Praise Song for the Day // Elizabeth Alexander

poem17.

Praise Song for the Day

Elizabeth Alexander

 

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

 

Each day we go about our business,

walking past each other, catching each other’s

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 some one 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 thyself,

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 pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,

any thing can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

Mother to Son // Langston Hughes

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Mother to Son
Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you.
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor--
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now--
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't no crystal stair.

Still I Rise // Maya Angelou

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Still I Rise
Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like the moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Bread & Roses // Hakim Bellamy

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Bread & Roses
Hakim Bellamy

The very first unions in America
Were brought here by boatBroken by backBy whipRapeAnd rope 

Nowadays
LiesAnd a bogeyman economyDo the trick

The only thing scarier
Than laborIs losing it

Even the House
And SenateCan come togetherAround houseAnd fieldDivide and conquer

Give us power
But not positionGive us personnelBut not privilegeGive us responsibilityBut not rightsOr profitsOr shares 

Give us a sniff
Of American exceptionalismGet us drunkOff of upward mobilityPut us behind the wheelOf the American DreamUntil we launch ourselvesInto a windshieldThat will not let us ejectOr escapeThis cabin 

I come from
A long line of laborersA lineage of long Black men 

Who nowadays
Only unionize for sportWho are eitherRich enough to be locked outOr poor enoughTo be locked in

But back then
Were Memphis enoughTo get Dr. KingTo detour toward deathIn the name of fairness

Air Jordan-esque working conditions
Laceless wagesBootsThat were begging for straps 

We are Colonial Philadelphia
1806ersJourneymenConvicted of criminal conspiracy 

We are New York (1829)
Workingmen’s PartyWhen sixty hoursA six-day workweekWas radical

Every morning
We wake up Knights of LaborTo whistles of workAnd whispers of worse

Integrated women
And our own Negro spirituals of sortsHold the forts

At a time when mining companies
Would send dynamite husbandsHome in a bucket

And Mothers
Like JonesWho lived in homesRented from the employerFed familyWith currencyOnly good at the company storeHad three daysTo replace “Papa”With one of her sonsSo production doesn’t sufferNo matter how young we wasNo matter how much she does

We are immigrants
Mollies (1877) pushed too farWe are the childrenWorked too hardThe reason Mary Harris marchedFrom the City of Brotherly LoveTo Teddy Roosevelt’s front porch 

We found our own Congress
Of Industrial OrganizationsTo replace the oneThat has forsaken us 

We are sit-down strikes
In the buildings they valueWith our bodiesThat they do not 

We are wage equity
And wage war 

We are ripped-off scabs
That will not bandage their cuts after we strike

Only band together
Our bloodAnd heal 

We are still leaping
From ninth floor windowsAt the Triangle Waist Company (1911)

We are Clara Lemlich
We are Dolores HuertaWe are Cesar ChavezWe are Samuel GompersWe are Gabriel ProsserWe are Lucy Gonzalez Parsons (IWW)And we are Rosie the Riveter 

We are the hand on the Bible
Denying we’re socialistWe are the witches of Taft-Hartley 

We are holy, Jerry Fallwell
Salt of the EarthWho forever put love of GodBefore love of Greed

You said,
“Labor unions should study and read the Bibleinstead of asking for more money . . .” 

But we are pickers
Who reap and sowAnd read 

Sirach 34:22
To take away a neighbor’s livingis to murder him; to deprive an employee of his wageis to shed blood. 

We teamsters and longshoremen
And just like youWe ain’t perfect

Proverbs 14:31
He who oppresses a poor man,insults his Maker. 

We are closed factories
And empty mouthsAuto, textiles, and steel

We are the meek
Who inherit ourselvesWe are the lambThe sacrifice and the carpenterthat said 

The worker deserves his wages.
Luke 10:7 

We are the people
Who power dreamsAnd profitAnd are for grantedAnd are forgotten

We are the people who brought you the weekend
We aren’t coming home empty-handedWe are back pockets of college tuitionWe are stuffed between the mattresses of future Christmases 

We are smiles
On our children’s facesAnd even though we are sometimes facelessWe are food in the fridge

We are hero and heroine

We are coming back
Coming homeEvery nightIn one piece 

Please, please believe
That we are all hard workAnd belief

We are about 5:05
5:306:15WeAre bread and rosesFor dinner

I have faith in Chile // Salvador Allende

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I have faith in Chile
Salvador Allende

I have faith in Chile and its destiny. Other men will
overcome this dark and bitter moment when treason
seeks to prevail. Keep in mind that, much sooner than later,
great avenues will again be opened, through which will pass
the free man, to construct a better society.

September 11, 1973

At Night // Jimmy Santiago Baca

poem12.
At Night
Jimmy Santiago Baca

I lie in bed
and hear the soft throb of water
surging through the ditch,
from extreme to extreme water bounds,
clumsy country boy,
stumbling over fallen logs and rubber tires
to meet a lover
who awaits in her parents' house, window open.

As I used to for love.

Now gray-black hair,
vigorous cheeks, weathered brow, chapped lips,
dismal thoughtful eyes,
I float in brown melancholy on lazy currents
of memory, studying my reflection
on the water this night,
with distant devotion,
a swimmer who has forgotten how to swim.