you didn’t see He was lying quietly, mouth shut, one hand on his chest, The other frozen mid-stir We were be side one another When they found us Be side, what a wonderful word Be side is the scent I carry Be side the first man I touched And his touching me. Be side him when I woke. Fully awake, I hear something, Our baby perhaps or A kitten crying for a saucer of milk A kitten crying because she is lost Because she is forsaken Because she is left alive.
Self-Portrait as the Changeling by Halee Kirkwood - Poems | Academy of American Poets
The photograph. On this particular March day in 1961, Theodore Facepaint, who was nine years old, agreed to do a parody. With hand balanced on hip and the left leg slightly in front of the right, my newly found friend positioned himself on Sand Hill before turning to face the hazy afternoon sun. This was a pose we had become familiar with: the caricature of a proud American Indian, looking out toward the vast prairie expanse, with one hand shielding the bronze eyes.
American Towns by Laura Da’ - Poems
Seneca, Missouri—soft wash of casino jangle seeps through the Pontiac’s cracked window. The map flutters on the dashboard, one corner grit-soaked. Sparse Ozark wash of tawny green. A herd of buffalo lowing in the side pasture. Here is the voyage, conjured homeland to conjured homeland. No, not that clawed trajectory of the past, but a fierce conception that quickens and scrapes inside just the same.
Nationhood by Laura Da’ - Poems
Seneca, Missouri—soft wash of casino jangle seeps through the Pontiac’s cracked window. The map flutters on the dashboard, one corner grit-soaked. Sparse Ozark wash of tawny green. A herd of buffalo lowing in the side pasture. Here is the voyage, conjured homeland to conjured homeland. No, not that clawed trajectory of the past, but a fierce conception that quickens and scrapes inside just the same.
Passive Voice by Laura Da’
I use a trick to teach students how to avoid passive voice. Circle the verbs. Imagine inserting “by zombies” after each one. Have the words been claimed by the flesh-hungry undead? If so, passive voice. I wonder if these sixth graders will recollect, on summer vacation, as they stretch their legs on the way home from Yellowstone or Yosemite and the byway’s historical marker beckons them to the site of an Indian village— Where trouble was brewing.
A Mighty Pulverizing Machine
To each orphaned child—so long as you remain close enough to walk to your living kin you will dance, feast, feel community in food. This cannot stand. Eighty acres allotted. To each head of household—so long as you remember your tribal words for village you will recollect that the grasses still grow and the rivers still flow. So long as you teach your children these words they will remember as well. This we cannot allow. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.
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