Inaugural Poem

I hate to be a contrarian, but this lady robot, model # 3L1Z@B3+H @L3X@ND3R, who was programmed to read at Obama's inauguration really rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, I understand that a poem for this kind of event is designed to serve a very specific purpose, i.e. to celebrate a political moment in as universally acceptable a way possible, but this poem is particularly awful.

Just think back to when Maya Angelou read on Clinton's big day. That poem had dinosaurs (!) in it not to mention it made sure to hint at some of the lower moments of our nation's history: "You, who gave me my first name, you / Pawnee, Apache and 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." Alexander's poem, in contrast, was all gloss. This stuck out even more after Obama's fairly somber "we're-in-deep-shit" speech (though ultimately I thought it a triumphant one).

If it weren't for Rev. Joseph Lowery's benediction I would have walked away from the television feeling a little rhetorically violated. Lowery's little rhyme at the end of the prayer was a better poem, albeit somewhat offensive in such a wonderfully well-intentioned way: "We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to give back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will embrace what is right." AMEN! (Why do I want a Mellow Yellow so bad right now?)

Well here is the official Obama inauguration poem in all its glory:
Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' 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 someone 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 thy self."

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 preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

- Elizabeth Alexander