Poets of the Presidential Inauguration

For his second Inauguration Ceremony which happens next Monday, January 21, President Obama has chosen the first gay Latino poet to read his work.

From Huffington Post

Richard Blanco -- he's a son of Miami: high school at Columbus, bachelor's and master's from FIU, the first Cuban-American and also the first gay man to be chosen for such an honor. In fact, Blanco is only the fifth poet EVER to take part in a president's inaugural ceremony. The first was Robert Frost (Kennedy, 1961), then Maya Angelou (Clinton, 1993), Miller Williams (Clinton, 1997), Elizabeth Alexander (Obama, 2009) and now Mr. Blanco. What an incredible honor to compose an original poem for the whole world to hear -- wow -- think about that for a sec, and he hails from Miami.

Poet Richard Blanco, son of a Cuban Exile from Miami, FL, made history today by becoming both the first Hispanic and openly gay man to read at a Presidential Inauguration.

"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.

People often think that all Presidential Inaugurations follow identical traditions, and that throughout history none of the pomp and circumstance has ever changed. But that couldn't be further from the truth. In the case of the Inaugural Poet, most Presidents never had one! In fact there are so few that it will be several more election cycles before a good thick anthology could be made of their poems.

From About.com: Presidential Inaugural Poems

There There are a couple of 19th century poems historically associated with Presidential inaugurations in the archives of the Library of Congress, but neither was actually read during the swearing-in ceremony:

• “An Ode in Honor of the Inauguration of Buchanan & Breckinridge, President and Vice President of the United States” by Col W. Emmons, printed on broadside in 1857.
• “An Inaugural Poem, Dedicated to Abraham Lincoln, of Illinois , and Andrew Johnson, of Tennessee,” from The Chronicle Junior, an inauguration program that was actually printed on a press in a wagon during Lincoln’s inaugural parade in 1865.

Robert Frost was the first poet invited to be part of the official swearing-in of an American president, when John F. Kennedy took office in 1961.. . . the glare of bright sunlight off new snow, his faint typescript and the wind ruffling his pages and his white hair made it impossible for Frost to read the new poem, so he gave up the attempt and went directly into reciting Kennedy’s request without the preamble. “The Gift Outright”
. . . The next president who included a poet in the proceedings surrounding his inauguration was Jimmy Carter in 1977, but the poem didn’t make it into the actual swearing-in ceremony. James Dickey read his poem “The Strength of Fields” at the Kennedy Center gala after Carter’s inauguration.
. . . in 1993, when Maya Angelou wrote and read “On the Pulse of Morning” for Bill Clinton’s first inauguration, her reading here on YouTube. Clinton also included a poet in his 1997 inaugural ceremony—Miller Williams contributed “Of History and Hope” that year.
. . . The tradition of presidential inauguration poems seems now to have settled in with Democratic presidents. Elizabeth Alexander was commissioned as inaugural poet for Barack Obama’s first inauguration in 2009. She wrote “Praise Song for the Day, Praise Song for Struggle” for the occasion, and her recitation is preserved on YouTube.

How did Inaugural Poetry become the domain of Democratic Presidents? Maybe it has something to do with the poets of the 1950s not liking "Ike" Eisenhower too much. Poets tend to be politically left of center, so there was more appeal for the Democratic Candidate, Adlai Stevenson. So the Inauguration of a popular Republican President inspired in some writers the urge for a dirge rather than a celebration.
From "Poetry for Presidents" on New Yorker

(Poet Robert) Lowell had harnessed his dismay into a restrained and sombre poem, “Inauguration Day: January 1953,” which was published in its final form at the end of the year in the Partisan Review. Lowell locates the loose sonnet in a place of estrangement, New York City, which was Stevenson country and becomes, in the poem, a kind of national government in exile:

The snow had buried Stuyvesant.
The subways drummed the vaults. I heard
the El’s green girders charge on Third,
Manhattan’s truss of adamant,
that groaned in ermine, slummed on want.
Cyclonic zero of the world,
God of our armies, who interred
Cold Harbor’s blue immortals, Grant!
Horseman, your sword is in the groove!

The verse offers the sweep of history, beginning with the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, the last of the city’s Dutch commanders, and ends with the monument to Grant, who, like Eisenhower, was another general-turned-President. Yet it recalls Grant not as the dogged savior of the Union but as the butcher of Cold Harbor, the man who ordered his men to a mostly senseless death. Eisenhower appears at the end, summoned to lead a nation imbued with the memory of those deaths, and all those that came before and followed:

Ice, ice. Our wheels no longer move.
Look, the fixed stars, all just alike
as lack-land atoms, split apart,
and the Republic summons Ike,
the mausoleum in her heart.

Perhaps it would be some solace to Mr. Lowell and all the 20th Century Poets that Eisenhower wasn't exactly representative of what America wanted every four years. The best was certainly yet to come, and indeed one of the best will be sworn in next week. With poetry, too.