New green was peeking from the winter earth. The birds, who had not scattered to the forests after the first detonations, kept to their early spring rituals. Like us. They were beginning to sing their spring songs and were making new ones. We could not let the war steal everything that was Joy Hard Joe, Native American poet, author, and musician, reading
from her latest poem, called an Ordinary Morning. She was moved to write it after seeing photos of the devastation in Ukraine, but its subject is wider grief, loss, death, and making sense of the world. I'm a land ververe and this is Seneca's one hundred Women to Hear. We're bringing you one hundred of the world's most inspiring and
history making women you need to hear. Joy Hard Joe recently concluded her third term as Poet Laureate of the United States, the first Indigenous person to hold that position. She has won numerous awards for her work, which includes nine books of poetry, two children's books, and an anthology of Native women's writing. Her most recent book is A Poet Warrior, a poetic memoir. Listen and learn why Joy Hard Joe is one of Seneca's one Women to hear.
I'm speaking today to Indigenous poet and the former Poet Laureate of the United States, Joy Hard Joe. Welcome, Joy. It is a thrill to have you with us. Well, it's good to be here now. You've just finished your third term as Poet Laureate for the United States. This is a high honorific position, one in which you work. It's not just a title. And you're the only Indigenous poet Laureate in the United States, at least so far. What was the experience like and how do you feel
about leaving the position? What was it like to be the Poet Laureate. I guess the first thing I want to say is that I'm not the only Native poet laureate. There are actually, I think right now about four or five state and community Native poet Laureates, which I think is really cool. But yes, I'm the first US Poet Laureate. And that's something you can't you don't apply for you can't apply for it. It's um, it's an honor and um.
And I I reminded the staff that when we were in the middle of it, and I was doing all this work, and I said, wait a minute, you said there were there were no set obligations of this position. And then we would laugh because of course we all have obligations, you know, in this I think we all have obligations of citizens of the earth, and citizens of the country, and of our communities and in our families.
I mean, that's just part, that's just part of the story that we take on when we take our when we take our first breath. But to be named, it's something you don't expect. And I always, I always remember that morning. I had an odd feeling and I knew, you know, Rob Casper and who works at the Library of Congress at the Poetry and Literature Center and runs that, and he had sent a funny little note that said, um,
I have a quick question. Of course you know. They also the center also runs a national book festival, and I had a book coming out. But when I got on the phone with a doctor Carla Hayden, who is the Librarian of Congress, you know, it's not a presidential appointment. It's by the Librarian of Congress. Just f y I for everyone. And uh, she asked if I would be, you know, be the U S Poet Laureate. It was
like like it felt like lightning. And I didn't know what to say it first, because I was running through my mind quickly before I had it was like, oh my god, I'm already so busy. That was the first thing.
But it was just like I was astounded. I mean, I I almost I said, yes, of course, you know, because it became I think one of the most important things that came out of it was that I the position and me being in that, assuming that and taking on the responsibility of that position meant that a huge doorway had opened for Indigenous people, a huge doorway of
awareness of images, of possibilities. And it resounded the position and that a Native woman was in it resound dude throughout Indian country, and I think throughout the country too, in an odd kind of way, because you know, the history, of course with the United States and Natives is very problematic, convoluted, and so often the way that we're dealt with is in um. You know, we've we get disappeared from the
national conversation. So what this position did was UM made a place so to speak, and to to serve has been UM, we're all fit here to serve. And this allowed me to serve in a way that um in a larger yet, I guess with a larger um recognition, not just for me, but for indigenous people's. Did you do a lot of travel in the position. Give us a sense of how it changed your life, well, the recognition did. I mean, I've worked for years and I had a reputation, but I became a lot more any
any appearance. You know, there was a lot more. Uh, there was a lot more coming at me. And no, you know what happened most of my The reason I got a third term, there were two of us that have been had third terms in the position and the reason that I got a third term was because of
COVID out right pandemic. And so actually I didn't even and so even into that third term, we were still dealing with COVID, So I didn't get I didn't travel quite as much as as much as other poet laureates because we were, you know, mostly often in lockdown, and so I traveled a lot on virtual I did many many virtual events. But I you know, the travel has come just to tail in my my position end at the end of April, and I was traveling as soon as it opened up, as soon as the world opened up,
or at least this country I was traveling. I've been traveling quite a bit lately. But it's conceivable that even virtually you were reaching many, many people, perhaps even more than you would have had you been able to physically travel more. Yes, I think that's true. And often because I didn't have to travel to an event, it um I had several Often during a week, I'd have several virtual performances scheduled, and I hit a point a couple of times, once in the fall and once in the
spring of burnout. Yeah. Yeah, it takes a lot out of you. Yeah, yes, so I I prefer in person. There's nothing can replace that, because a performance is is not just the performer. The performance is a place, it's a time, it's the people. You know, it's a combination. Well, given that, I wonder if you would read a short excerpt from your most recent book, Poet Warrior. You can't see all your listeners, obviously, but I'm sure they would
be excited to hear from an excerpt. You know what I thought I would do instead, if you don't mind, is I have a new poem. Oh great, that was published just published in The New Yorker and the poem actually came from watching. It's called ecrastic, meaning you know, it takes its its origin. Its origin story is from a New York Times image of where bombs had just hit a hit a park in in um Ukraine, and there was a park bench and a loaf of bread
with snow on it. This was early on, and underneath the park bench with some blood and there were two people there. So in this poem, I didn't know what to do. I mean, I don't know what to do with the with the grief of like miss Singing, murdered Native women, the grief that goes, you know, in this country, the trauma, the historical trauma that that continues, you know, with all of these stories like Briana Taylor and and so.
Because so I write poetry, I write music, and I sat with that image and it was just so startling. I just started writing. And I didn't know what this was going to turn into, because sometimes I start writing it might turn into a song. I am actually going to turn this into a song. I've decided yesterday it might turn into a song, it might turn into like a short essay. Um, I didn't know. But it was just published in the New Yorker. Yes, it's called an
ordinary morning. We left for the park a little later than usual. My old father and I, though we knew the war was honest. Blood hunger has an endless stomach. I wanted to keep the morning from its mouth. He needed his walk to soften his joints, and we had a daily appointment with the birds. New green was peeking from the winter earth. The birds, who had not scattered to the forests after the first detonations, kept to their early spring rituals. Like us. They were beginning to sing
their spring songs and were making new ones. We could not let the war steal everything in the park. My old father, hobbled by an older war, by worries over the evil let loose among us, found joy in watching the children, feeding the birds, and telling the stories he never tired of. And for us, who loved him well, those old stories made a circle of knowledge and affection. We bought a loaf of bread. The bakers stayed on to help keep the ritual of our lives fastened into place.
Our genealogies of bones are stacked in the graveyard and live in the stories we shared this morning, the baker and us, we will go on, even if there is only one standing in a sea of blood and loss, one who will tell the story of who we were and how we fought for an ordinary warning like this one. When the earth was beginning to wake from its cold season, Old father, you tore off a piece of bread for
the birds gathered at your feet. They knew to find us here, this part bench, this prayer of blessing for the continuum of living. The fire took you first, Old Father. I was stunned. The sun exploded. Then I was gone, following you is away. I always did first with my eyes. Then when I learned to toddle, a bird with bread crumbs in its beak fled to the top of the closest standing tree. My mother, your wife was a girl again. Then you left the wedding feast. As you walked hand
in hand to begin a story. I was the thought in the shape of a spring flower emerging from a blood soaked earth. How we live and lived and lived and loved our living. We did not want to let it go. That's so profound, so beautiful, senecas one hundred women to hear will be back after the short break. So listening to that poem I wonder who are the poets who have inspired you? Are there some who have inspired you the most? And why is that the case?
I've always loved lou Bordehees Luis Bordees, his stories and his poetry. He was from Argentina and I liked I've always liked the sense of myth and mystery and how it connects to draw to the every day. And also the poetry of les Le Soko. And she wasn't known. She's not known as a poet. She's a fiction writer, novelist from Laguna Problem, but I knew her first through her poetry. And again, I guess thinking about it, I also like the way that the mythological world is absolutely
married to the corporeal. Well, you began writing poetry in your twenties, around the same time that the Native rights movement was also soaring. What do you think came first the desire to make change or the desire to create? Or is it even possible to separate those two? Yes, as you were asking that question, I was thinking, how
in the world do you separate it? Because maybe the urge to write comes about for the urge to be changed, you know, first within ourselves and in that change and in that awakening or the various coming of ages that we each go through. You know, it's all, it's all together. But I've I've come to understand that at this point in my life that I've always been motivated by healing, in the need to heal, and by the need for justice. M Well, those are two really important of life's matters.
I think it's true that you come from a family of artists. You've described that there being many Native artists in your childhood community. How did that kind of upbringing influence you and your own desire to create art? Well, it became something that was just part of your natural world. It wasn't you know, artists or some are people far away, but you know, it was just part. You know, I drew constantly. I was always making art and I my mother wrote songs. I had paintings of my grandmother on
the wall, and it was just the creation. Art of art could be associated with breathing. However, I didn't one thing we didn't have that. I didn't grow up with poets or at least book my mother, I guess you can see her. She was a songwriter, a lyricist, you know, So there you are well. It took Yeah, yeah, it did. But I'm convinced that we're you know that each you know, each family, each nation, you know, each entity comes in.
We're part of a larger field of I call it the story field, so that you know that a family, you know, a great you know, the stuff, the stuff of your direction of your life is all kind of built in. Can we talk a little bit about your being a musician. You had mentioned you didn't know that beautiful poem you just read to us that you might turn it into music. You mentioned your mother there was a musician. You are a musician. Tell us a little bit about that and why it's important in your life.
I've always loved music and and dance, and particularly you know then dance and and rhythm and so on. And I grew up, of course with in Tulsa, with you know, hearing a lot of the country swing bands, and then all of the rock and roll and R and B and everything that that I grew up with. But it's um I was in. I took a few years of band, I played clarinet, and then in junior high I walked away from it because I um the band teacher wouldn't let girls play saxophone. So yes, it was like that,
and and some people still have attitudes and um. Then at around the same time, my stepfather forbid me to sing in the house and and he'd also when when he came into our family, the music stopped and I walked away. And I think poetry it was a way because it was the way to find my way back to it. Because if you look at the origins of poetry and any culture, you will always find it in
the origin story. Hanging out with music and with dance. Beautiful, And now speaking of of your poetry, you have really sought to explore the personal Native national histories. What's the part of history that more non Native Americans should know about?
And why I think you brought up something just now that you know it helps me understand that the reason so much of my voice it's so personal people will you know, they make that comment frequently about my work, and it's not about me, it's I think I came to that when I started, not even necessarily consciously, but I wanted people to know that we were human beings and that you know, was a Native when we were all there are all kinds and we weren't all the same.
And I remember when I was young, when I was a young woman at at the University of New Mexico and coming into this national political consciousness, which was also personally and a perfect you know, it's at all levels. I I remember saying to myself that if I do anything else, by the end of my life, I want Native peoples to be seen as human beings. Well, you're certainly making a difference. And given everything that's going on
in the world today, what makes you optimistic? What makes me optimistic is watching the young people coming up, the young poets, you know, Native and non Native, the young poets, the young theater people, the young creative artists, young musicians, watching them, you know, the light, watching them develop, the light they bring in with them. Joy Hard Joe, what a thrill to be able to speak with you today, former poet Laureate of the United States. Just terrific. Thank you.
Thank you so much too for having me on your podcast. How lucky we are to have the poems and music of Joy Hard Joe to help us through these challenging times. There are three things I took from that conversation. First, Joy's life and work remind us why all people's voices need to be heard. Joy says that when she was named the first Native American Poet Laureate, it also opened a huge doorway for Indigenous people. It brought awareness of
a population that had disappeared from the national conversation. Second, Joyce art allows us to see Native Americans for who they are, As she says, I wanted people to know that we are human beings, We are all kinds, and we aren't all the same. Finally, with every poem and every song, Joyce shows us that art can be a powerful tool in the pursuit of both healing and justice. Tune in next time to learn about our next featured woman and discover why she's one of Seneca's one Women
to Hear. Seneca's one hundred Women to Hear is a collaboration between the Seneca Women Podcast Network and I Heart Radio, with support from founding partner Pung. Have a Great Day,