Cree Naming Poems
from Howard A. Norman's The Wishing Bone Cycle: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians
Quiet Until the Thaw
Rains Straight Down
Her name tells of how
it was with her.
The truth is she did not speak
in winter.
Everyone learned not to ask her
questions in winter
once this was known about her.
The first winter this happened
we looked in her mouth to see
if something was frozen. Her tongue
maybe, or something else in there.
But after the thaw she spoke again
and told us it was fine for her that way.
So each spring we looked forward to
that.
For a long time we thought this boy
loved only things that fell
straight down. He didn’t seem to care
about anything else.
We were afraid he could only HEAR
things that fell straight down!
We watched him stand outside
in rain. Later it was said
he put a tiny pond of rainwater
in his wife’s ear
while she slept, and leaned over
to listen to it.
I remember he was happiest talking
about all the kinds of rain.
The kind that comes off herons’ wings
when they fly up from the lake. I know
he wanted some of the heron rain
for his wife’s ear too!
He walked out in spring to watch
the young girls rub wild onion under
their eyes
until the tears came out.
He knew a name for that rain too.
Sad onion rain.
That rain fell straight down
too, off their faces
and he saw it.
Cree Naming Poems
by Marisa Gallin
Sings Along
Wind Rider
Her name tells of her
oldest habit.
At age three,
she sat one foot
from the television
and sang along
with Sesame Street.
At age seven,
she stood on a stone ledge
in her backyard
and belted out
the national anthem
to a cassette recording
of Whitney Houston.
In high school,
she was happiest when singing
and often hummed
while chewing
if enjoying her meal.
In college,
her roommate asked her to stop
singing along
with every song on the radio,
every jingle
in television commercials.
She was never able to stop,
but she tried.
I have never seen her
so unhappy.
Yet unbeknownst to her,
while singing in her bedroom,
her younger sister sat
in her own bedroom,
staring into a mirror,
lip synching to the voice
from next door.
Her name tells of how it was with her.
When winds came,
she shut her eyes
and let her hair blow in every direction.
She wouldn’t speak.
We were afraid the wind had stolen
her voice.
We watched her words float
away with the wind, out
the car window, over
tree tops, lost
to the horizon.
The wind made her eyes tear,
but she didn’t care at all.
She didn’t even wipe the tears away.
She first fell in love with the wind
to race past the present,
to drown out her thoughts,
to evaporate her tears.
But in time, she forgot why
she loved the wind.
One winter, we asked her why.
When she opened her mouth,
nothing came out
but blue streaks of air.
Afraid to lose the wind,
she followed it,
riding on billowy clouds,
gliding alongside the doves.