The Indian Floor at the Art Museum

by

Ed Hanson

Dimly heard echoes of ghosts
Calling out from corners and glass cases.

From the longhouse, joyful singing
In celebration of the potlatch
Beneath the glaring mask of Raven.

Across the room, wailing,
The mournful cries of women whose warriors
Did not return from the battle.

I am haunted by the sadness,
While tourists dully move
From one information card to the next.

Clinically displayed, a reed basket
Created by a young woman, long perished,
Conceived in community.
Expressions of cherished traditions
Now extinguished.
Shadows of people who lived and played
Beside rich waters now poisoned,
That once fed so many so well

Standing before the "half red headdress",
Once worn by a warrior of
Great-Grandmother’s people.
Crafted in prayer and song,
Infused with terrible visions,
The drums pound in my heart,
I see him riding against the sky.
His war cry rings in my ears,
My heart fills with pride
And deep sadness,
For his bones now lay lost
Beneath the silent sands,
As his fearsome bonnet rides
Upon a lifeless frame
Under just the right illumination.

Scraps and splinters of people’s lives
Laid out for all to see.
Stories played out under an open sky,
Watched over by sun and stars
Now sheltered under steel and glass,
Displayed upon a sterile white stage.
But saddest of all,
The lodge of Standing Bear, Lakota Chief.
I felt as if the bones of my grandfather
Had been tied to a pole and
Hung out for all to see for a quarter.
How far we have fallen

NEXT?
Why don't you look at When we speak of Good and Evil
by: Francis Duggan
from: Wonthaggi, Victoria, Australia

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