Gianna Loboda, excerpt of review of Persimmon Sunday:
In his poetry collection titled Persimmon Sunday, Ken Hada tugs on the heart and soul of the reader at every turn of the page. In his hauntingly beautiful poems, he subtly confronts the reader with a feeling of longing that demands to be felt, and likewise a contentment that comes only from nature. A thick loneliness hangs over every line, coating the throat as one reads aloud. But there is a certain beauty to be felt in that loneliness and brokenness. Silence breaks the frost again and again as a recurring theme in much of the work, both comforting and lonely in equal measure. Hada shows through his work that a great deficit in life comes from a disconnect with nature. To be one with nature is to live life as intended by the Creator, whether that be God or the divine “powers” of the universe. Nature is to be taken as its own being, not something that any one of us daresay we own. Contentment in the stillness of nature comes forward as an overarching theme, as Hada tells us to sit for a moment and take in everything that has been, and everything that will be, in both his work and in our lives:
Sit with me, won’t you? Sit with me
in the first streaks of light. Let’s sit
a good long while, what’s the hurry? (pg. 70, lines 8-10)
While we sit together between these pages, he shows us how to live, love, and find contentment within the loneliness. To slow down, and enjoy every moment for what it is. …
Though time marches on, empires rise and fall, relationships end and begin, people are born and die—nature never fades. Old trees with their roots deep do not fall. They begin to burrow deeper down to anchor themselves. And the animals are always there too to guide us with their song:
I heard a Cardinal deep
in the woods.
It is enough;
It is everything. (p. 93, lines 21-24)
Nature’s song is always there if you listen closely enough. And like the Cardinal in the woods, the song on the wind, poetry is enough. It is everything.
Persimmon Sunday is a wondrous work of the deepest kind of soul-reading poetry. Often heartbreaking and heartaching. Hada evokes striking images and touches on heartfelt memories to pull the reader deep into the pages. There is a longing for more while also being content with what one has. A thick loneliness, yet an appreciation for stillest silence. A great reverence for nature and being one with it. An understanding that we own nothing, truly. An innate need to be someone worth caring about. An understanding that loneliness is both a driving and devastating thing. Hada shows readers that yes life is painful, often staggering and hopeless. But it is still worth living and feeling deeply. Experience is the best, and often the only, teacher. He uses words in a way that an artist uses paint, making artistic decisions and adding minute details to bring everything together. There is a longing to be remembered, and a clear drive to do so through language. Hada gives us everything and more that separates poetry from great poetry. And the result is something truly remarkable.
— Gianna Loboda, East Central University
Hada Wins Poetry Award: The Ada News
https://www.theadanews.com/news/local_news/hada-wins-poetry-award/article_de3cd08a-a484-58d5-a240-28ab20d7189f.html
Ken Hada’s deeply wondrous collection of poems Contour Feathers is a practice in worship filled with luminous heart questioning, “humble boyhood wonder,” and at times the somber reflection of a man searching within himself to find his own truth, and the truths of the greater world. “Like the constant glow of a moon forever silent all around us,” Hada’s poems are persistent, are eternal in their longing, and in their ache. He speaks like a brother of the woods, an Ozark, prairie mystic who prophets that mysticism is “a phenomenon that invokes enchantment, pure in its simple complexity,” who wants the honest beauty of the natural world to quell his inner waves, and soothe pandemic, political, and pseudo-religious frustrations; “their piety – false as ditch water floating with cow shit after rain.” Ken’s mellow true voice echoes through the hearts of trees and bounces off the shoulders of birds. Contour Feathers made me feel “at home with the planet, at home with the honeybees, with the whales, the songbirds…the moon and the stars, the dust, to which we all return.” – Kai Coggin, author of Mining for Stardust, Incandescent, and Wingspan
The poems in Ken Hada’s Contour Feathers seem effortless, but they are effortless in the way a lilac flowering is effortless, or goodness in John Lewis is effortless, or the way the work of a nuthatch is effortless. Grounded in vision and rooted in the mystical, Hada’s works are translations of the miraculous all around us. I find myself here in the company of Rilke, Basho, Clifton, Rumi.
– Darrell Bourque, Louisiana Poet Laureate 2007-2011
Read Joshua Grasso’s insightful review at:
https://www.amazon.com/Contour-Feathers-Ken-Hada/product-reviews/1735576247/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_show_all_btm?ie=UTF8&reviewerType=all_reviews
A review of Sunlight & Cedar, by Terry Clark, is available at: http://clarkcoffee.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-geography-pandemic-poetry-3.htmlhttp://clarkcoffee.blogspot.com/2020/08/a-geography-pandemic-poetry-3.html
The River White: A Confluence of Brush & Quill
“Brothers Duane and Ken Hada have produced an unusual and unusually beautiful book … The River is a calming and meditative book that gains momentum even as the river itself slows, increasingly crossed and elbowed by human structures, spreading into wetlands before joining the Great River itself” — William Hagen (World Literature Today July 2012)
“This book is ultimately not about the river at all. The River White is a conversation between two artists – and brothers – about the most human experience of all, that of finding oneself in utter awe of the soaring, swelling, breathing, rustling silent exapnses of our natural world. … the note that sounds most frequently in the book: the sense of being haunted – by regret as well as beauty – and of reconciling sincere love of all creation with the limitations of the human spirit. … The direct, clear-eyed paintings find a distorted beauty in their poetic reflection. … The ‘ghosts’ haunting the work are not ideals; they are lonely, passionate human beings searching for the beauty they cannot find in themselves in the world without” — Joshua Grasso (Virtual Artists Collective)
“Poetry and watercolor have much in common – economy of brush and pen stroke and words, vivid imagery, and emotion and meaning beyond the surface. But less is more. … the poems reach deep and the paintings shimmer.”- Terry Clark (http:clarkcoffee.blogspot.com, January 29, 2012)
“To the Hadas the river has been a mother’s hand and a father’s instruction of woods and water. Together they are giving back … every page expresses their affection so clearly. The watercolors place your eyes in the bow of a river boat and lyrical poetry is your guide’s voice as you travel through the cliffs of the Ozarks to the flatlands of the delta where the Mississippi welcomes the White.” – Grant Carter (The Turnip Truck Chronicles, March 4, 2012)
Spare Parts
“In these piognant poems, Hada probes the natural and human worlds with equal candor, forcefulness, and literary artistry. His canvas is broad, and he paints it with rare compassion, grit, and unblinking emotional honesty. This is a book to read and return to, again and again, for the little triumphs necessary to sustain us through the tragedies of our lives.” – Larry D. Thomas (2008 Texas Poet Laureate. Member, Texas Institute of Letters)
*****
“For Hada, simplicity is a sophisticated aesthetic and a necessary prerequisite for beauty so powerful it resides at the edges of perception. … The poetry in Spare Parts reveals the ethic of conservation that runs deep in both the poet’s life and in the landscape presented in the book. Hada manages to sustain the power of his words ,,, by choosing the steady pace over the fevered pitch, the long haul over the short race, subtlely and silence over the obvious and verbose. These poems invite the reader to consider what might otherwise be discarded, to hold on to what is useful and to let everything else go.” – Rachel C. Jackson (Crosstimbers vol.10 no. 2, spring/summer, 2010. p. 51-52)
****
In Spare Parts, we take a dive into Hada’s memories from when he grew up, mentally and physically. Throughout the poems, we see specific memories and the specific impact they hold on him. Interestingly enough, these are not fond memories, but distressing; there seems to be a consistent lack of happy endings; these memories tend to be the ones we do not talk about.
Spare Parts is written in three sections, though they are not directly marked. The poems are organized in beginning life-lessons, mid-life experiences, and old-age reflections. The book starts with “First Attempt at Killing” where Hada shows us his first time he and someone, possibly his brother, learned to shoot birds with a BB gun (3). There was a rule, “Don’t shoot songbirds, / Robins, Cardinals and those kind” and that rule was broken (2, 3). This poem ends with the two “learning / to justify behavior: / hiding and spinning things / that should never be hidden or spun” (21-24). Here, we get a sense of regret, and we can assume they are in for a lesson after breaking the only rule.
I believe the second part can begin in two places: one where the boy in the pages had to mentally grow up, and one where we see him physically growing. We see mental growth in “A Tentative Boy” (10). When we hear our parents argue, the world changes. We begin to realize our parents do not have it all figured out, and the world is then a scary place. Hearing things like “Just kill yourself. / Drive your truck off a bluff somewhere” (4, 5), said through the wall can be world-shattering; we can never come back from that. This second part of growth begins on page 15 in “Bowling Alley” where we see priorities shift; we no longer hear read about dad’s rules and things at home, but about peers and girls. The lines that stick out to me here are lines 13-22, where Hada describes the teenage desire to “borrow the car,” probably the family car, to “eat at the Sonic, then go / to the bowling alley, to the place / where you dared not to be a dork, where / ruckus music could spark kissing”. The word that ties this poem together is “freedom” in line 22, the one thing all teenagers want.
The next section begins on page 45 with “Symphony in Cordell”. In this poem, I see the reality behind the ideas of growing up, especially in the second and third sections. When I read “Will these waitresses stay in Cordell / or will they wind up in the City?” (23, 24). The words “wind up” caught me by surprise; normally, all people want is to get out of their hometown to go to the big city and make a life for themselves. That’s a popular idea when you are from a small town in Oklahoma, but in this line, it sounds like a negative thing. Looking ahead, we read how two young guys walk in, occupying the restaurant along with older men, described as “brawny but still tender / as always, life will recycle itself, and these towns will continue” (38-40). The word “recycle” is gripping. This metaphor sets the fate for this town and its’ people- the young people will turn out like their elders, and it is a continuous cycle.
The last section starts on page 82 with “These Sharks, Below.” There is much talk about death in these lines. Line 6 strikes me as almost harsh, but true, “Life is not possible absent this fact”- we all will die, and there is no way out. We then read, “The one who throws the shaft / must be certain” (7, 8) and “We look out over the vast sea / and guess our end” (15, 16) and I picture someone sitting on the edge of a small sailboat, staring into the great abys where the dark sky meets the sea, peaceful and terrifying all at once- almost like life. The title mentions sharks, so we could be talking about shark hunting, especially when we read “death lurks” in line 5, we all hear about how sharks “lurk”, but I think something different is happening. These lines make me think of the Grim Reaper and the shaft he uses to kill people. He must also be careful to make sure he gets the right person at the right time. I believe before we die, we “look over the vast sea” as in our past and what could have been.
The last poem of the book, “Groundwork” on page 93, is also interesting when looking at the way the book moves through phases of life. I believe this is a poem for after death- when someone is buried. The lines that stick out to me are, “While cynics scoff / of idealism and warn / of recurring pain” (12-14) because I think of visiting someone in the graveyard; the recurring pain you feel when visiting them, knowing there is no other way to “visit” them, because they are dead. All of these sections are significant when thinking of the title Spare Parts, because these are the parts of life everyone will face in some form. You will have lessons when you are a child, you will have time as a teenager to grow and experience various parts of freedom, you will reflect on your life as you grow older, and you will face death.
“My Favorite White Trash Diner” is my favorite poem in this book. I am sure everyone can think of their favorite diner that may not have five stars across the board- but they still go. This poem begins wonderfully, “These old gals’ been rode hard / and put up wet / not a few times” (1-3) describing the waitresses- life has not been kind to them, they have been put through the ringer and hung to dry, but still they stand. Lines “They’re awful open about love / or the lack thereof / Love is a good topic I guess / served with eggs” (10-13) paint a great picture of people you see in these types of diners; they do not know a thing about you, but they will make you feel close like distant kin. I can picture the lady at the Waffle House in Oklahoma City, calling everyone young and old “sugar,” telling you any story you would want to hear, which then made me laugh when I read, “what they dream, how they cope / is nobody’s damn business / except, of course, you ask / and they’ll tell it (33-36). I would put this as a “spare part” of life because “white trash” diners are a staple in Oklahoma. They are filled with lots of negativity and some of the best people you could ever meet all in one. I often think of the people working there, and often wonder why they choose to be here. Maybe I will never know, but I do know they are some of the best places to learn the facts of life.
An interesting note about this book I have noticed is the much alliteration usage. One poem that caught my attention was “Singing in the Kitchen Window” and the usage of alliteration makes the contents a bit sadder. The poem beings with “She sang well as Sammie Smith” (1) and later says “Even grumpy saints moved to the edge of the pew / when they smiled singing happy hopeful heaven songs” (14, 15), the use of this language grabbed my attention and I knew this was something key to the poem- this woman’s singing uplifted many people that heard her. We later learn, “A short while later their divorce went public” (23) and we learn the truth about our singer; she was able to make others happy while she sang, while she felt different inside. This is a “spare part” of her life, though she was living it at one time, this is something she will learn from and be able to look back and reflect on; it will not be the end of her.
Spare Parts is filled with different parts of life observed by Ken Hada, which paved the road for his life and memories today. Though it may not be your average poetry book filled with happy endings, it is real. The poetry in these pages speaks volumes about the “spare parts” of life that many choose to overlook and forget- the things that really shape us into who we are, whether by being a bystander or the central figure. Overall, a very worthwhile read.
Christine McKinney
East Central University
11 September 2023
The Way of the Wind
“The volume moves gracefully from the towering ‘Witness Tree’ on his family’s land … to a famous bronze at Tulsa’s Gilcrease Museum … Hada’s poems are full of surprises, never content just to tell; he is continually redefining himself in the bones and marrow of Oklahoma. For him, there can be no past and present, since the life that existed once upon a time is present today, evoked by fallen leaves and Cimarron twilight. … a tribute to his vision, and a profound meditation what it means to live in a place both as native and exile.” – Joshua Grasso (Concho River Review XXII no. 2 Fall, 2008).
“[Ken’s poetry] clears a space where readers can dwell for a time in the ‘gypsum hills of northwest Oklahoma and the Ozarks of north Arkansas.’ There are moments in The Way of the Wind when this happens almost flawlessly – as in ‘The Windmill’ (12) which ‘creaks and groans / the belts squeaking in prairie wind, / wrinkled blades twirling / in tired momentum / unbalanced.’ We can see it, but we can hear it as well – especially in the direct discourse of the short first line – no simile, just the sound an old windmill makes in prairie wind, here and now. And in ‘A Cedar Grove’ (15), ‘Musing in wild / transcendence, / buoyant bluebirds / sing me back.’ The alternation between lines of four syllables and three throughout the poem evokes something of the rhythm of a bluebird’s song.”
– Steven Schroeder (Virtual Artists Collective)
“Hada describes a 300-year-old bur oak as a ‘solitary old / man [who] has lived through storms, broken / dreams and promises gone unfulfilled’ (4-6). Like the other poems in this section, this poem at once pulls the reader into the testimony and leads to internalize the presence of the surrounding landscape” – Steven Pedersen (Journal of the American Studies Associaton of Texas, 41. November 2010, p. 48-49)
“This poetry is one of those rare offerings that brings the author and reader together in a manner that is reminiscent of two old friends sitting together remembering times past but not forgotten.” Mike Nobles, cofounder of A Gathering of Writers.