Editor's Note: La Bloga welcomes Dr. Thelma T. Reyna to our pages as alternating Friday columnist with Melinda Palacio. Thelma is Poet Laureate Emerita of Altadena California and publisher of Golden Foothills Press. Welcome Thelma Reyna!
U.S. Presidents and Poets: Making History Together on the World’s Center Stage
By Thelma T. Reyna
The Literarati Limelight:
RICHARD BLANCO,
The U.S. is one of the few nations that sometimes celebrates its presidential inaugurations with a literary twist: having a handpicked “Presidential Inaugural Poet.” Mission for him or her: write an inspiring, unifying poem about America, its people, and our dreams. Then, read this poem from the presidential podium, center stage, not just to the tens of thousands of celebrants gathered on this January day, but to the world.
We’ve had six U.S. Inaugural Poets selected by four Presidents in our history: Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander, Richard Blanco, and Amanda Gorman. All exemplary, some more famous than others, some extra-historic. Our Literati Limelight today shines on the first Latino Inaugural Poet, Richard Blanco, who also made history in other ways: as the first immigrant, first openly gay, and the youngest poet ever chosen for the honor (at that time, 2013).
How Richard Blanco Helped Obama Elevate Poetry for the People
Blanco describes his emotions when he learned of his selection. “On the afternoon of
December 12, [2012], …I receive a phone call with the news that I have been chosen as inaugural poet. Bewildered, I first wonder if it could be some cruel joke….But I know. My body knows it’s the most important moment of my life as a poet, a day by which I will mark the rest of my life.”
From the outset, Blanco fully embraced the role President Obama bestowed upon him. He believed Obama connected with Blanco’s story of migration and exile, of successfully navigating dual cultures and identities. Blanco’s work as a college professor and poet takes him into diverse communities throughout America, places with workshops, community projects, reading events—anywhere that human beings exchange ideas on things that deeply matter, like home, family, identity, grief, healing, and love.
And most especially: poetry. Blanco writes: “I think of all the middle school children I’ve worked with over the years, how their eyes light up when we read and discuss poetry that mirrors their own families, neighborhoods, lives, and experiences.” He sums up his mission: “I make a conscious commitment to keep connecting America with poetry and reshape how we think about it.” America’s beloved Inaugural Poet has spoken.
For Blanco, being selected as Inaugural Poet changed the trajectory of his career, coming when he was relatively unknown to mainstream America. In the 13 years since, Blanco has written five collections of poetry: City of a Hundred Fires; Directions to the Beach of the Dead; Looking for the Gulf Motel; How to Love a Country; and Homeland of My Body. He also published two memoirs: For All of Us, One Today: An Inaugural Poet’s Journey; and The Prince of Los Cocuyos. He has received numerous literary honors, including the Patterson Poetry Prize, Beyond Margins Award from the PEN American Center, the Agnes Starrett Poetry Prize from the University of Pittsburgh Press. He has also received numerous fellowships and broad coverage in prime national and international media. He has cemented his place as a major, highly lauded American poet.
by Richard Blanco
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
thank you, thelma, for this survey of inaugural poets and richard blanco's poem. i can still see robert frost struggling against the wind to read his poem. i look forward to your ongoing insights into poetry, literature, and things in general.
ReplyDeleteThank you Thelma. Welcome aboard.
ReplyDelete