Wanda John-Kehewin

G-L

Aug 13

Biography

Cree poet Wanda John-Kehewin studied criminology, sociology, Aboriginal studies, and creative writing while attending the Writer’s Studio writing program at Simon Fraser University. She uses writing as a therapeutic medium through which to understand and to respond to the near decimation of First Nations culture, language, and tradition. She has two poetry books published by Talonbooks, two children’s readers and is publishing a graphic novel in early 2022. She finds time to write between the lines. She owes her journey of healing to her children who always reminded her of all the lost children out there, and if she could do her best to love these ones; then it will have been easier and a better life than previous generations. She calls Coquitlam her home, until the summertime when she treks to the plains of Alberta to visit family and learn more about Cree culture and tradition. She is currently in her first year of her MFA at UBC.

Poetics Statement

“My poetry cannot exist without the confines of colonialism still bearing down on me that has kicked my ancestors so hard in the past that future children fell. My poetry punches people in the guts. I want to turn my own pain and trauma and my ancestors’ suffering into words to form a picture in the minds of those who do not understand and who never could; but at least they could have a little taste by transference. (not in an angry way but in a way that invites others to become allies). I can paint a picture of the personal affects of colonialism firsthand from the point of view of a little girl who thought of suicide at age 9; who escaped the residual effects of colonial oppression on the reservation. Unfortunately, this sometimes caused ‘white fragility’ and I was the one doing the comforting. I should have had a trigger warning? when as a child the only trigger warning we got was, do what the police say at all costs.’.

My poetry only exists as a therapeutic medium to stand in my truth and push back against the walls of colonialism which has decimated Indigenous culture, tradition, language and many other delicate fabrics of existence such as parenting. My word ‘warriorism’ has kept me alive allowing me to process my trauma in a way that has helped me more then counselling.

One of the thematic concerns I have is how others would view my work in a stereotypical light of just “another angry Indian” when my work is actually about what I think about the subject of colonialism which is one of the main themes that is woven throughout my work.

Do I think my work is part of an aesthetic tradition? I hope it becomes an aesthetic tradition in the way that we can stand in our truths and still feel good enough as others who do not have the term redskin attached to them even in the medicine wheel teachings. I hope my work becomes a part of history as a marker of change and part of mainstream in the literary world, of a time when ‘ancestors’ started to heal and use their voices.”

Sample of Poet's Work

Only Half, and Maybe Not the Right Half

Wolf head burnt into Maple
like old cigarette burns on the roof of my car
(The one I promised I'd never smoke in)
Age lines and wooden wrinkles, weave through wolf
Created in Somerset Manitoba in 2018
Salmon colored lines, burnt braille
So perfect in the imperfect
and we forget that about ourselves
as we step on scales and lather eye cream
like lotion on new babe
so slippery, like descaled fish.
Someones second love
someones second passion as
dust swirls in triangular light
from a cat shaped folding of blinds.
Burnt cinnamon into specks that
give both the eye and the brain
closure.
Books of poetry on the 'to read' shelf,
two sharp pointy teeth, gnawing on folded corners
wood or book.
Two sharp pointy teeth against maple cookie
egg shaped moon.
Tan walls leaving institutional resonance
like a counsellor's office
who has not healed either
and labels you.
Not holes to get lost in
if you look close enough.
Tiny pin prick holes in walls
from to do lists never read
someones meditation
just not mine.
ARTist sees mistakes
must live with it
or give it up.
Whiskers on a loved father
or uncle
who have both passed on.
Wolf howls at moon,
silhouetted by egg moon maple cookie color
black knots like moth wings
animals get tired too.
Smells dead
forever.
Someones entire essence in each stroke
someones entire life in each poem
a piece of their energy spread across the universe.
This is an artist who knows someone who
died of cancer.
Knows someone who was too tired.
The perfectionist in me want to fix the moon
perfect in the imperfect
and yet I need control of my environment.
Pyrography as traumas brail
only the soul can read
closer to letting go
colonizing the wood.
Dried baby umbilical chord
floating
child wandering the world
lost.
Signs of waterlogging
traumalogging
from a survivor
certificate of authenticity
remembering one matriarch
who made the difference.
Signed white paper like broken treaty
Indian spirit left on the plains
to wander
lost umbilical chord.

Recovering Catholic

I ate the body of jesus christ/
washed it down with a plastic goblet of wine—

Washed it down with a plastic goblet of wine/
the sour taste of colonial violence—

The sour taste of colonial violence/
takes pew in the bottom of my gut—

Takes pew in the bottom of my gut/
the slap from the nun with the habit—

The slap from the nun with the habit/
Slapping brown children with pure visceral force—

Slapping brown children with pure visceral force/
Taught to you by mother and father—

Taught to you by mother and father/
How to hit and how to drink cheap wine like priests—

Recovering Catholic Part 2

Jesus Christ tasted just like bannock/
The priest put the body of Christ in my mouth—

The priest put the body of Christ in my mouth/
His robe whiter than Kokum’s bleached sheets—

His robe whiter than Kokum’s bleached sheets/
She wore her best dress for our communion—

She wore her best dress for our communion/
The same best dress she wore to St. Paul—

The same best dress she wore to St. Paul/
When she fell of the wagon and came home drunk—

When she fell off the wagon and came home drunk/
Picked up her rosary and prayed hard—

Picked up her rosary and prayed hard/
Made bannock that tasted like jesus, penance—

SeAgUlLs

I wanted to be an Eagle
Sent me back as a seagull
Roaming the air and land
Rooting around for food
Looking for handouts
Shooed away like crows
Long ago I lost my home
Nothing looks the same
Roaming the air and land
Looking for belonging
Finding other seagulls
Dead for just existing
Rooting around for fillers
Flour. Baking powder, salt
I don’t know how to seagull
Nothing looks the same
Long ago lost the land
Gasping to breath
As air and policy aids in
The death of seagulls.

Hyperlinks:

In the Dog House: https://talonbooks.com/books/in-the-dog-house

Seven Sacred Truths: https://talonbooks.com/books/seven-sacred-truths