Whitman did it, writing as a many (as Guy Davenport pointed out many years ago).

But, I suspect anyone who wanted to go on the offensive, so to speak, wouldnt be asked, & would have to say no...

Still, some rhythm, a little blues swing; is that too much to ask?

Doug
On 2013-01-22, at 2:34 PM, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:

> Inoffensive enough, I thought. Hard to be broadbrush and inclusive. 
> 
> On 22/01/2013, at 9:07 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> 
>> Miami-raised Cuban poet Richard Blanco delivered his poem “One Today,” written especially for the inauguration ceremony. The full text is below:
>> 
>> 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 2
>> 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 3
>> 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
>> 
>> 
>> http://www.salon.com/2013/01/21/one_sun_rose_on_us_today/?source=newsletter
>> 
>> - strikes me as sort of 1930s Whitmanesque
>> but likely to be warmed to by millions…
>> 
>> Max
> 

Douglas Barbour
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