Enga mellom fjella

Feeling much better. "Question for Oklahoma"

I feel much better today, thank-you. I survived the readings last night ... barely. Asked Brian for a ride home (I don't normally ask for rides) but he'd come on his bicycle (alas, no basket). Called a friend for a ride.

I especially liked the poem "Obate" that Elizabeth Schultz read. Dennis Etzel's poem about his 2 moms' bras out on the line (and the neighbors looking over the fence) was precious. I also told him that there was something poetic in Mom So and Mom Sue.

I had to excuse myself for much of Denise Low's presentation. Thankfully, Steph gave me a bottle of water and I hid in the back.

So, today is Leap Day and feels like Spring here ... two more nice days, then bitter cold next week. Called my mother to wish her a Happy Leap and told her I could've been born early on Leap Day, instead of late (in April) and I'd only be ... (well, a quarter of what I am).

Got Gzaibun out to England! A pretty stamp with a view of the beach in Guam.

Saw two robins in my yard. Picked up my photos of Montana (from December). In all, a fairly good day.

A poem I wrote thinking about the new law, 1804, aimed at aliens, that has caused beaucoup grief in Oklahoma.

Question for Oklahoma

Which Oklahoma beckons me home;
which cries out: Alien, leave me alone!

William spoke German and Muskogee;
Bertha lilted in Swedish to her sister.
Clarence's grandmother McCarthy,
Irish as Patrick's sow in Belfast,
married into Quaker dairy farmers.
Teresa gave Dutch-Alsatien hugs
(like a friendly mutt ... whatever).

My father was born in the hills of West Virginia,
moved to blackeyed peas, Okmulgee melons.
My mother swam in Pennsy split-pea soup,
sopping it up with home-baked bread.

I was born in a cold strange land,
north of my mother's soft voice and hands,
my father's sunshine smile.

¿Pertenezco? Do I belong?

If I speak in another tongue, will all be severed.
Will the towers of ORU tumble
to manicured lawns in square town Jenks.
Will Broken Arrow be straightened, mended.
Will Greenwood be rent asunder as before.
Will red dust blow over the muddy Arkansas,
mix with updrafts of unresolved hate,
tower over Tulsa-town, twist in pain,
cleanse all again and again, covering
the rubble with waves of bluestem.

Which Oklahoma speaks in Washashe,
chants in Choctaw, weaves the dust
of red dirt history, calls me home,
or points a finger: Alien, leave me alone!

© Kåre Enga 2008 [164.513] 2008-02-15

Kansas: 52º and sunny.

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