Elissa Washuta’s White Magic (2021) is a personal narrative of searching and locating boundaries about her own self amid the context of colonization. (She is a member of the Cowlitz tribe.)

Her writing is considered experimental but it passes for conventional prose at first glance; much of her work is structured traditionally, in the sense that each paragraph is building on the previous paragraph, but where she reliably departs is with the idea that there is an epiphany, a conscious realization or understanding that exists for the writer at the end of the piece which she did not possess at the beginning.

The sense of motion, of progression, is disrupted; this could represent authenticity for some readers, whereas others will miss the sense of a resolution.

My reading experience fell between those two states; there were moments at which I felt the excitement of an unfinished self—and I am committed to the idea of writing as a means of ordering the universe for a writer—but there were other moments where the authenticity felt performative.

White Magic raises some fascinating issues: Where does the writer begin-and-end and how does the woman with her memories of trauma and ongoing mental health issues order her world by putting words on a page? Some of this is discussed in her interview with David Naimon on “Between the Covers”.

I love the abundance of epigraphs in the volume, and I was intrigued by the fact that so many of them repeated (one by Alice Notley, the other by Louise Erdrich) but I did not love the idea that she originally repeated them as placeholders and then left the repetition in, to see if readers were paying attention. As a fellow epigraph-lover, that felt like the cheap-mood-ring kind of magic.

Jordan Abel’s Nishga (2021) is a work of art. Also a fantastic place to launch yourself into his work. Injun (2016) would fit more easily into a pocket or backback (and it won the Griffin Poetry Prize). the place of scraps (2014) is also more compact and feels very intimate. But Nishga touches on earlier projects while still peeling away fresh layers of selfhood.

For readers seeking a greater understanding, of the legacy of intergenerational trauma inherited by the survivors and descendants of the indigenous peoples who were forced to attend governmental residential schools, one can turn to a variety of sources:

And, now, Nishga. Both a personal and sociological document, with family photos and art and court documents, this volume has an unusual structure with unexpected heft and resonance.

It feels like a collage, so freshly compiled that the glue is sticky in places. But it’s also so refined, with its glamorous red end-papers tucked inside a smooth white cover which also presents a hint of the insides (his parents’ photograph and some snippets of his experiment with Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans—with all the bits about the “Savages” deleted).

At first glance, the kind of text that suggests reader will be kept at a distance. The most consistent element of the narrative appears to be a transcript, which is actually a series of excerpts from audio recordings. It feels technical with the strip of exact time (hours, minutes and seconds) down one side of the page alongside the narrative.

But these transcripts are punctuated by excerpts from previous publications, the poet’s own and others (including his mother’s diary, webpages, texts that present commentary on indigeneity, and the author’s personal notes and reflections scattered throughout. It all feels very personal, very revealing. And this is accentuated because it begins with a short open letter and ends with a longer one.

His language is simple but, ultimately, the work is very moving. As one reads through these fragments, one wonders if the steady accumulation of personal detail is only an unusual way to convey the devastating effects that have lingered from the residential school system in (the land currently called) Canada but, as the pages turn, it becomes apparent that it’s also a startlingly affective way to release and reflect deep-seated emotions. If I wasn’t already an Abel fan, this would have converted me in short order.