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Archive Issue |
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Tribal Fires Journal |
Then One Day... My Grandmother, she wove baskets out of pine needles. When I was young, I watched her weave. Her dark brown hands held the needles in small bunches and she thread the needles into place and baskets were formed on summer days. Then one day, she put her baskets away and aged. My Grandmother would gathered medicine in the woods and along the lake shore. We would walk in the mornings into the forest and she would point to plants and tell me what they were and when to pick them. She shown me how to find our way through the forest by bending branches and identifying unique trees, sometimes she tied colored strips of cloth onto the branches. Then one day, she put her walking stick away and aged. My Grandmother, she fished the lake for food with a net. She would show me how to mend her nets under the hot summer sun with fish fly’s buzzing around our heads. The wooden mending needle dove into the netting line and her hands were quick. It took most of the morning to clean the fish and I would carry the buckets of water to her when she needed to rinse the fish and table she worked on. The water pail wire handles burned into my five year old hands. Then one day, she put her nets away and aged. She passed on. Time passes on, I think of her and her life and I am aging. Then one day, he took the cassette audio tape collection that I had kept in a old bent metal filing cabinet. He said he is going to go through my tapes. I said no, but he doesn’t care and rummages through the audio tapes. I am irate at his disturbance of my tape collection, but he pulls them out liberally and then spills them on the floor. He wants to know what’s on the audio tapes that are not labeled and I say, “I don’t know and don’t listen to them”. My command unheard as he sets up the tape recorder and starts to listens to the old tapes, that I had put away years ago. The room is filled with my Grandmother's voice, she speaks about life. I close my eyes and She speaks about stories and people. My heart breaking for her, my tears I can not hide. On the audio, her clock ticks in the background. The passing of time, the passing of her and the clock continues to tick as she speaks fluent Ojibwe. The clock continued to measure her time. I had put away my tapes and aged. Then one day, he came and brought her back and I am alive. *** Written by Cherylin Z. Martin-Wade |
E’kitmap Kuntew* (I read the Stone) I read the stone speaking my tongue As Keji Park in Nova Scotia. Nkluswaqnml* (my words) I needed the truth to bear witness The picture writing produced. The shadow felt good when reading. The realization was fact, produced by women. I lay close to the ground to read better To study the pictures The messages put there long ago, by my kin Na’ e’kitmap kuntew My tool as always, a song of love. *** Written by Rita Joe
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Archives Tribal Fires Journal Volume 1 Issue 1 Volume 1 Issue 2 Volume 1 Issue 3 Volume 1 Issue 4
Tribal Fires Journal Tribal Fires Journal Volume 3 Issue 2- Missing Volume 3 Issue 3- Missing Volume 3 Issue 4- Missing Tribal Fires Journal Volume 4 Issue 2 Volume 4 Issue 3 - Missing Volume 4 Issue 4 Tribal Fires Journal Volume 5 Issue 3 Volume 5 Issue 4 Tribal Fires Journal Tribal Fires Journal |
Tribal Fires Journal is currently open for submission of poetry, essay's and short stories for the coming Fall issue.
Please send copies of writings to:
Tribal Fires Journal | 4807 Onigum Marina Drive NW | Walker, MN 56484
Also include your tribal affiliation, and writer's profile.
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Updated: November 22, 2005
