We are honoured to share this new poem by Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate, Louise Bernice Halfe written with love and respect for the children found in Kamloops and the families they left behind. We offer it both in its original English, and in this y-dialect translation prepared by Solomon Ratt with her blessing. Sol has provided audio; image provided by Louise Halfe.
| Angels: 215 >, 1820 – 1979
“The Past is Always Our Present” |
okîsikowak 215 >, 1820 – 1979
“kayâs kâ-kî-ispayik kapê kiyâpic nitispayihikonân anohc!” |
| © Louise B. Halfe-Sky Dancer | Translation by Solomon Ratt (y-dialect) |
| A cradle board hangs from a tree A beaded moss bag is folded in a small chest A child’s moccasin is tucked Into a skunk Pipe bag Children’s shoes in a ghost dance. A mother clutches these Palms held against her face A river runs between her fingers. |
tihkinâkan akotêw mîtosihk kâ-mîkisihkâtêk wâspison napwêkinikâtêw mistikowatihk awâsis omaskisinis tâpihtin sikâko-ospwâkaniwatihk awâsis-askisina ê-astêki wâsakâmêsimowinihk. okâwîmâw sîhtâpîhkênam ôhi owâyicihcêwa ohci omihkwâkanihk ê-sâminahk sîpiy sâpociwan yîkicihcânihk. |
| A small boy covered in soot On all fours a naked toddler Plays in the water, while her Kokom’s skirt Is wet to her calves. |
nâpêsis ê-akwanahokot pihko ê-pimitâcimot oskawâsis mêtawêw nipîhk, êskwa ohkoma okîskasâkay ê-sâpopêyik isko otasiskitânihk. |
| “How tall are you now?” she asked. “I’m bigger than the blueberry shrub, Oh, as tall as an Aspen Where my birth was buried. See my belly-button?” |
“tâniyikohk kitisikinwâskosin êkwa?” kakwêcihkêmow. “nawac nimisikitin êyikohk iyiniminâhtik, ôh, êyikohk mîtos ita nitaspiskwêsimon kâ-kî-nahinikâtêk. kiwâpahtên cî nitisiy?” |
| Each have dragged a rabbit to the tent, a tipi Watched expert hands Skin, butcher, make berry soup for dinner. Boy falls a robin with a slingshot He is shown how to skewer the breast Roast the bird on hot coals. He will not kill Without purpose, again. |
pâh-pêyak otâpâtêwak wâposwa pakwânikamikohk isi, mîkiwahpihk isi, ê-kanawâpamikocik kâ-nahtâ-itôtahkik, pahkonêwak, maniswêwak, mînis mîcimâpôs osîhtâwak ta-otâkwani-mîcisocik. nâpêsis nîhtatahwêw pihpihcêwa pasastêpicikan ohci kiskinwahamawâw ta-isi-cîpatâskwahahk mâskikan ta-nawacît piyêsîsa kaskaskisîhkânihk môya kîhtwâm konita ohci ta-nipahtâkêw |
| The tipi, tent, the log-shack are empty Trees crane their heads through The tipi flaps, the tent door Through the cracks of the mud-shack. |
mîkiwahp, pakwânikamik, mistik wâskahikanis pisisikwastêwa mîtosak nawakiskwêwak sâpo astipahkwânihk, pakwânikamik iskwâtêmihk sâpo mistikohk wâskahikanisihk. |
| A mother’s long wail from 1890 Carried in the wind. A grandparent Pokes embers, a sprinkle of tobacco, Cedar, sweetgrass, fungus, sage Swirls upward. |
okâwîmâw kinwêsk omawimowin 1890 akîwin kâ-kî-ispayik ohci pêhtâkwan yôtinihk. omosômimâw, (ohkomimâw), cah-cahkaham kaskaskisiwa, siswamêw cistêmâwa, napakisihta, wîhkaskwa, posâkana, paskwâwîhkaskwa ispayinwa ispimihk. |
| Children’s creeks Trickle in their sleep. A blanket of deep earth Covered fingers entwined Arms around each other. |
awâsisak osîpîsisiwâwa pimâpotêyiw onipâwiniwâhk akohp timêhk askîhk kâ-akwanahokâtêki yîkicihcâna apihkâtênamwak mispitona ohci ê-âkwaskitinitocik |
| We have been Waiting. |
ê-kî-pêhoyâhk ôma ê-pêhoyâhk |
| It is time to release This storm That consumes all this nation. Awasis, this spirit-light, these angels Dance in the flame. |
êkwâni ôma ta-pakitinamahk ôma wâninâkwan kâ-kitamwâhk kahkiyaw tahtoskânêsiwa. awâsis, ôki ahcahko-wâsisiwak, ôki okîsikowak nîmihitok iskotêhk. |
| The bones Will share their stories. |
oskana ka-âcimostâkonawak otâcimowiniwâwa. |
| Listen. Act. These children are ours. Could be……………………..Yours. |
natohtamok, itôtamok! niyânân ôki nitawâsimisinânak. êtikwê…kiyawâw. |
2 Responses
Deep , deep , in the heart of my Spirit is where your Angel writings will be buried .
This is the place where Tears can keep my moss abode alive … in the hope that Mother Earths Angel children will travel to this abode and they will see here that I care about them … I will listen .
Thank you for the Cree language. Thank you for translating it in Cree. The more I hear Cree, the more I learn to pronounce the words even though I speak Cree, broken Cree, thanks to the white world and residential school era.