Indians And The Prairies Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Indians and the prairies

If I could be artist,
Had canvas for painting,
I would write dates only.

Then, used dots, connected
The meanings, locations…

Behind these connections
I would ask onlookers
To see the history.

Not just of Indians,
India's, Prairies
That also of Andes,
And islands, Pacific.

I may need Magic Ball
Of Iran's, Shah Jamshed.

To talk of everything
About past, and to be.

If was so we could feel
The comments of Kathy.

She and I, have same work,
Though she is my master.

Her body, look, her face
Are signals, say grace:
"She is an Indian…"

A Cree she is and
Alive is her mother
And she tells stories
As do most elderlies.

"But I am not of them, "
Says Kathy, and insists:
"Have blood of Roma! "

For many, many years
She, her likes, have been shamed!

Were oppressed and ashamed
Of being called Savage…

Indians must forget
History, and their base,
Though greatest hunters
And bravest fighters…

They reject their culture
That ends in Prairies.

I want to sit with her
Write down dates, places,
Connect and explain.

Then pick small pencil
Draw lines connect them
And show how Britain,
Portugal, Sweden
And Holland, and Spain,
Austria and Germans,
Ottomans and Russians
Italy and others,
Colonialized and oppressed.

She knows not her parents
Were free like the birds.

They hunted and gathered
Till ended in reserves,
If not killed like white tails.

Hypnotized, brain washed
The schools, fathers, nuns.

Noose around many necks:
"Killed savage in the child."

If fled would either
Be caught or lose their life.