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Jayne Fawcett
- University of Nebraska Press
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588 Jayne Fawcett (b. 1936) Jayne Fawcett is a lifelong resident of Uncasville and a grandmother of six. She received her undergraduate degree from the University of Connecticut and a fifth-year degree from Eastern Connecticut State University. She has served as vice chair of the Mohegan Tribal Council and chair of the Mohegan Council of Elders, as tribal ambassador, and as a tour guide at Tantaquidgeon Museum. For twenty-seven years she taught school in Montville and Ledyard, Connecticut, and she served as the first president of the Montville Indian Parent Committee, which secured the right for Mohegan Indian schoolchildren not to be bussed out of their community. She has served on numerous advisory boards, including for the Smithsonian and the Institute for American Indian Studies. She was also a board member of the United South and Eastern Tribes and a presidential appointee of President Bill Clinton. Selected by Falmouth Institute as an outstanding woman leader, she is included in their video series. The following poems are original publications. Homeland As a child I heard my father’s mother talking about “going back to Canadie ” whenever things went wrong. “Canadie” was her homeland. Where was mine? I knew the Irish could go back to Ireland, the English to Great Britain, and the blacks had a whole continent. Where was my home, my safe place? Where is My World My Kingdom Come, The Home my lineage can claim as own for all their little whiles, And passing say, “Your oyster, son, This is the Heritage I give; bear it before you like a shield; It will protect, oh, precious, someday ones, from all the sneering spears Your heart may feel; You’re not alone.” Where is My Home? Jayne Fawcett 589 A hundred and a hundred years ago I searched with ancient kin The way to know, But it was lost, and I lost too In pathless woods unknown. Wherein an owl cried, And finally the lonely wolf replied, “Pretend.” My Kingdom is, I find, Pretending in quiet woodlands Of my mind. Attic Dawn (There were a lot of old attics in Mohegan, and I found them fascinating.) Half light finds a dreary aerie Vacuuming a darkened floor. Dusty shadows filter wary, errant beams across the door. Quiet rest tomorrow’s treasures with the nightmares of today; Sliding spider, tireless, measures emptiness in silken whey. Half light creeps, And beetles tremble, Wanders wisplike; Wanders fey; Peaceful nightdreams all dissemble With the crushing rush of day. Pan’s Song This poem was published in the August Derleth Society Newsletter by my husband and was a favorite of horror writer and poet Frank Belknap Long. Once upon a hollow tube Blazoned with a fairy-ring, I watched a disappointment slip Upon a hope of spectral string. [54.224.90.25] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 17:12 GMT) 590 mohegan Its end, inevitable and just, To rise and fall, Up, To and fro; Then downward it would go again, and Go, and Go, and Go, and Go, As flowered grief did pipe to it, And plaintively a heart-song sing. While deep in happiness I sat, And plucked upon the fairy-ring. Shantok Side by side we lie together Rotting in the dust, My silent friends and enemies Who hold the past in trust. With frozen lid and vacant eye We share camaraderie With bone and must and sepulcher, Worked stone and pottery, And life is but a whisper passing Softly, swiftly by, A lullaby of restless winds, a broken dream, a sigh. ...