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In a propagandist poem, Compassion (except to the very select group of supporters) is area of such intelligent reservations emerging is the theme of dreams and ambitions which Yet this is what emerges in the portrait of the '​sober trader'.
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The Scholar-Gipsy

It's hard for me to find a footing in my own confidence to admit I'm a poet and that I write poetry. People don't do those things where I come from. So I would love to label myself an emerging poet and I hope to be an emerging poet at all times. I'm afraid if I become an "established poet" I'm going to have to deal with the constant burden of token Nativeness or queerness.

I'm also very afraid that if I ever transcend "emerging" that people will praise any words I write even if it is bad writing. I want to feel the same ambivalent, raw, intimate, and thrilling feeling for poetry all the time. You publish a first book. You go to residencies and conferences. You do cool interviews like this one thank you Luther. These are all things I have yet to do aside from an interview and so I don't see myself as recognized. But then again, being Native, being from a reservation, being someone who isn't heterosexual, there will always be a burden I have to carry if I do meet recognition.

Or at least I imagine it so. I asked because our MFA program is so much different than others that my undergrad friends and classmates attended. I sometimes feel anxious that I am missing this key experience in learning how to be recognized. My mentors were always so quick to return to craft. Yes, they recognize the avenues of mainstream poetic recognition.

But during our seven days in Santa Fe, perched in a small Native-centered institute, surrounded by mountains, several tribal homelands, and a pretty big sky, there is no time to worry about that. We are always on craft. Learning how to engage and emerge into poetics critically as Native writers while negotiating all the other colonial crap that Native people face is all we have time for and what is most important.

So my definition of recognition is changing constantly.

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How do you think power politics shape the poetry community? Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;. At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,. On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors.

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But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. And put the shepherds, wanderer! And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks. I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;.

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Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats,. And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills,. And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground! Returning home on summer-nights, have met. Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,. Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,.

And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers. Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,.

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And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. And then they land, and thou art seen no more!

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To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,. Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,. Of flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemony,. Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves,.

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And purple orchises with spotted leaves—. And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here. In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,. Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass. Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames,. Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,. Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—.

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But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone! Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate. Children, who early range these slopes and late.

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The springing pasture and the feeding kine;. And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,. In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—. Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way. Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see. With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,. Above the forest-ground called Thessaly—. Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;. So often has he known thee past him stray,. Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,. And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,. Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,.

Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,. Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;. Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,. The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—. Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.