Indian Cartography

by Deborah A. Miranda

Poetry. Native American Studies. Winner of the North American Native Authors First Book Award. Deborah Miranda's INDIAN CARTOGRAPHY provides a psychic and emotional remapping of the Native American world of the West Coast. In lyric verse that is sometimes spare, sometimes dramatic, Miranda charts a homeward journey through the heart's territory --a land that has long been torn, disrupted, and colonized in the harshest sense of that word --Janice Gould. The first poem grabbed my wrist and held me for the duration. The prose is equally alive and its images have the precision and the edge of the finest poetry. Seamless back and forth journey from one little girl to another, one woman to another, one memory to another. All distinct yet connected. One long scream from a heart who will not stop living, whose life is an affirmation of survival --Wendy Rose. Miranda's poetry and essays have appeared in Bricolage, Calyx, Calloo, The Cimarron Review, Raven Chronicles, and Soujourner.

Genres: Poetry, Indigenous

99 pages, Paperback

First published May 1, 1999

Reviews

[Jessie · Rating 4 out of 5]

She seems to write in order to stay alive & to heal. These poems honor the wounded body and also the wounded history of Indians all but wiped out by the violent missionization of California tribes (Miranda is both Jewish and Indian). Even if the language falls flat or abstract every so often, the first priority of these poems seems to be, not to sound artful or poetic, but to say & do something; they do dishes and give birth and make love.

From "Three Poems for April," a gorgeous opening sentence to the first poem, "Lilacs":

"The way the bush has become a tree
fills the window over this sink,
makes doing dishes feel like surging inward
into a younger place."

In the second poem of this triad, a prose poem; speaker is gathering flowers:

"Petals beaded with water wash my bare arms, darken the cotton of my blue skirt. I keep saying 'oh this one, this one.' I am expecting an end to beauty; but there is always more, more. My own surprise blooms bright against despair."

A stunning last poem, "Waking," ending:

"Here in the dark
nation of my body
I am never homeless."