Natalie Diaz is a storyteller poet. Her debut collection reminds me of the work of Gary Soto, but with much more words. It is a powerful book, separated in three sections, and full of emotion, imagery, and history.
The first group of
poems is all about growing up on a reservation: childhood experiences
(Hand-Me-Down Halloween, Why I Hate Raisins); stories of other people on the
rez (Reservation Mary, The Gospel of Guy No-Horse); and poems about racism and
national oppression that native people have lived and continue to live through
(The Facts of Art). The best of these
are the pieces about memories that show how racism was embedded into their
daily lives. Shown, for instance, in
this long-titled poem, Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan
Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Reservation:
Like I said, no
Indian I’ve ever heard of has ever been or seen an angel.
Maybe in a
Christmas pageant or something—
Nazarene church
holds one ever December,
organized by Pastor
John’s wife. It’s no wonder
Pastor John’s son
is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with
angels, I say. They’re no good for
Indians.
Remember what
happened last time
some white god came
floating across the ocean?
The mid section
group of poems is what people will remember the most. These are all pieces about having a brother
heavily addicted to meth. And most describe
the agonizing details her parents went through on a regular basis. “My brother is arrested again and again. And again/ our dad, our Sisyphus, pushes his
old blue heart up to the station.” (Downhill Triolets); “Mom finally saw it, a
hellish vision, my brother./ O God, O
God, she said.” (My Brother at 3 a.m.).
It’s amazing how someone can write so beautifully about something so
ugly, as in the following stanza from How to Go to Dinner with A Brother on
Drugs:
Meth—his singing
sirens, his jealous jinn
conjuring up
sandstorms within him, his Harpy
harem—has sucked
the beauty from his face.
He is a Cheshire
cat, a gang of grins.
His new face all jaw,
all smile and bite.
The last section
seems to be a miscellaneous section, with poems about different topics; some
nice poems about a lover with lines like “She has always been more orchard than
loved,/ I, more bite than mouth.” (I Lean Out the Window and She Nods Off in
Bed, the Needle Gently Rocking on the Bedside Table), and a very disturbing
poem about a brother returning from war, (Why I Don’t Mention Flowers When
Conversation with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences).
Diaz’s lines are
longer than what I’m accustomed to reading and some might say that she tells
more than she shows with her poetry, but she makes up more than enough for it
with emotion and the beautiful and disturbing images that these poems will
create in your mind.