I was stunned to see Jeanie’s obituary in the paper before I knew she had died. I was a close friend, I thought; sent her and Roger weekly columns from my computer. We’d exchange emails occasionally—until lately. And then this!!
Caruth-Hale and the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record ran the same glowing summary of her life as the state paper. You can read it for yourself.
I want to remember her with poetry she wrote. The earliest examples I own are from “Spendrift Words,” Spring, 1977, the Garland County Community College literary journal. Whether she was a student or merely a submitter to the journal, I don’t know, but I found the publication in the Garland County Library’s book room for a measly quarter.
The first of Jeanie’s two poems herein is a long one—40 lines—but it tells a story I didn’t know.
The second poem can be found at pittypatter.blogspot.com, my poetry blog.
Caruth-Hale and the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record ran the same glowing summary of her life as the state paper. You can read it for yourself.
I want to remember her with poetry she wrote. The earliest examples I own are from “Spendrift Words,” Spring, 1977, the Garland County Community College literary journal. Whether she was a student or merely a submitter to the journal, I don’t know, but I found the publication in the Garland County Library’s book room for a measly quarter.
The first of Jeanie’s two poems herein is a long one—40 lines—but it tells a story I didn’t know.
The second poem can be found at pittypatter.blogspot.com, my poetry blog.
East of Checotah to west of Wetumka,
facing on both sides the highway,
like embodied spirits of red men
from the five civilized tribes,
red-tailed hawks sit poised on fence
posts and in dormant scrub oaks.
facing on both sides the highway,
like embodied spirits of red men
from the five civilized tribes,
red-tailed hawks sit poised on fence
posts and in dormant scrub oaks.
A cold front pushes swollen white puffs
edged in charcoal, back and forth across
a shocking blue February sky, while pink-
tipped willows celebrate their greening.
edged in charcoal, back and forth across
a shocking blue February sky, while pink-
tipped willows celebrate their greening.
Old chiefs, grief-soaked, stare stonily
at glass and chrome rubber-shod metal
transgressing where once only Indian
ponies carried man. Young braves, restless,
now and then lift up on silent wings
and swoop across the yellow-striped lanes.
at glass and chrome rubber-shod metal
transgressing where once only Indian
ponies carried man. Young braves, restless,
now and then lift up on silent wings
and swoop across the yellow-striped lanes.
Cold increases. Raw wind whips the sand-
colored Oklahoma grass. The charcoal
chews away at white puffs and blue sky;
the pink-tipped willows pale and shiver.
colored Oklahoma grass. The charcoal
chews away at white puffs and blue sky;
the pink-tipped willows pale and shiver.
Uneasy, the old chiefs turn against
the wind, short-spined feathers ruffling
over their heads. In growing darkness
white breast-feathers gleam with brown
war-paint flecks. The tempo of young
braves’ wing-beat intensifies.
and blue. Furiously, wind flails
grass and bends willows down until
they wheeze and swish in pain.
Behind the shield of glass, drivers
flinch in apprehension and accelerate.
Rapid door locking echo like thunderclaps
in the heavy, thick dark
and windshield wipers race
to brush away relentless feathers.
The territory is quickened
with warriors, long suppressed,
sanctioned now by their forebears
to reclaim their own.
with warriors, long suppressed,
sanctioned now by their forebears
to reclaim their own.
2 comments:
I'm catching up on reading again. This poem is beautiful. I'm sorry about your friend.
Thank you, Dorothy. You would have loved her. She was vivacious and fun and talkative--and a good woman in all ways.
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