Book Nook Cafe discussion

Please share your favorite poems here. Heard any poetry news? Let us know. Heard of some new poetry books? Do tell !

Post here about all poetry !

Ring Out, Wild Bells (from In Memoriam)
By Lord Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

From A Poem For Every Day Of The Year
A Poem for Every Day of the Year

Nice beginning to 2021.

My day got away from me, so it's a tad late to post this, however, i liked it too much to not do so.

After the Gentle Poet Kobayashi Issa
Robert Hass

New Year’s morning—
everything is in blossom!
I feel about average.

A huge frog and I
staring at each other,
neither of us moves.

This moth saw brightness
in a woman’s chamber—
burned to a crisp.

Asked how old he was
the boy in the new kimono
stretched out all five fingers.

Blossoms at night,
like people
moved by music

Napped half the day;
no one
punished me!

Fiftieth birthday:

From now on,
It’s all clear profit,
every sky.

Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.

These sea slugs,
they just don’t seem
Japanese.

Hell:

Bright autumn moon;
pond snails crying
in the saucepan.


FROM his Field Guide

This sounds to me as though someone is sticking to New Year's Resolutions.

January Morning
William Carlos Williams

Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.

madrano wrote:
Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually..."

:) A nice snapshot of the day from various points of view.

That's what charmed me, Alias.

I am not very familiar with Welsh poet R.S. Thomas but i like what i've read of his work. This isn't at all a typical January Poem but the composition is almost a painting, so detailed is it.
Then, i read his bio on Wiki and found myself smiling at a description (from his son) of one of Thomas' sermons, about the evil of refrigerators and washing machines. LOL!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._S._T...

January
R.S. Thomas

The fox drags its wounded belly
Over the snow, the crimson seeds
Of blood burst with a mild explosion,
Soft as excrement, bold as roses.

Over the snow that feels no pity,
Whose white hands can give no healing,
The fox drags its wounded belly.

madrano wrote: "I am not very familiar with Welsh poet R.S. Thomas but i like what i've read of his work. This isn't at all a typical January Poem but the composition is almost a painting, so detai..."

I love that poem! So expressive!

I'm pleased to read your comment, Julie. Thanks.

The poem certainly gives a sad an vivid image. :(

Democracy
by Langston Hughes

Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.
I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.
I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.
Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.
I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.

Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

Two powerful Hughes poems. What a wordsmith with ennobling ideas. This was a good day to share these, Alias. Thank you.

Thank you. I thought they would resonate today.

Poet Amanda Gorman, 22, Will Read at Joe Biden's Inauguration

NEW YORK — At age 22, poet Amanda Gorman, chosen to read at the inauguration of President-elect Joe Biden, already has a history of writing for official occasions.

“I have kind of stumbled upon this genre. It’s been something I find a lot of emotional reward in, writing something I can make people feel touched by, even if it’s just for a night,” says Gorman. The Los Angeles resident has written for everything from a July 4 celebration featuring the Boston Pops Orchestra to the inauguration at Harvard University, her alma mater, of school president Larry Bacow.

When she reads next Wednesday, she will be continuing a tradition — for Democratic presidents — that includes such celebrated poets as Robert Frost and Maya Angelou. The latter’s “On the Pulse of Morning,” written for the 1993 inauguration of President Bill Clinton, went on to sell more than 1 million copies when published in book form. Recent readers include poets Elizabeth Alexander and Richard Blanco, both of whom Gorman has been in touch with.

“The three of us are together in mind, body and spirit,” she says.

Gorman is the youngest inaugural poet in memory, and she has made news before. In 2014, she was named the first Youth Poet Laureate of Los Angeles, and three years later she became the country’s first National Youth Poet Laureate. She has appeared on MTV; written a tribute to Black athletes for Nike; published her first book, “The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough,” as a teenager, and has a two-book deal with Viking Children’s Books. The first work, the picture book “Change Sings,” comes out later this year.

Gorman says she was contacted late last month by the Biden inaugural committee. She has known numerous public figures, including former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton and former first lady Michelle Obama, but says she will be meeting the Bidens for the first time. The Bidens, apparently, have been aware of her: Gorman says the inaugural officials told her she had been recommended by the incoming first lady, Jill Biden.

She is calling her inaugural poem “The Hill We Climb” while otherwise declining to preview any lines. Gorman says she was not given specific instructions on what to write, but was encouraged to emphasize unity and hope over “denigrating anyone” or declaring “ding, dong, the witch is dead” over the departure of President Donald Trump.

The siege last week of the U.S. Capitol by Trump supporters seeking to overturn the election was a challenge for keeping a positive tone, but also an inspiration. Gorman says that she has been given 5 minutes to read, and before what she described during an interview as “the Confederate insurrection” of Jan. 6 she had only written about 3 1-2 minutes worth.

The final length runs to about 6 minutes.

“That day gave me a second wave of energy to finish the poem,” says Gorman, adding that she will not refer directly to Jan. 6, but will “touch” upon it. She said last week’s events did not upend the poem she had been working on because they didn’t surprise her.

“The poem isn’t blind,” she says. “It isn’t turning your back to the evidence of discord and division.”

https://time.com


Amanda Gorman

Thank you, Alias. I look forward to hearing her work next week. I recognize her name but nothing else, so i sought out something by her to share here. It seems her poems are longer than most i post but they stir me.

In This Place (An American Lyric)
Amanda Gorman

An original poem written for the inaugural reading of Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith at the Library of Congress.

There’s a poem in this place—

in the footfalls in the halls

in the quiet beat of the seats.

It is here, at the curtain of day,

where America writes a lyric

you must whisper to say.



There’s a poem in this place—

in the heavy grace,

the lined face of this noble building,

collections burned and reborn twice.

There’s a poem in Boston’s Copley Square

where protest chants

tear through the air

like sheets of rain,

where love of the many

swallows hatred of the few.

There’s a poem in Charlottesville

where tiki torches string a ring of flame

tight round the wrist of night

where men so white they gleam blue—

seem like statues

where men heap that long wax burning

ever higher

where Heather Heyer

blooms forever in a meadow of resistance.

There’s a poem in the great sleeping giant

of Lake Michigan, defiantly raising

its big blue head to Milwaukee and Chicago—

a poem begun long ago, blazed into frozen soil,

strutting upward and aglow.

There’s a poem in Florida, in East Texas

where streets swell into a nexus

of rivers, cows afloat like mottled buoys in the brown,

where courage is now so common

that 23-year-old Jesus Contreras rescues people from floodwaters.

There’s a poem in Los Angeles

yawning wide as the Pacific tide

where a single mother swelters

in a windowless classroom, teaching

black and brown students in Watts

to spell out their thoughts

so her daughter might write

this poem for you.

There's a lyric in California

where thousands of students march for blocks,

undocumented and unafraid;

where my friend Rosa finds the power to blossom

in deadlock, her spirit the bedrock of her community.

She knows hope is like a stubborn

ship gripping a dock,

a truth: that you can’t stop a dreamer

or knock down a dream. 



How could this not be her city

su nación

our country

our America,

our American lyric to write—

a poem by the people, the poor,

the Protestant, the Muslim, the Jew,

the native, the immigrant,

the black, the brown, the blind, the brave,

the undocumented and undeterred,

the woman, the man, the nonbinary,

the white, the trans,

the ally to all of the above

and more?

Tyrants fear the poet.

Now that we know it

we can’t blow it.

We owe it

to show it

not slow it

although it

hurts to sew it

when the world

skirts below it.

Hope—

we must bestow it

like a wick in the poet

so it can grow, lit,

bringing with it

stories to rewrite—

the story of a Texas city depleted but not defeated

a history written that need not be repeated

a nation composed but not yet completed.

There’s a poem in this place—

a poem in America

a poet in every American

who rewrites this nation, who tells

a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth

to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time—

a poet in every American

who sees that our poem penned

doesn’t mean our poem’s end.

There’s a place where this poem dwells—

it is here, it is now, in the yellow song of dawn’s bell

where we write an American lyric

we are just beginning to tell.

Copyright © 2017 by Amanda Gorman. Reprinted from Split This Rock's The Quarry: A Social Justice Database.

Wow ! Powerful. Good choice for the inauguration.

I should have made this clearer. This poem was for Tracy K. Smith's inauguration to the post of Poet Laureate. Sorry for any confusion.

If the one next week is half as good as the above, i'll be pleased. She has power in her work.

madrano wrote: "I should have made this clearer. This poem was for Tracy K. Smith's inauguration to the post of Poet Laureate. Sorry for any confusion.

If the one next week is half as good as the ..."

No, you were clear. I wasn't. I was saying she was a good choice. I don't know what poem she will choose. :)

Your thoughts led me to seek out other inauguration Day poems. Here's what i found...https://blogs.loc.gov/catbird/2017/01...

There are some good questions in the comment section, such as why doesn't the Poet Laureate create & read the poem? It makes sense that privilege would be one of the promises of such a position.

The bottom line is that only five poets have read at the Inauguration event. I'm sure it's a coincidence that only Democratic Presidents have opted to include this. Here's the history, at the above link, there are links to the poems themselves.

Robert Frost recited “The Gift Outright” at John F. Kennedy’s 1961 inaugural. Frost recited the poem from memory after he was unable to read the text of the poem he’d written for the inauguration, “Dedication”, because of the sun’s glare upon the snow-covered ground.
Maya Angelou read “On the Pulse of Morning” at Bill Clinton’s 1993 inaugural.
Miller Williams read “Of History and Hope” at Bill Clinton’s 1997 inaugural.
Elizabeth Alexander read “Praise Song for the Day” at Barack Obama’s 2009 inaugural.
Richard Blanco read “One Today” at Barack Obama’s 2013 inaugural.

Thank you for sharing, deb. I will check out some of these poems.

The Gift Outright
BY ROBERT FROST

The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

It is a curious poem, in one way, because it only tells us about the beginning. Perhaps Frost avoided all the controversy of the move westward and the stories which tell of that.

Yet it is stirring in that in instructs and inspires for the future. In a way it is a poem that could be added to by subsequent generations.

I'm glad you shared this one, Alias. Our first Inaugural Poem, even though it wasn't written for that day.

National Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman recites poem at Biden inauguration

video
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whZqA...

I didn't tear up when Harris was sworn in, as expected. Nor when Biden took the oath. But when Gorman began her poem, tears streamed down my face. Thank you for sharing the video, Alias. Were you as pleased with it as i was? Her delivery was wonderful. I found a copy online & want to share it here.

The Hill We Climb
Amanda Gorman

When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?

The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.

We braved the belly of the beast.

We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.

And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.

Somehow we do it.

Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.

We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.

We are striving to forge our union with purpose.

To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.

And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.

We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.

We seek harm to none and harmony for all.

Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.

That even as we grieved, we grew.

That even as we hurt, we hoped.

That even as we tired, we tried.

That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.

Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.

If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.

That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.

It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.

It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.

We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.

Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.

And this effort very nearly succeeded.

But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.

In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

This is the era of just redemption.

We feared at its inception.

We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.

But within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.

So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?

We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.

We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.

Our blunders become their burdens.

But one thing is certain.

If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.

Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.

We will rise from the golden hills of the West.

We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution.

We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.

We will rise from the sun-baked South.

We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.

And every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.

When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid.

The new dawn balloons as we free it.

For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

madrano wrote: "I didn't tear up when Harris was sworn in, as expected. Nor when Biden took the oath. But when Gorman began her poem, tears streamed down my face. Thank you for sharing the video, Alias. Were you a..."

I teared up with Biden and Harris.

I was completely blown away with Gorman. What an amazing young lady.

Thank you for the finding the poem online. It's such an inspirational uplifting poem.

I didn't catch the Hamilton reference as noted below.

A friend told me Oprah wanted to buy her a coat for the occasion. She said, no, that she had a yellow one she loved. So Oprah gave her jewelry. I will follow her on Insta.

=========

The youngest inaugural poet in history, steps into the spotlight with an emotional poem "The Hill We Climb."
On a day filled with history-making moments, Amanda Gorman became a star.

At 22 years old, the Los Angeles native became the youngest inaugural poet ever as she recited her original work “The Hill We Climb,” a poem completed Jan. 6 following the violent attempted siege of the United States Capitol. Today, exactly two weeks later, Gorman stood at the podium to deliver those words in front of President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris — the first Black and South Asian woman to ever hold the post — former presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton and celebrities like Jennifer Lopez and Lady Gaga.

Elsewhere, the world was watching as Gorman followed in the footsteps of an exclusive group of inaugural poets that includes Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander and Richard Blanco. Wearing a caged bird ring to honor Angelou gifted to her by Oprah Winfrey, Gorman acknowledged discord and leaned on hope while also revealing what the moment meant to her as a descendant of slaves. “We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace and the norms and notions of what just is, isn’t always justice. And yet the dawn is hours before we knew it, somehow we do it, somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished,” she said. “We, the successors of a country and a time, where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one."

Before she delivered the final line — "for there is always light if only we're brave enough to see it, if only we're brave enough to be it" — the reception online was electric as praise poured in from all corners. Lin-Manuel Miranda, for one, picked up on the Hamilton references Gorman peppered throughout her poem. The section “history has its eyes on us” is in reference to the Hamilton track “History Has its Eyes on You.” Elsewhere, she writes, “Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree,” a section similar to one from the song “One Last Time” as performed in the original Broadway production by Christopher Jackson in the role of George Washington.

“You were perfect,” tweeted Miranda, a man who knows much about word choice and delivery. “Perfectly written, perfectly delivered. Every bit of it. Brava!” Hamilton became a trending topic on Twitter shortly after their exchange. Miranda’s Hamilton collaborator Alex Lacamoire also chimed in, “Ahhhhhh I heard those lines and wondered, ‘is she a HAM fan’?? Thank you for your exceptionally beautiful poem today!”

Gorman’s social following also skyrocketed. As of press time, her Instagram following was nearing 1 million while on Twitter, she was up to 555,900 followers. Gorman, previously named a Youth Poet Laureate of Los Angeles and the first National Youth Poet Laureate, wore a look by Prada complemented by the ring as well as Winfrey-gifted earrings. Gorman confirmed their friendship to Vogue, saying that “every single time I get a text from [Oprah] I fall on the floor.” Winfrey was among the first to congratulate Gorman after she finished at the Capitol. “I have never been prouder to see another young woman rise! Brava Brava,” tweeted Oprah Winfrey. “Maya Angelou is cheering — and so am I.”

Gorman replied to Winfrey offering gratitude for sharing in the moment. “I would be nowhere without the women whose footsteps I dance in. While reciting my poem, I wore a ring with a caged bird — a gift from Oprah for the occasion, to symbolize Maya Angelou, a previous inaugural poet. Here’s to the women who have climbed my hills before,” she posted.

The Obamas both responded Wednesday afternoon with Barack posting, "On a day for the history books, [Amanda Gorman] delivered a poem that more than met the moment. Young people like her are proof that 'there is always light, if only we're brave enough to see it; if only we're brave enough to be it.'" Michelle praised Gorman's "strong and poignant words" for serving as a reminder of the power "we each hold in upholding" democracy. "Keep shining, Amanda! I can't wait to see what you do next."

Gorman's climb will surely hit overdrive now. The Hollywood Reporter confirmed that she is represented by powerhouse agency WME. Her resume also includes the book Change Sings: A Children’s Anthem with pictures by Loren Long. She has other ties to Hollywood through WriteGirl, a Los Angeles-based nonprofit that helps teens discover their voices through creative writing. Per an email from WriteGirl, Gorman joined at 14 and attended monthly writing workshops and mentorship sessions. WriteGirl's notable volunteers include Liz Meriwether (New Girl), Jane Anderson (Olive Kitteridge), actress Clare Sera (The Princess Diaries), Josann McGibbon (Runaway Bride), singer-songwriter Michelle Lewis and screenwriter Abby Anderson.

Gorman also found an instant fan in fellow Angeleno Regina King. You give me hope," posted the actress and director. "You are grace personified. You captured the history of this country and what democracy should mean beautifully. Thank you for showing up for LA. Thank you for showing up for this country."

Below is Gorman's inaugural poem in full and video of her reciting it.
https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/ram...

Glad to read all the praise. It will be interesting to see where she goes from here. My favorite line--

"somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished"

I thought that since we shared the first & last Inaugural Day poem, it would be nice to share the others. Incidentally, this is the first time i've read the others.
(TO hear him recite it at the Inauguration, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mDrk... )

One Today
Richard Blanco

A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration
January 21, 2013


One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello / shalom,
buon giorno / howdy / namaste / or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together

Thanks for sharing. The theme of hope is in Richard Blanco poem, too.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest.~~~Alexander Pope,

Essay on Man and Other Poems: By Alexander Pope - Illustrated----Alexander Pope



Alexander Pope is seen as one of the greatest English poets and the foremost poet of the early 18th century. He is best known for satirical and discursive poetry, including The Rape of the Lock, The Dunciad, and An Essay on Criticism, and for his translation of Homer. Wikipedia
Born: May 21, 1688, London, United Kingdom
Died: May 30, 1744, Twickenham, United Kingdom

Look what is #1 on Amazon. :) It includes The Hill We Climb.

The Hill We Climb by Amanda Gorman

Wonderful news about the poetry sales!

I use the expression, "Hope Springs Eternal" often. At least now i can credit it's creator. (As long as i remember, that is.)

madrano wrote: "Wonderful news about the poetry sales!

I use the expression, "Hope Springs Eternal" often. At least now i can credit it's creator. (As long as i remember, that is.)"

I posted it and I'll probably forget who wrote it. LOL

LOL! We'll both have to concentrate on remembering. Even when the last post came up, i had to think who you were talking about! Fortunately, in under 30 seconds, it came to me. Oh my.

:)

This poem was for Barack Obama's second Inauguration. To hear Alexander read her poem at the event,
https://vimeo.com/3180513

Praise Song for the Day
Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

madrano wrote: "This poem was for Barack Obama's second Inauguration. To hear Alexander read her poem at the event,
https://vimeo.com/3180513

Praise Song for the Day
[author:Elizabeth Alexander|171..."


Very nice. Thank you for the video.

My pleasure. What a contrast in recording. Seeing Gordon last Wednesday was "up close & personal", whereas watching Alexander i felt more like a distant bird. :-)

This poem was written for the '97 Inauguration of Bill Clinton. Arkansan Miller Williams died in 2015, after a life of living with spina bifida. For a video of this Inaugural moment, click here--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DyAwn...


Of History and Hope

Miller Williams

We have memorized America,

how it was born and who we have been and where.

In ceremonies and silence we say the words,

telling the stories, singing the old songs.

We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.

The great and all the anonymous dead are there.

We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.

The rich taste of it is on our tongues.

But where are we going to be, and why, and who?

The disenfranchised dead want to know.

We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

except in the minds of those who will call it Now?

The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?

With waving hands -- oh, rarely in a row --

and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together

cannot become one people falling apart.

Who dreamed for every child an even chance

cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.

Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head

cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.

Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child

cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.

We know what we have done and what we have said,

and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,

believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become --

just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set

on a land we never can visit -- it isn't there yet --

but looking through their eyes, we can see

what our long gift to them may come to be.

If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

madrano wrote: "This poem was written for the '97 Inauguration of Bill Clinton. Arkansan Miller Williams died in 2015, after a life of living with spina bifida. For a video of this Inaugural moment, click here--ht..."

Nice. I do like hearing and seeing the author read their work.

I do too. It allows us to hear how they interpret their own works--stresses, cadence, etc..

This is the final poem in our Inauguration Day poem series. I thought we'd posted it earlier but i guess not. Maya Angelou read her poem for Bill Clinton's first Inauguration. I relish the people her poem embraces. Here is a link to a video of her recitation. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ecWt...

On the Pulse of Morning
Maya Angelou
for the first Inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers—desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope—
Good morning.

Thank you, deb. It was fun to explore the inauguration poems.

I'm glad you enjoyed it. Somehow i thought the Inaugural Poem had been around much longer. I guess because JFK's was the first Inauguration i saw & presumed it was traditional.

While Wallace Stevens was not one of the poets mentioned in the book i recently read by Dana Gioia, his name is uttered several times by others. So, i went in search of works by him. I was amused by this one because he seems to urge us to stop seeing the winter as a time of misery and instead see it with neutral eyes. Possible?

The Snow Man
Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

From Harmonium

I like winter. As long as snow/ice doesn't impede my daily activities. I enjoy the quiet it brings.

I like Fall and Spring. However, I know I am in the minority when it comes to summer. I count the days until it's over. I can't stand the heat, humidity, sweating and having to constantly put on sunscreen and wear a baseball cap (the sun gives me a headache if I don't shield my eyes).

Announcement: "Bhanu Kapil has won the most valuable award in British poetry, the TS Eliot prize, for her 'radical and arresting' collection How to Wash a Heart." (The Guardian)


https://www.theguardian.com/books/202...

Alias, i'm with you as far as summer goes. The humidity is awful and drains me. Much as i like spring, knowing it is a harbinger of summer, i can't enjoy it as i should.

The Kapil book of poetry sounds good and her predecessors for the prize are impressive. The story of how she came up with the idea behind the title poem is delightful. The fact she didn't save the photo itself is charming in its own way. I sure would like to see it, though. I hope someone locates it.

I just checked & my library doesn't have a copy. Perhaps this award will help spread the word here in the States. Thanks for spreading the news, Alias.

You're welcome. :)