Carolyn
Dunn. The Stains of Burden and Dumb Luck. Mongrel Empire Press, 2017. 69 pp. ISBN: 978-0-9972517-7-7.
http://mongrelempire.org/catalog/poetry/TheStainsOfBurden.html
Carolyn Dunn, of Louisiana Creole,
Tunica-Choctaw-Biloxi, Seminole, Creek, and Cherokee descent, is already known
for her works Echolocation (2013), Coyote Speaks (2008), and Through the Eyes of the Deer (1999).
Diane Glancy's summation states, "she covers the
cartography of memory" in her newest collection of poetry. This cartography of
memory, as Glancy terms it, is more than just a map
of Dunn's memories, but is also representative of the senses that evoke and
hold those memories in place. Place, space, sky, rain, and breath are all
common themes throughout the brief collection that elicit a sense of being and
emotion that a mere cartography could not contain. While all of these concepts
are prevalent in the book, they are not overbearing, and the reader is allowed
to take the journey through time, space, and place on their own terms.
Dunn begins her collection with a brief
commentary—"Bloodline." She claims, "A place doesn't have to be idealized
to still claim the comfort associated with being called home" (1). Home,
according to Dunn's pieces, is not free from pain or sorrow, but it is where
the heart lies, where memories are formed, and where the soul is at peace. This
is evident in one of the first poems in the first section, "In Some Other
World," where she writes
My
mother's words
pass
through my lips... beckons us home
with
songs that bring corn
My
grandmother's voice
passing
my lips
escapes
the veil
of
some other world (7-8).
She makes no effort to hide the pain and sorrow
of home in her work, yet she does not allow that pain to take over. Instead,
Dunn uses these notions of pain to serve as a reminder of what once was, what
is, and what will be in the future—pain becomes in her poem a means of
understanding and home, whether painful or joyous, has the ability to map out
that pain and remind us of who we are and where we come from, where our
ancestors hope we will be. It is not an idea of loss, but an idea of hope and
renewal, a belief that pain and the earth and the ancestors are all working
together to make us who we are.
Dunn also writes in the prologue that "Woven in
the bone and blood of the Ancestors, it is now a tapestry concerned with
keeping of stories, vocalized in song, in whispers, in secret, from stages and
from graveyards and birthing rooms around the long pathway of this world to
where the next world awaits" (1). It is these stories, these songs and whispers, that are mapped out and transport us to the
Ancestors, to home. The second section of the book is a great example of this.
In "Words," Dunn writes
Words
are our only weapons
as
grief grows
swallowing
knot
of
feathers, bones
and
the undigested bits
turning
our steps
into
shards of glass
bone
fragments...We are glass, ever
shattering
at
any moment
I
carry voices
on
my tongue
a
world where
there
can be no mercy, no joy
no
thought of ever catching
the
last train home (31-32).
While her words transport us to another world,
to home, she speaks of being transported herself, and we make our journeys
together.
One of the central themes in Dunn's collection
is the idea of the self. Recognizing who we are, how we came to be, and our
purpose: these are questions that many individuals strive to answer daily, and
Dunn addresses them in her own way. In the third section of the book, "Baskets
Filled with Burdens," her poem "Cardinal Directions" asserts that
In
this foreign
land,
the love of
place
carries
the
love of space
The
difference is
we
love
for
what we know
we
are (53).
The idea that space and place are central in
understanding who we are and how we came to be can often be forgotten when we
are away from home; remembering that home is always with us, always informing
and molding us into who we are supposed to be, is critical in our journey to
understand ourselves.
As readers, we allow Dunn to give voice to these
songs, to the past, present, and future, to grief and home, and to memories.
But as readers we are also giving voice to these concepts as well, and in doing
so we are the storyteller and the story. Dunn is not the first to approach this
concept. N. Scott Momaday and Gus Palmer are but two
other Indigenous writers and scholars who have voiced this idea, and Dunn
provides us the opportunity, as readers, to practice and realize this notion of
inclusivity and mutual sense of being. It is through Dunn's words and ideas
that we are able to transport ourselves onto the page and transport the words
on the page into our realities.
In her poem "World Renewal," found in the second
section, Dunn writes, "We breathe life / into dying songs" (15). Dunn writes
about memories and stories and pain and grief as we have and continue to
experience them through time and space and place, but these simple lines remind
us, ever so gently, that our breath offers the gift of life. By singing the
songs of our ancestors, by offering up prayers and poems through our own
breath, we are giving our memories and our ancestors life, which in turn
nourishes and nurtures us further. We are not only giving the Ancestors life,
we are giving ourselves life, too, and, as Dunn suggests, is there any greater
gift?
The
Stains of Burden and Dumb Luck provides us a
map of the past, present, and future—a map home—in a way that is
unique to Dunn and reflects one Indigenous perspective. Connections between
poems and the stories they tell—of ashes and bones, rocks and stolen
tongues—create a sort of scavenger hunt for readers. We all have stories
that are woven throughout time, space, place, and memory, and Dunn not only
tells her stories, but helps us give voice and power to our stories
as well. Sometimes we get lost in the stories, and Dunn provides us a map to
find our way back. Find the connections, understand the meaning, get lost in
the stories, reconnect with the Ancestors, and you just might find yourself
again.