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Joan Naviyuk Kane

She // Her // Hers, They // Them // Theirs

Writer

Portland, Oregon

An Inupiaq woman stands in a black dress and blazer with a caribou-antler pendant hanging from beaded and stainless steel regalia.

Photo by Reed College Public Affairs.

I honor those who have taught me how to respond to the competing pressures women must always contend with. Poetry and writing have helped me navigate and enjoin my voice with the voice of other Arctic Indigenous people, and women who have long served the needs of the many lives who depend on us.”

Joan Naviyuk Kane is Inupiaq with family from Ugiuvak and Qawiaraq. She is author of several collections of poetry and prose, including The Cormorant Hunter’s Wife (2009), Hyperboreal (2013), Milk Black Carbon (2017), and Dark Traffic (2021) as well as The Straits (2015), A Few Lines in the Manifest (2018), Sublingual (2018), Another Bright Departure (2019), and Ex Machina (2023). She has recently co-edited Circumpolar Connections: Creative Indigenous Geographies of the Arctic (2024) and Colonialism & the Environment: Pasts, Presents, and Futures (2025), and edited the Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology (2017). 

Kane is currently a Fulbright Specialist and the recipient of the Whiting Writer’s Award, the Donald Hall Prize in Poetry, the National Artist Fellowship from the Native Arts and Cultures Foundation, the American Book Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry, and the Paul Engle Prize from Iowa City UNESCO City of Literature. At Scripps College, she was the 2021 Mary Routt Endowed Chair of Creative Writing and Journalism. Having held faculty appointments at Harvard University, Tufts University, and elsewhere, Kane has raised her children as a single mother in Alaska and Massachusetts, but now lives with them in Oregon, where she is an Associate Professor at Reed College.

Donor -This award was generously supported by Rasmuson Foundation.

This artist page was last updated on: 01.30.2025

"After Anchorage"

Told to put a light in my lamp
I turned from a daughter’s work
to take a tabular rock in hand
then struck as hail would strike, 
as a man who has grown sick 
of his wife will scrape and grind 
as if he no longer hells infants
world-ward in their blood-rush,
hollowing a cup to hold the oil
I would otherwise have swallowed:
I trust in nothing near, hungering
for the light of the leaf as it unfurls,
tending what I can, beguiling none. 
I tangled my neck in tresses, cutting
the necks from my dresses, snarling
what I knew, what I know I learned
down through my dirt floor. I could
have burned the smear of bear tallow 
I once felt forced to eat on an arm 
of the sea whose waves but wrought 
their white across and up into wind 
when what should harbor winter 
now darkens down to parch. 

Poem by Joan Naviyuk Kane.