I was on the point, have been on the point, of making a sneering
dismissive comment on this... Never quite doing it... Then I read
Stephen's post.
Fair enough.
On your third point, I have been thinking about your recent reference
to Pound and pentameter; and wondering; how right our Ezra was to take
credit for poets for what was happening... Not sure how well-informed
enough I am to make this judgment; but what the hell.
[Cameron has just announced he is going to apply Conservative sexual
policy to European politics: a straight in-out question]
There was the Blessed Gertrude. There were the Futurists (with their
racial wars and machine worship etc, I know, but); Stravinsky et many
al; recordings and later radio -- I can now "remember" a century if I
include my late mother's childhood memories and have in my head
speaking of the importance of the gramophone She, my mother, hardly
knew *where she was. That is not a put down: I once described
"myself" as not knowing where I am much as an insect on a leaf
doesn't. She knew London. But her sound world was American popular +
also a little Peter Dawson. (Australian)
That's one memory, but indicative. Our sound world has changed
utterly and also cluttered.
Rhythm and swing is almost essential; and maybe hard to resist, hard
to avoid
L
----- Original Message -----
From: "Poetryetc: poetry and poetics"
To:
Cc:
Sent:Tue, 22 Jan 2013 14:45:02 -0700
Subject:Re: poem at inauguration
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 wrote:
> Inoffensive enough, I thought. Hard to be broadbrush and inclusive.
>
> On 22/01/2013, at 9:07 AM, Max Richards 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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