Joseph Dandurand
Joseph Dandurand
Biography
Joseph A. Dandurand is a member of Kwantlen First Nation located on the Fraser River about 20 minutes east of Vancouver. He resides there with his 3 children Danessa, Marlysse, and Jace. Joseph is the Director of the Kwantlen Cultural Center. Joseph received a Diploma in Performing Arts from Algonquin College and studied Theatre and Direction at the University of Ottawa. He has just completed his residency as the Storyteller in Residence at the Vancouver Public Library. He sits on a committee for the Canadian Museum of History and is tasked with consulting on the redesign of the new Children’s Museum. He has published 13 books of poetry and the latest are: I WANT by Leaf Press (2015) and HEAR AND FORETELL by BookLand Press (2015) The Rumour (2018) by BookLand Press in (2018) SH:LAM (the doctor) Mawenzi Press (2019) The Corrupted by Guernica Press (2020) his children’s play: Th’owixiya: the hungry Feast dish by Playwrights Press Canada (2019) his book of short stories and short plays for children: The Sasquatch, the fire, and the cedar basket will be published by Nightwood Press along with his poetry manuscript: Here we come (2020-21) He also is very busy Storytelling at many events and Schools.
Poetics Statement
“ I hope that I will be able to share with you some of my poems.
Our original story tells us that we, the Kwantlen, came from the sky and we were sky-people. We used to number in the thousands but like all river tribes 80% of our people were wiped out by smallpox and now there is only 200 of us.
As a Kwantlen man, father, fisherman, poet and playwright I believe the gift of words was given to me so I can retell all of our stories either upon stage or in in a book of poetry or in our longhouses on a cold winter’s night.
As a writer those poems come only occasionally so easily and without much pain.
Again, as a simple humble man it is with great pleasure that I share my words with anyone wishing to read my work.
In the end I hope that I have shared with you a glimpse of who I am and who the Kwantlen People are. I hope that I have made you laugh and that I have created images for you to take home and share with your family. O Siam!”
Sample of Poet's Work
This Is My Path
We close our eyes when
a junkie slips by us on
a freshly wetted sidewalk
as the city tries and tries
to wash away the odour
of those who sleep beside
the walls as if they await
entry back into this castle
where all the food is kept.
I have been up and down
the streets of this city
and I never close my eyes
as I wait and accept it all
as the drunk Indian brother
pisses himself, the weak just
keep doing their thing.
I walk on, into the centre
of hell and here I am
greeted with a smile
and she asks me for
a cigarette. I give her
one and she almost walks
away with my lighter.
All I can see in her eyes
are the days of abuse,
the childhood she never
had back home. She looks
at me and smiles knowing
I will never hurt her as we
both blow smoke out
into the centre of hell.
As the sun sets and the moon
rises up into a clear dark
night, the streets move
slower as the day people
lay down for a few hours
of restless sleep and the night
people start their rounds
to search for whatever
it is they need and the
junkies are quick to score
as the dealers lay in wait
for them to change money
for drugs and then the drunks
of the night are already two
bottles in and they puke
it up and continue on as
the working girls and boys
stand on the corners trying
to appear beautiful.
To me they are,
as I can see their pasts
and in them I can feel pity
as they get into a truck or
a car to do their thing.
A few hours later
the corner they stand on
is holding them up
as the drugs focus on
their minds and destroy
the horrors of their lives.
As all this is going on,
the moon falls a bit
as the night is almost done
and the sun creeps over
the edge as if watching
the east side and making sure
it is safe enough for the sun
to come out and light
the sorrow
one
more
time.
Muddy Waters
The rains wash
the moment away
that I would stop
if I could, to be a
moment of silence
for the ones
we lost this year.
We buried them
across the river.
There they rest
with our ancestors.
Now the river flows
by them and today
the water is
a muddy brown.
We used to place
our dead in cedar boxes
and put them in trees.
The missionaries
made us take them down
and bury them in dirt.
We knew we certainly
did not come from dirt.
The missionaries
would sing songs
from the big book
they carried around
and we would cry
as we covered up another
relation from the sky.
(If we could, we’d dig them up
and lay them in cedar boxes
in a good tree up high.)
Still the muddy waters
flow on as the rains
wash away our tears.
And we burn plates
of their favourite foods
for them. Sometimes
we add a cigarette
or even a can of beer
to quench their thirst.
As we put our brother
to the ground
all the eagles begin
to circle overhead.
We know they are
the ancestors who fell
from the sky. One eagle
dives and takes a fish
from the muddy waters
as the rains fall from
the sky where we
all at one time began.
The First Day
When I was five I was put on a bus
and sent to Catholic school
not unlike my mother who was five
when she was put on a train
and sent to residential school,
both feeling that gut feeling
that this was not going to be
a place we would like.
My parents told
my older sister
to watch over me
but she had long ago
grown to not like me,
let alone protect me.
As we waited to go in
that first morning
a group of boys decided
they did not like my brown skin.
The biggest of them came at me
but I was prepared
as I had already been beaten up
when I was four, again
because of the colour of my skin.
So the big kid and I scrapped
and soon the sisters were on us.
We were sent down the hall
as all the other kids
and their glorious uniforms
went down into the classrooms
to begin their first day.
The big kid and I were told
to stand against a brick wall
and the main Sister Superior
of all the sisters told us
if we wished to punch,
then punch the wall.
So we did.
As my five-year-old fists
smashed against the wall
and soon blood formed on
my knuckles and the Superior
smiled and praised the Lord.
She told us that was enough
and I kept swinging
as the big boy cried
and said he was sorry. But I wasn’t.
The sister again told me to stop
and I threw one more punch
at the wall for her and one more
for Christ who the whole time
stared down from his cross.
And that was the first day
of my time with the Lord.