HealthiaCynthia

A Night Out With Pauline Johnson

Filed under: Interpretive Reading, Toastmasters, Poetry, Pauline Johnson by healthiacynthia on April 3, 2008 12:48 am

Something rather unusual happened for me tonight (or I guess it would be last night since this is now 'morning' technically–yikes)–

E. Pauline JohnsonI spent today reading and re-reading Pauline Johnson's poem "Ojistoh" so as to present it as an "interpretive reading" at Toastmasters.  It is a wildly Victorian melodramatic performance piece if ever there was one.  Miss Johnson was born on the Mohawk reserve outside Brantford Ontario in the latter part of the 19th C.  Her father was the Mohawk Chief and her mother was British-born.  She accrued about 5 years of formal education, but by the time she was twelve she had read all of Scott's poetry, all of Longfellow, most of Shakespeare and a good deal of other "classic" literature.  She was mad for "verses".

She toured around giving poetry readings (performances, really) of her own works.  She went back and forth across Canada, and back and forth from England for about sixteen years.  The last two years of her life she was ill with cancer in Vancouver, where she died.  She is buried in Stanley Park.

I had some small familiarity with her because of my family background.  Some of my family came from the Brantford area and my Great-Aunt Jean Flatt was a poet (self-published) who admired Pauline's nature poetry.  I have her diaries (from about 1919 until 1969).  Pauline was more a contemporary of Jean's mother, my great-grandmother.  There is some myth in our family, too, that we have Mohawk blood– "country wives" and all that.  I think it may just be myth, alas.

I asked after the Toastmasters meeting if anyone had studied Pauline in school.  Apparently not.  One of the members had seen a program about her on the History channel.  Interesting.  I remember being interested in her as a child… must have run across her books at my Grandmother's?

In any case, when I came home from the meeting I felt intrigued (the reading had gone very well– I had gotten lots of great feedback) and looked her up.  I was startled and elated to find that there is an opera being written about her life and art… by Margaret Atwood.

Here is the poem called "Ojistoh"– read it out loud and have lots of fun 'hamming it up'…

 I am Ojistoh, I am she, the wife

Of him whose name breathes bravery and life

And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.
I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he
Is land, and lake, and sky–and soul to me.

Ah! but they hated him, those Huron braves,
Him who had flung their warriors into graves,
Him who had crushed them underneath his heel,
Whose arm was iron, and whose heart was steel
To all–save me, Ojistoh, chosen wife
Of my great Mohawk, white star of his life.

Ah! but they hated him, and councilled long
With subtle witchcraft how to work him wrong;
How to avenge their dead, and strike him where
His pride was highest, and his fame most fair.
Their hearts grew weak as women at his name:
They dared no war-path since my Mohawk came
With ashen bow, and flinten arrow-head
To pierce their craven bodies; but their dead
Must be avenged. Avenged? They dared not walk
In day and meet his deadly tomahawk;
They dared not face his fearless scalping knife;
So–Niyoh![1]–then they thought of me, his wife.

O! evil, evil face of them they sent
With evil Huron speech: "Would I consent
To take of wealth? be queen of all their tribe?
Have wampum ermine?" Back I flung the bribe
Into their teeth, and said, "While I have life
Know this–Ojistoh is the Mohawk's wife."

Wah! how we struggled! But their arms were strong.
They flung me on their pony's back, with thong
Round ankle, wrist, and shoulder. Then upleapt
The one I hated most: his eye he swept
Over my misery, and sneering said,
"Thus, fair Ojistoh, we avenge our dead."

And we two rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,
I, bound with buckskin to his hated waist,
He, sneering, laughing, jeering, while he lashed
The horse to foam, as on and on we dashed.
Plunging through creek and river, bush and trail,
On, on we galloped like a northern gale.
At last, his distant Huron fires aflame
We saw, and nearer, nearer still we came.

I, bound behind him in the captive's place,
Scarcely could see the outline of his face.
I smiled, and laid my cheek against his back:
"Loose thou my hands," I said. "This pace let slack.
Forget we now that thou and I are foes.
I like thee well, and wish to clasp thee close;
I like the courage of thine eye and brow;
I like thee better than my Mohawk now."

He cut the cords; we ceased our maddened haste
I wound my arms about his tawny waist;
My hand crept up the buckskin of his belt;
His knife hilt in my burning palm I felt;
One hand caressed his cheek, the other drew
The weapon softly–"I love you, love you,"
I whispered, "love you as my life."
And–buried in his back his scalping knife.

Ha! how I rode, rode as a sea wind-chased,
Mad with sudden freedom, mad with haste,
Back to my Mohawk and my home. I lashed
That horse to foam, as on and on I dashed.
Plunging thro' creek and river, bush and trail,
On, on I galloped like a northern gale.
And then my distant Mohawk's fires aflame
I saw, as nearer, nearer still I came,
My hands all wet, stained with a life's red dye,
But pure my soul, pure as those stars on high–
"My Mohawk's pure white star, Ojistoh, still am I."