Francine Cunningham
Biography
Francine Cunningham is an award-winning Indigenous writer, artist and educator. Her debut book of poems On/Me (Caitlin Press) was nominated for 2020 BC and Yukon Book Prize, a 2020 Indigenous Voices Award, and The Vancouver Book Award. She is a winner of The Indigenous Voices Award in the 2019 Unpublished Prose Category and of The Hnatyshyn Foundation’s REVEAL Indigenous Art Award. Her fiction has appeared in The Best Canadian Short Stories 2021, in Grain Magazine as the 2018 Short Prose Award winner, on The Malahat Review’s Far Horizon’s Prose shortlist, in Joyland Magazine, The Puritan Magazine and more. Her debut book of short stories ‘God Isn’t Here Today’ is out now with Invisible Publishing and is a book of Indigenous speculative fiction and horror. You can find out more about her at www.francinecunningham.ca
Poetics Statement
“Poetry is how I work through life and what it means to live and feel, and experience the world. The beauty that lives inside of us, in this world, in the universe, it evades words most of the time, so when I am able to capture some of it on the page I am grateful and elated. Poetry is where my heart goes to live; to mediate on its joys, and sorrow, to wallow in the emotion of the moment and stretch it out in long delicious sentiments to fill me, and hopefully others up. I know that poetry will always exists because beauty will always exist, even in the ruins of this civilization I have hope that our words will live on, bringing clarity and musings to all who find them. ”
Sample of Poet's Work
On Grief
/ Hospital Visits
my mother never had a chance to be white passing
she was always known by the brown in her skin,
the Cree in her features,
what strangers thought she was,
never known for the unseen qualities, the details
her faith, her garden lush in summer, her laughter that burst through spaces
what was seen was beyond her control
people’s perceptions
what they thought they knew
when i was a teenager we moved to small town in the north
it was during the oka crisis
protests strung along the country
my mom, scared to go outside
these people will think i’m one of them, the bad indians, the protesting indians
she was afraid see,
of getting insults hurled at her, beaten up
in a new place with faces that didn’t know her details
that only knew the passing colour of her skin
when she got sick, really really sick
she went to the hospital
and they didn’t see the details then either
so used to fixing up the problem brown people
they didn’t see the details of her
so they sent her away
and so she went back
again
and again
and again
and they always sent her away
pneumonia
that’s what they called her lung cancer until she couldn’t breath anymore
until it was stage four and in her back and brain
because by then they couldn’t deny her anymore
they couldn’t see her as a drunk indian, someone to be forgotton
because they knew then
it was the tumor in her brain, not her skin colour
that was the problem
but even then, when they knew,
they wouldn’t give her morphine for the pain
still convinced she was her skin and their perception
she had to fight for relief
she had to fight for them to see the details
nevermind my mom never drank,
didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs, hardly ever swore, was a christian
none of those details mattered
and after the first stirrings of pain in her chest twelve months before
she was gone
Previously published: On/Me a book of poems by Francine Cunningham. Caitlin Press, 2019
On Identity
/ For the Other Mixed-Blood, Half-Breed Urban NDNs
our worth is not derived from where we were not raised
knowing cement streets is not an evil thing
having never set foot on the reserves that our mothers and fathers,
grandmothers and grandfathers came from does not make us less than
having skin that isn’t what it’s supposed to look like does not make you unworthy
having memory away from the land does not make you unconnected
not having your ancestral language fill your mouth does not mean you cannot speak
recognize that no one can take away all that you are
whether you have a little plastic card or not
i work with too many youth who are beaten down, broken
by their own people
by the rest of canada
interhatred
inside hatred
but these youth do not deserve to feel so alone
i grew up feeling in-between
not knowing where i belong
not belonging anywhere
skin unlike my mother’s
english instead of cree
scared to go to the land where my people came from
unaccepted
inside and out
tradition, ceremony
words that are spoken cavalierly
for those of us raised away
our tradition is our lived family
Previously published: On/Me a book of poems by Francine Cunningham. Caitlin Press, 2019
A spell to bring my mom back from the dead—
there is a simple, quiet simple, yes, way in which to bring her spirit back
to resurrect her from that place beyond, beyond sounds too mysterious, I know
she dwells there, sometimes, yes, okay, sometimes she dwells there
watching over me, not often, really, fine,
her mystic eye is turned towards me on occasion, better
she keeps me safe, I can’t do that, none of us can, I feel safe then, okay, fair, knowing
that on occasion, my mom, is watching over me.
but at other times I long, really? you long?, okay, I would kinda like to see her face again
to hear her voice, you always hated my voice, only because it was always yelling
to feel her arms around me, we weren’t a touching family, I can dream can’t I? you can,
to walk into her kitchen and smell her fresh baked apple peach pie, I miss that too.
so in order to bring her back to me, you don’t have to do all this, I know
I grab her blanket, which one?, the one you died with, the blue one with the lace?
yes, I always loved that one, I know
I burn some lavender and dried lemon balm, from my garden hopefully, yes
and call her spirit forth
do I come back?, mostly
do I like it when I come back?, I don’t know
what do I look like?, nothing
so why do you keep doing it?, I don’t know
and that simple fact is hard to reconcile
but I do just know, yes?, that you left too soon, maybe
Previously published: Poetry is Dead Magazine, Coven Issue: 17, 2018