David J Bauman

It’s well past midnight here in Penn’s Woods. Early Monday morning I had posted a preview of today’s reading by Richard Blanco along with a brief history of the inaugural poets who preceded him. So please don’t be afraid to jump back there for a little more history.

Briefly, the first one, at JFK’s inauguration recited his poem too fast. Sorry, Mr. Frost. You are amazing, but I am glad you did not read the poem you wrote for the occasion. Instead, you said that with the cold and the sun in your eyes, you couldn’t read your manuscript so you  recited from memory a poem you published nine years earlier, “The Gift Outright,” which was by far the superior work. In my opinion, you have always been more crafty than folks give you credit for, so I suspect you realized “Dedication’s” rhymed couplets were not going to cut it, and made the maverick decision on your own to switch gears. But don’t worry, sir, your secret is safe with me.

Almost four decades later Bill Clinton selected a poet who could perform her words and capture the audience. Maya Angelou was much loved and much maligned for her poem, and her reading, but I’ve noticed that this maligning thing is kind of a trend, and it doesn’t usually have much to do with the quality of the work.

Clinton’s second poet, Miller Williams, though I can find no soundtrack, apparently had some poets cheering. And Barack Obama’s first inaugural poet, Elizabeth Alexander wrote a good poem that was variously criticised, mostly regarding its delivery (See my previous post). But mostly the problem when it comes to public opinion on political occasion poetry istwo-prongedged fork.  One, people have been seemingly out of touch with modern poetry, and two, people are divisive and cruel. Just look at some of the horrendous comments on the YouTube videos (except for Frost’s).

Better yet, ignore the the YouTube trolls. It’s one of the downsides of our internet freedoms and access; so many people say things they would never say to your face, with anonymity or not. It used to take some effort to make nasty comments, but now you can just fire off an expletive or three, ignore editing for grammar, let alone manners, and hit send.

Even today’s poet was subject to the sneers and jeers of YouTubers and Tweeters alike. But that is the nature of the beast. Speaking of beast, The Daily Beast is one of many publications that gave Richard Blanco’s inaugural poetry reading a thumbs up, though you have to get past the opening couple of sentences, and you’ll find several scholars and editors quoted in the article as well, praising Blanco’s efforts.

I really do think the poets have a much harder time of it than the other artists. Face it, Beyonce’, James Taylor and  Kelly Clarkson were not under the pressure of writing three songs for the occasion, and then having to wait for a committee to approve one. Oh, and Blanco did just that with only a few short weeks notice.

Favorable reviews also came from the LA Times who said, Richard’s poem “One Today” was “an intimate and sweeping celebration of our shared, single identity as a people, and Blanco recited it in a voice that was both confident and tenderly soft-spoken.” So, some critics, internet brats and Eric Cantor (who might have just been cold, or had the sun in his eyes, just like Robert Frost back in the day) not withstanding, the reading went well.

Personally, I thought it was wonderful. I am not good at writing poems for special occasions.  I never have been, and as one poet said in critiquing Obama’s last inaugural poet, maybe that’s the problem. It’s not fair to compare every new inaugural poet to Robert Frost, especially when he did not even read the poem he had written for the occasion  He used instead something that had already gotten a good reception, something written apart from the moment, but perfect for it. That might be a better idea for future inaugural poetry readings.

But despite the challenge, Richard Blanco made me and many others proud. He had me with his opening lines, “One sun rose on us today . . . One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story.” The ending mirrored the beginning and brought us home full circle:

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.

On a close-reading level, I’d like to say that I love the double meaning in the title, “One Today.” That can be read many ways. We are one people today, and we have only one today. This is good stuff. This is, as I am fond of saying, how the poets do it.

So, Mr. Blanco, thank you. Thank you for being part of the day, and for moving me almost to tears. Somewhere in an interview you said something (I cannot recall the source) about how being a poet is one of the only professions where it makes you happy to hear you made someone cry. Well, I hope you are happy now. I know I am. Happy, and proud, of you, of President Obama, and of this country. You helped remind us that there is tangible hope, and that there is more to unite us than the small crowd of loud voices who work so hard to divide us. Bless you and your partner, Richard. From my family to yours.

“One Today”

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.

Related articles

• Miami-Raised Poet Recites Stirring Inauguration Poem (nbcmiami.com)
• See interview with inaugural poet Richard Blanco (pinkbananaworld.com)
• Inaugural poet Richard Blanco speaks about his writing process (onewildword.com)