Sherman alexie famous poems | Sherman alexie poems

Sherman Alexie is a celebrated Native American writer, poet, and filmmaker whose works explore identity, heritage, and the struggles of contemporary Indigenous life. Born in 1966 and raised on the Spokane Indian Reservation, Alexie often draws from his own experiences of poverty, discrimination, and resilience. His writing blends humor, honesty, and pain, giving voice to Native communities often overlooked in mainstream literature. Best known for The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and the award-winning novel The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, Alexie highlights themes of family, cultural survival, and the tension between tradition and modernity. His style mixes sharp wit with poignant storytelling, making his work both accessible and profound. Beyond literature, Alexie has contributed to film and spoken word, amplifying Native voices. Despite controversy in later years, his legacy remains influential in American literature.

Victory

When I was twelve, I shoplifted a pair

Of basketball shoes. We could not afford

Them otherwise. But when I tied them on,

I found that I couldn’t hit a shot.

When the ball clanked off the rim, I felt

Only guilt, guilt, guilt. O, immoral shoes!

O, kicks made of paranoia and rue!

Distraught but unwilling to get caught

Or confess, I threw those cursed Nikes

Into the river and hoped that was good

Enough for God. I played that season

In supermarket tennis shoes that felt

The same as playing in bare feet.

O, torn skin! O, bloody heels and toes!

O, twisted ankles! O, blisters the size

Of dimes and quarters! Finally, after

I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I told

My father what I had done. He wasn’t angry.

He wept out of shame. Then he cradled

And rocked me and called me his Little

Basketball Jesus. He told me that every cry

Of pain was part of the hoops sonata.

Then he laughed and bandaged my wounds—

My Indian Boy Poverty Basketball Stigmata.

Bad Back

Last night, in 7-11, the cashier reached

across the counter to scan my purchases

then grimaced and grabbed the small

of his back. I know that pain well

so I said, “I’ve got a bad back, too.”

He sighed and said, “It is the lifting,”

he said. “I lift too many bottles

and cans in the cooler.” He owns

the store, I think, because he seems

to work every shift just like my boss

who often worked the graveyard

shift with me at the 24-hour deli

in 1987. I was slender in those years

and a good athlete but my back still

ached. “It’s my long torso,” I said

to the 7-11 owner. “And my legs

are goofy short. I’m 6-2 standing up

and 6-8 sitting down. I’m a bad

lever.” Then I bent slightly

at the waist to give him visual

evidence and laughed when

that move made my back spasm.

“You are not old,” the 7-11 owner

said. “And I am not old. But we

are old.” I smiled at his poetic

observation then carefully carried

my purchases toward my car

but stopped first to give Jason,

the homeless man, all the stuff

that I’d bought for him: the Italian

sub sandwich, potato chips, Sprite,

and beef jerky for his dog, Lady.

I don’t know why Jason is homeless.

He uses a wheelchair. I fist-bump him

then I ease into my car and drive

away. I like to help the men and women

who sit outside convenience stores.

I rarely have cash to give them. Who

carries cash these days? Instead,

I buy them mostly food and drinks.

But I’ve also bought them medicine,

toothpaste, deodorant, and various

other toiletries, too. But I won’t buy

them cigarettes or booze. I always feel

hypocritical for making that tiny

moral stand. Why do I make myself

the judge? I haul around dozens

of my own addictions. Maybe

that’s why my back is bad. Onstage,

I used to tell audiences that my spine

was twisted from carrying the burden

of my race. I used to say that every

Indian struggles with a limp

in the bones and soul. But, then

again, I shouldn’t get too wrapped

up in my Indian-ness. All around me,

people of every kin and kind are

limping. Ah, the eternal diversity

of the limp! Ah, the endless variations

of the bent and busted back!

Last night, after I arrived home

from the 7-11, I saw that my friends

and family had sent me dozens

of texts and emails about Trump.

I read a few—all the rage, doubt,

and fear are justified—but I felt

my back spasm again. I didn’t want

to feel that weight so I deleted all

of the unread messages, links,

and emails. Then I lay flat

on the floor and talked aloud

to everybody in my life. Listen,

I said. You’re letting that man take

hours, days, weeks, months,

and years from your life. But more

than that, you’re letting him turn

you into the worst possible version

of yourself. He’s a contagion

and you’re coughing up blood.

There’s pieces of you splattered

across the screens of your phones,

tablets, and laptops. Yeah, I know

I was being a moralizing asshole

but the daily news is stripping

the flesh from my body and soul.

Yeah, I know that many people

are in danger but my solipsistic

fury doesn’t protect anybody.

I know, as a writer and an Indian

and an Indian writer that I am

expected to offer advice. But

I have nothing but this consolation:

Everything you’re feeling now

is what I’ve always felt

as a reservation-raised Indian.

And, hey, I’m a survivor. I’m 51%

intact. In this moment, as I write,

I can hear the bathroom fan

but I’m going to pretend

it’s the roar of a mythical

waterfall that the multitudes

of wild salmon are still

climbing. And, hey, I might

as well be a brown bear

fishing with my sharp claws.

Look at me! I’m carrying

a wild salmon in my teeth.

I’m going to feast then fall

and fall into a gorgeous

hibernation for at least

the next hour or three.

I’m going to rub my sleepy

eyes and pray that winter

will quickly change

into spring. I’m going to press

my bad back against the earth

and wait for everybody’s rebirth.