Navarre Scott Momaday
Biography of Navarre Scott Momaday
Navarre Scott Momaday is a Native American author of Kiowa descent. His work House Made of Dawn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1969.
Momaday is considered the founding author in what critic Kenneth Lincoln has coined the Native American Renaissance.
House Made of Dawn is considered a classic in Native American Literature.
N. Scott Momaday is the son of writer Natachee Scott Momaday and painter Al Momaday.
Momaday was born on 27 February 1934 at the Kiowa-Comanche Indian Hospital in Lawton, Oklahoma, South Central United States.
He is enrolled in the Kiowa Tribe of Oklahoma and also has Cherokee ancestry from his mother.
Momaday received his Ph.D. from Stanford University in 1963. Momadays doctoral thesis, The Complete Poems of Frederick Goddard Tuckerman was published in 1965.
His novel House Made of Dawn led to the breakthrough of Native American literature into the American mainstream after the novel was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1969.
House Made of Dawn was the first novel of the Native American Renaissance, a term coined by literary critic Kenneth Lincoln in the Native American Renaissance.
The work remains a classic of Native American Literature.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Navarre Scott Momaday; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Navarre Scott Momaday Poems
The Delight Song Of Tsoai-Talee
I am a feather on the bright sky I am the blue horse that runs in the plain I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water I am the shadow that follows a child
Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon
Eagle Feather Fan
The eagle is my power, And my fan is an eagle. It is strong and beautiful In my hand. And it is real.
Angle Of Geese
How shall we adorn Recognition with our speech?— Now the dead firstborn Will lag in the wake of words.
Before An Old Painting Of The Crucifixio...
I ponder how He died, despairing once. I've heard the cry subside in vacant skies, In clearings where no other was. Despair, Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,
What did we say to each other that now we are as the deer who walk in single file with heads high
Eagle Feather Fan
The eagle is my power,
And my fan is an eagle.
It is strong and beautiful
In my hand. And it is real.
My fingers hold upon it
As if the beaded handle
Were the twist of bristlecone.
The bones of my hand are fine
And hollow; the fan bears them.