All posts by Ken Hada

Ken Hada is a descendant of Hungarian immigrants, Gypsy poets, barn dance aficionados, art lovers, amateur philosophers, wheat farmers, cowboys, preachers, teachers and common sense craftsmen. He has four current collections of poetry in print: The Way of the Wind (Village Books Press, 2008), Spare Parts and The River White: A Confluence of Brush & Quill (Mongrel Empire Press, 2010 and 2011) and Margaritas and Redfish (Lamar UP, 2013). The River White is a collaborative effort with his brother, Duane Hada’s watercolors tracing their journeys on the White River from its spring source 700 miles to the Mississippi River. The River White and Spare Parts were both finalists for the Oklahoma Book Award for poetry. Spare Parts was awarded the “Wrangler Award” for outstanding poetry from the National Western Heritage Museum and Cowboy Hall of Fame. Poems from this collection were featured four times on Garrison Keillor’s syndicated program, The Writer’s Almanac. His involvement in the poetry scene includes three presentations at the Neustadt Festival sponsored by World Literature Today and various additional festivals and venues of note. Ken is a professor in the Department of English and Languages at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma where he directs the annual Scissortail Creative Writing Festival. kenhada.org

Ten Years

“Thus I sang of the care of fields, of cattle,
and of trees, while great Caesar thundered
in war by deep Euphrates”

– Virgil, Georgics

Ten years have passed since we thundered into Iraq. G.W.Bush following Cheney and Rumsfield, following a frustrated Oedipal ego, following a hazy idea of Reaganism, of pseudo-Americanism. “Drill Baby Drill” echoes now as a dry hole, empty sounds banging on pipe that would never fill us — and the glory of war — once again repudiates all sense of history, all sense of humanity. We sing our shields into battle shining under Arabic sun, secure in our delusions of democracy — something we never really wanted — just an excuse to rehearse new players in an old plot with familiar lines. If you can’t trust Cheney, who can you trust?

How many dead now? How many? The desert only knows. We pretend the sand subdues all honest patriotism. We marvel with incredulity the vast open spaces that invite us, our technology on parade only to be swallowed in the Sufi winds that even Time fears. How a nation belittles itself when the warrior is praised as god, while cattle and the trees are ignored, the beauty of life along a river as it has always been, is now relagated to sharing space with American Exceptionalism. Cattle chew their cud, roots seek hidden moisture, but the fields burn with the fire of lust — and we know what we hope to forget.

***

What hath New York to do with Baghdad? Oklahoma is in the middle of this geographical kaleidoscope in which we see fragments, but never the whole.

New York cries out with horrible realization and Baghdad wonders, and Oklahoma (and Alaska) chortles the chorus of the opportunistic – let us drill our own oil – for our own good – and we justify that pagan chant by caricaturing some Arabic world we’ve never known.

We went to Baghdad, bolstered by the promise the her oil would pay for our efforts. 2.2 Trillion dollars later, Oklahoma drills at home with the cadence: “be free from foreign oil” – so we drill – and prices have risen steadily. We’ve secured a corporate empire at the expense of our prairies and box canyons, now holes poked all over the state but the average guy in a pickup spends his $4/gallon waving a flag and singing “God Bless Us All” hating “Sand-Niggers” and forgetting the first rule of war — if you’re going to threaten your soul with dishonesty, at least get something material in exchange.

So liberal New York and liberal-hating Oklahoma wonder why the birds sing less often these days, why energy costs triple and why anyone should doubt patriotism.

In Oklahoma we know terror too – Timothy wasn’t Arabic though. He looked like us, and that complicates our sympathy all the more. Bin Laden and McVeigh – two similar rogues – two fellows who knew how to play a system – and we refuse to learn. Refuse to learn. We worship faulty systems and broken promises echo in the hollows we used to know.

The Weight of Your Loss

Something cruel
in not saying Goodbye . . .

fog on the mountains,
drizzle on the windshield, a buzzard
between covered peaks dark and
beautiful from this distance floats
invisible currents, a secret passage
as close as the imagination above
leafless timber dripping gray . . .

Just about everyone deserves
Goodbye eye to eye – a mirror
for the sake of conscience . . .

don’t ambush me by stealing
away in the dark leaving me to carry
the weight of your loss . . .

Worship Hour

In Lakeview Texas (population
152 and no lake in sight)
bare stalks line harvested cotton
fields in soil colored sienna

surrounding deserted homesteads,
windmills and irrigation pipes
across fields, giant green
tractors on guard, tattered cotton

scraps float along ditches.
Three pickups wait at the door
of the Baptist Church, a
handful gathered for God.

A picture of Jesus hangs
behind the pulpit in a sanctuary
where crowds once gathered
when cotton was picked by hand.

The Bluff

The field next to the house
ends eighty feet above the creek.

A soft red bank
was the end of our world.
A misstep and our fall
would not be survivable.

The edge attracted us.

We would stand as close
as possible looking across infinite
prairie, breathing wild air,
follow a hawk circling
at eye level, feel wind
in our teary eyes.

Quietly we would wait
and watch and congratulate
ourselves on not falling,
grateful the tricky earth
had not given way
beneath our feet.

Satisfied
with another successful venture,
at the right moment
we would turn our backs away
from the great gulf
of our childhood
and walk home
down a dusty trail
that has yet to be improved.

Guest Poet: Dorothy Alexander

We are happy to welcome Dorothy Alexander to the site. Dorothy Alexander, lawyer turned poet, finds material for her poems most often in the ordinary life and history of rural western Oklahoma where she was born and reared. She takes inspiration from the agrarian literary tradition and the populist political movements that began in the 1890’s in the rural United States. She writes primarily in the narrative form, what she sometimes calls “narcissistic narrative.” Author of four poetry collections and a number of non-fiction short works, she owns Village Books Press, Cheyenne, Oklahoma, a micro poetry press.

RED MOON POWWOW
Along the Washita, July 2006

Tribal drums tremble the night air.
Dog Soldiers stomp a fancy dance,
turkey feathers bob and weave,
Converse All Stars and Nike Hi-Tops
slap rhythm on the packed earth.

The whole Cheyenne nation sits on folding
chairs, eating Frito chili pies and fry bread.
Spotted Bird’s widow, Christine Star,
daughter of old Finger Nail and Martha Swallow,
waits for the Give-Away to begin, rechecking her list

naming those she will honor with baskets stuffed
with bags of Yukon’s Best corn meal and flour,
Domino sugar, made-in-China junk from Wal-Mart.
Plus one fine Pendleton blanket and a carton
of unfiltered Camels for the Keeper of the Sacred Arrows.

Imogene Old Crow paces back and forth, her shadow
dancing in firelight, carrying on a serious cell phone
conversation, Blue-Tooth clipped to her raven hair.
She listens to the sacred drums with one ear,
the profane world with the other one.

HOMELAND SECURITY FAILURE
Along the Washita, July 1540

Isabella’s emissary rides through the waving
prairie grasses of the heartland, his blue Castilian
eyes scanning the horizon for seven golden cities.

He rides the endless plains breathing the dust
of buffalo, dreaming of wealth, of glory,
of returning triumphantly to his monarch.

He rides and rides, saddle sores pock his Spanish
butt, and cruelty fuels his aristocratic ambitions.

Wherever he goes citizen warriors trail
the conquistador column, silent as breath,
waiting, planning the right moment,
the split second when flint tipped shafts will
spill Old World blood in New World dust.

The right moment never comes.
Foreigners continue their relentless march
until every citizen is slain or subdued,
and all the roadside historic markers
chronicle the triumph of terrorism.

Uncle Roger

Despite MS
he rises before dawn
puts on camo and worn boots
painstakingly slow
canes his way to the pickup
and pulls his trailered Bad Boy*
to his favorite bend on the creek
leans against the fender
dragging his useless leg
climbs aboard, stalks
to a frost-covered cedar blind
waits the pride of the hunt.

I remember as boys we walked
briskly alongside his cheerful banter
following quail into plum thickets
his good legs and eyes then
helped us learn an ethic
we have never forgotten

And now he still burns
stoking the embers of survival.

In due time, when death
has arrived, when the kill
has occurred, he crawls to the buck
guts it on his knees, wraps
a chain around its hocks, crawls
back to the Bad Boy, winches it
up and on to the trailer,
ties it down, then wills himself
back into the driver’s seat,
drives home worn out –
a tired legacy he honors.

* a battery-powered cart

A Professor before Dawn

In another time
he would be a cowboy.

He still wears boots and hat,
carries a leather briefcase
up the back steps
before dawn into an office.

A magniloquent moon hanging
above the trees
lights his nocturnal habits.

He turns a key to get the day
going. He will log in,
check email, review lesson plans
and feel the hard bite of the saddle
between his thighs, thinking
about wide open spaces
and the calling that will not
let him go.

Making Art

Nervous as a skunk
this art-making
takes a lot of nose-first
digging, scrounging garbage
cans turned on their side
clattering in a dirty breeze,
rattling like death caught
in your throat – you crawl
inside, sniff and snoop
until something clings to you –
you grasp at it, try to make it
yours – anything you might use
to coerce an audience,
anything to make trash
seem sweet enough to color
your cagey stripes.

Red Dirge

red-tipped fescue,
red sumac, ivy,
berries and cedar bark
– even the water is red
like old blood known
in Autumn rituals –
blood as familiar
as it is foreign,
ordinarily strange
like turning leaves

Mockingbird

You remember a mockingbird sitting
atop bare dying elm branches, singing
every morning, bouncing on deadwood,
limb to limb, faithful like morning sun.

You remember when she left, denial
fell into familiar instinctive patterns:
you delivered flowers, bouquets
of all sizes as if those gestures could
merge with your desperate prayers to save
illusions of happiness, the pretense
that shock and faith make possible.

You remember faint evening breezes
restoring sense as you sat on the porch
seeing the dying elm bare before you.