Careening Through the Birthplace of John Berryman to Get to a Reading in Chickasaw Nation

Once, after deciding to quit poetry due to personal reasons, I promised myself to do non-poetry things, non-poet things. It back-fired of course. Eventually I find myself traveling to a creative writing festival in Oklahoma. Slowly making it down a narrow highway in rural Oklahoma through a small Baptist town, which is unaware of itself as being the birthplace of one of America's revered poets, John Berryman. In the true form of a poet-blacksmith, craft and inspiration are fused once again after being snapped in two like the brittle spines of rodents under the heel.

For a time, I hated poetry. The original idea was to slowly turn off the creativity and douse down the sparks of inspiration, to deprive myself of it in order to eventually kill any inclinations to write.  For example, I just read newspaper ads, cereal boxes, instruction manual of any kind, not poetry or fiction. Even biographies I would not touch. I went so far as to get hired by the meat department on the grocery side of a retail chain.  I was definitely committed to this idea of getting far away from poetry, and to get rid of any temptations to write or have poetic thoughts. I wanted to be a civilian again.

But eventually working in the Meat Department did not help me. It exasperate my urges for poetics. I began seeing similarities between the boxes of pre-packaged hamburger meat and their different fat contents with certain American and British poems from the 19th and 20th century. I could appreciate the power of a sestina by equating its movements to the sells and markdowns of jumbo variety packs of chicken drumsticks, thighs, and wings. And how the chicken, beef, and pork freezers can easily represent the different schools of thought about the relevance of MFA creative writing programs.

One thing led to the next. Next thing I know, I am writing again and catching up on the latest publications of poetry. I even went back and revisited some of my favorite collections to dislike. Anyways, an aquaintance strongly suggested I submit some of my writings for a conference that was happening in Oklahoma during April of this year. Since Oklahoma is my second home, why not get back into poetry by participating at a conference back home. So to kick off National Poetry Month, I attended the Ninth Annual Creative Writing Festival hosted by East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma.

I set off on this journey with my wife in her white Chevy Traverse with a Comanche Nation bumper sticker on the rear window. When I roll, I got to represent. We were going back home to Oklahoma, but also to Ada, Oklahoma, seated in the heart of Chickasaw Nation. Chickasaw Nation is one the Five Civilized Tribes relocated to Oklahoma during the Trail of Tears in the late 1830's.

But before I get into the formalities of Intertribal relations, I want to stress upon another highlight of the trip. This, of course, having the opportunity to travel through McAlester, Oklahoma, birthplace of John Berryman. McAlester lies in Pittsburg County, Oklahoma, population 17,800 according to the city's webpage. Its claim to fame is being the home of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. On the city's webpage the reader will find the usual format of city history and how it came to be. But no mention of John Smith a.k.a John Berryman or his contributions to American literature. McAlester, Oklahoma, a true, honest example of how landscape can shape an individual young or old, where the taperstries of history are just thin veils but layered thick. How quietly the town sleeps on the prairie without regard to anyone or anything but the fences circling the prison. If you ever find yourself in that part of the world, stop and drink, take a sip of water from a place that spawn a man like John Berryman. And of all places, McAlester.

Next stop was Ada, Chickasaw Country, for the conference which lasted for a couple of days. Ada itself is also a small prairie town with a small college, East Central University. The bulk of the readings were poetry and fiction. And the writers appeared to have been local or have come from all parts of the state. Well that was what the festival packet stated. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend other readings due to eating bad burritos. I barely made it to my own reading. Despite the food poisoning, the festival went rather well.

On our way back home, my wife wanted to check out the Chickasaw Nation Vistor Center and cultural mueseum which was located in the town of Sulphur, Oklahoma. As an Indigeneous person, I am always curious to see how other Indigeneous communities exist and get along day to day. And I must say, if it wasn't for the Chicksaw Nation with their Visitor Center and commerce, the town of Sulphur would have died decades ago. Their cultural was impressive with its many facilities spread out on several acres of land just outside of Sulphur. Visitors are able to take an hour long tour which feature many displays of artwork and craftswork as well as provides an informative survey of Chickasaw culture and history. As a Comanche, I was impressed by the displays and especially by the fact that the Chickasaw had their own pubishing press. What power that must to be able to publish your own community's writings. The publications range from their own daily newspaper to books of contemporary poetry by Chickasaw poets. They even publish a comic book series featuring stories taken from the Chickasaw perspective for the youth.

The trip completed the mending process of what was broken within my craft and vision of poetry. I have reconciled. After completing the tour, my wife and I were walking back to our vehicle and as we were loading up, two non-native couples walked past our car. One gentleman commented to his group, "I dont know what to expect coming here...you know the Indians were high and drunk a hundred years ago off of peyote." And all in the group laughed at once. Yes, a million of thoughts and bells had gone off in my head. And yes, that individual was all over my radar. As I slowly put my car in reverse, backed out, and drove away from that parking lot. I had the satisfaction in the thought that those couples' brains will be snapped and be mended as well, they will be informed...poetry, comic books, and all.