BRL Saturday Night- A Tribute to MARLON EVANS w/ writing from Joseph O’Connell, Frances Sjoberg, Franci Washburn and Simon J. Ortiz, curated by Wendy Burk

Poet Marlon B. Evans was born on October 8, 1952 and left this world on July 28, 2009. Wendy Burk: Marlon was Tohono O’odham and Akimel O’odham, Desert and River People. He received a B.S. from Rochester Institute of Technology and a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. He had just completed his first year of graduate work in the University of Arizona American Indian Studies Program, with an emphasis in poetry and media arts.

When I think about Marlon, I think about the poems he wrote, and also the poems he had not yet written. We can’t know what those poems would be. But you can read a feature on Marlon’s work in the Fall 2007 issue of Red Ink Magazine, a journal of Native voices that was very close to his heart. And thanks to Marlon’s good friend Eric Mache, you can watch a video of Marlon reciting his poem “A Eurocentric Memoir.”

Marlon surrounded himself with a circle of other writers and artists, as talented and unforgettable as he was. Here, a few of them share their work in tribute to our friend Marlon Evans.

Simon J. Ortiz

A Love That Thrives

Soon after we met, a number of summers ago, the late Marlon Evans told me what he really wanted to do.  Write a story, write a script, and make a movie about Ira Hayes.  In fact, the true story of Ira Hayes.  Ira and the Akmiel O’otham community.  “Not that drunk Indian story, not that Tony Curtis b.s. movie Hollywood shit,” Marlon said.  

Franci Washburn

Still Present

In Memory of Marlon Evans

In the rain drenched brown of the earth, still I see your face

Dripping sweat after your run up Tumamoc.

Frances Sjoberg

Recitation for Marlon Evans

from his self-introduction in Red Ink

Taking a poem from beginning to end

With a story in between

Joe O’Connell

Marlon was my best friend for many years. Among the qualities I appreciated during those years were his honesty and generosity. He would talk, then grow silent and think, then talk some more—as if an invisible string were slowly drawing the truth out of him.