Tag Archives: Oklahoma

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.

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.

Guest Poet, Sandra Soli

From time to time we intend to publish poetry from guests. My first guest is Sandra Soli, from Edmond, Oklahoma, whose 2007 book WHAT TREES KNOW, received the Oklahoma Book Award for poetry. Her two entries follow:

Implications of Hawk

A certainty of rabbits
makes him fly.

He claims the wind
for himself.

None of us are innocent.

 

 

Saturday in the Wichitas

A rock not climbed before
waits for my boot
pendent with implication

secret as water
from the body or ferns
touching skin to skin.

The rock names me:
Look. Daylights they test
the music of stones,
reading these places we save.

god particles, Missouri

Sunday morning, a sign
west of St. Louis says JESUS
all uppercase the way
a traveling evangelist says it in three
syllables when he’s working
the crowd up to an altar
call. On one side of the road,
a towering promise
of adult entertainment
in a pleasure dome —
on the other a sign says
next exit eternal life.
The road is lined with lights
flashing a warning that
the whole place could go up in flames
if you’re not careful. And even though
you don’t need to be reminded
after a week of triple digit heat,
the marquee on a Baptist Church
assures you hell is real
and you remember
revivals where a pitchman
who said he worked for God
could beat the whole crowd down
into submission, turn them
at just the right moment
and close the deal,
and you think in the middle
of America you’re in the middle
of a damn tent meeting and you hope
Oklahoma is a little closer to heaven
but you’d bet your life the difference
from one coast to the other is
nowhere near three sigmas,
so you can’t call this a discovery yet.