The HyperTexts
Richard Blanco's Inaugural Poem: “One Today”
Richard Blanco's poem "One Today" was recited by Blanco at President Barack Obama's second inauguration
ceremony,
on January 21, 2013. The full text of the poem appears
on this page, following an analysis and comments about what
appear to be some very interesting last-minute revisions.
Blanco's literary bio and background information about the poem are also
included below. (If you are looking for―or are interested
in―Donald
Trump's Inaugural Poem, please click the hyperlink.)
review and analysis by Michael R. Burch
Analysis
Richard Blanco's poem "One Today" is a
good—and commendable—example of occasional poetry
(i.e., poetry written for a special or specific occassion). In this
case the special occasion was President Barack Obama's second inauguration
ceremony. You can watch Blanco reciting his poem on YouTube, if you care to look
it up. Blanco, the gay son
of Cuban exiles, is the fifth American poet to be chosen to write an inaugural
poem, and the youngest poet to be granted that honor. Previous inaugural poets
include Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Miller Williams and Elizabeth Alexander.
Purpose
Blanco described his desire to
create a poem of unity and love, as he believed the occasion demanded.
Influences
Walt Whitman is the most obvious of Blanco's influences. These lines by Blanco seem
especially Whitmanesque:
...
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways ...
Singer-songwriters like Woody Guthrie may be another Blanco influence. These
lines are reminiscent of "this land is our land" and "amber waves of grain":
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands ...
Blanco is also informed and influenced by his personal experience as the son of
Cuban exiles. As he said himself, "The poem was about the immigrant story."
History
Richard Blanco became the fifth inaugural poet. He is the first inaugural poet
without any obvious connection to the president being inaugurated. Here are
quick capsule summaries of the first four inaugural poets:
Robert Frost, considered by many to be the last major American poet, was the first inaugural
poet. He read his poem "The Gift Outright" at John F. Kennedy's inauguration in
1961. Like Kennedy, Frost called Massachusetts home. Also, Frost been an avid
supporter of Kennedy, predicting that he would become president even before his
candidacy was announced. When Stewart Udall suggested that Frost take part in
the inauguration ceremonies, Kennedy jokingly responded, "Oh, no. You know that
Robert Frost always steals any show he is part of." Kennedy, a poetry lover,
asked Frost to recite his poem "The Gift Outright" and even requested a revision
to the last line from "such as she would become" to "such as she will become."
Frost assented to the revision. He also composed a new poem, "Dedication," which
was later renamed "For John F. Kennedy His Inauguration." But when Frost
stood to recite the poems, the wind and bright sunlight made the reading
them impossible. Fortunately he was able to recite
"The Gift Outright" from memory. The Washington Post reported that
Frost "stole the hearts of the Inaugural crowd," just as Kennedy had predicted.
Maya Angelou was the second inaugural poet, reciting her poem "On the Pulse of
Morning" at Bill Clinton's first inauguration in 1993. Like Clinton, she was
born in Arkansas. Whereas Frost seemed to praise colonialism (if in a somewhat
ambivalent manner), Angelou spoke strongly against the greed of
invaders who were "desperate for gain, hungry for gold." She challenged
Americans to no longer lie "face down in ignorance ... armed for slaughter" but
to "study war no more" and to "come, clad in peace."
Miller Williams was the third inaugural poet, reciting his poem "Of History and
Hope" at Bill Clinton's second inauguration in 1997. Like Clinton and Angelou he
was a native Arkansan. In a similar spirit to
Angelou's, if in a less passionate voice, he spoke for national unity and not
letting "ignorance spread itself like rot."
Elizabeth Alexander was the fourth inaugural poet, reciting her poem "Praise
Song for the Day" at Barack Obama's first inauguration in 2009. Like Maya
Angelou, she is a black female poet. She was the first inaugural poet not to
have been born or lived in the same state as the incoming president. But her
brother Mark was a senior adviser to Barack Obama's campaign, so there was a
political connection. While she may be among the least-known and
least-celebrated of the inaugural poets, I believe she wrote some of the strongest
lines; for example:
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 ...
In-Depth Analysis
Richard Blanco's
"One Today" is a free verse poem composed in a flexible or "loose" approximation
of iambic pentameter. (Robert Frost, the first inaugural poet, once postulated that the only English meters
are iambic and loose iambic.) The poem is an occasional poem (one written for a
specific occasion). It is also an example of public poetry. It may also be
considered an "Everyman" poem because most of its images and metaphors seem
likely to connect with the majority of readers who are not literary snobs. The
poem is somewhat Whitmanesque both in style and in its probable appeal to
commoners (I use the term in its most positive sense). Like Walt Whitman, an
obvious influence, Blanco blends images and sounds skillfully to help convey his
meaning, although he falls short of Whitman in sheer musicality (but then who
doesn't?). For instance, here is how Blanco describes the sun rising over
American rooftops, creating an image that in a few words conveys how little we
sometimes know about even our closest neighbors:
One light, waking up rooftops.
Under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving across windows.
The poem follows the sun in flight over the United States in the course of a
single day, from sunrise in the East to sunset in the West, perhaps borrowing
from Archibald MacLeish's magnificent poem about the transit of the sun and
time, "You, Andrew Marvell." Blanco's main theme is
unity in diversity: while Americans are individuals, they still share the same
sun, wind and land. For example:
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 ...
And later:
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.
Also:
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.
The last line is especially good, and catches this reader's interest the way an
unexpected songbird on a pedestrian clothesline might. I wouldn't be surprised
if the songbird represents Everyman poets like Whitman and Blanco, surprising us
with their word-songs.
The poem's theme and metaphors are so simple and accessible they might have
easily become cartoonish, but the poet's obvious sincerity, thankfulness and
humility help keep that from happening.
There are, however, a few passages where Blanco seems to be reaching or perhaps even straining
to be poetic. For instance, faces
"crescendoing into our day", whatever that means, and fruit stands
full of multi-hued orbs "begging our
praise" like rainbows. That's not what rainbows seem to do, to me. I would
suggest that they inspire or invite our praise, or are just simply beautiful and
don't give a damn whether we praise them or not. Such occasional laxness keeps
the poem from being a masterpiece, in my opinion, but still it's a good, strong
poem and I like it despite what I perceive as minor flaws here and there.
Since the poem was written for the masses, I think we can safely consider it to
be a success, if perhaps not achieving the ultimate heights of Parnassus (the
mountain sacred to Apollo and home to the Muses).
The poem was not only written for President Barack Obama's second
inauguration ceremony, but also to be read on Martin Luther King Day. Therefore,
the poem's theme of unity seems
not only appropriate, but spot on. The poem is most successful, in my opinion,
when it is most personal. For instance, when the poet mentions his mother
ringing up groceries for twenty years and his father cutting sugarcane, in order
to provide him not only with the stuff of life, but with a future as a poet—one
able to read his composition at a president's swearing-in ceremony. Blanco also
mentions his mother being the giving kind, but his father not being able to give
him whatever it was that he wanted or needed. Affection, perhaps? In any case,
Blanco's mingling of the universal and the personal helps keep the poem from
becoming just another jingoistic bit of fluff.
The poem tenderly elegizes the
twenty children who died at Sandy Hook and are now forever absent, invokes America's "fruited grain" and
includes Whitman-like images of honking cabs, lurching buses and symphonic feet.
There is much to like and appreciate here, and little to quibble with. If I was
grading the poem strictly on its own merits, I might give it a B+. But it's more
than just a poem, being a national call to unity and tolerance, so for ably
fulfilling its main purpose, I will give it a solid A.
(Possible) Revisions
The poem Richard Blanco read aloud seems to have a few "divergences" from the
official version released by the White House—that is, assuming the "official
versions" can be trusted, which is not a given. If the official versions are
accurate, it seems the self-described "night-owl" poet may have been revising the poem up till the last minute. I have
underlined parts of the poem that seem to have been revised in the recited version of the
poem:
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving across windows.
["behind" was replaced with "across"]
the
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, ["the" was added]
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
["limes" was added]
...
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem for all of us
today. [the
words "for all of us today" were added]
...
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into the
sky that yields to our resilience. ["a" was replaced by "the"]
However, another possibility is that some of the texts floating around on the
ether may have been missing words due to errors on the part of the ether-izers.
It will be interesting to see if Blanco publishes the "authoritative" version of
the poem and identifies the revisions he made, if indeed he revised the poem
after the "official" version had been released.
Background
Richard Blanco, the son of Cuban exiles, is the first Latino inaugural poet,
the first openly gay inaugural poet, and the youngest inaugural poet (age 44).
But before anyone mutters “It’s about damn time!” please allow me to point out that
Blanco is only the fifth inaugural poet, so there is no long, tawdry history of
discrimination to bemoan. Nor have there been any really outrageous selections.
The first inaugural poet, Robert Frost, is generally considered to be a major
poet. Maya Angelou may the only living American poet who can justly be called a
celebrity today. (Moreover, she’s a black woman.) Granted, the names of the
other inaugural poets would make great trivia questions, if one was in charge of
trying to avoid turning game show contestants into instant millionaires. For
instance, Miller Williams is much less famous than his daughter, three-time
Grammy award winner Lucinda Williams. But to be honest and fair, after Frost and
Angelou, there aren’t any major stars in the poetic constellations to be
discriminated against. The remaining inaugural poet, Elizabeth Alexander, is a
black woman. So white heterosexual male inaugural poets are currently
outnumbered three-to-two by their diverse peers.
Is it possible that Blanco’s heritage and homosexuality factored into his
selection? Yes, that seems likely, and if he was a bad or mediocre poet
that would bother me. But fortunately he’s a good and worthy poet, so as the
basketball saying goes, where there’s no harm, there’s no foul.
An inaugural committee’s spokeswoman, Addie Whisenant, said President Obama
picked Blanco because the poet’s “deeply personal poems are rooted in the idea
of what it means to be an American.”
Fame (or lack thereof) aside, Richard Blanco is an interesting poet because
his poetry is engaging, sincere, unpretentious and accessible. Dare one say that
he is anti-poetic, if measured by the rule of the rulers of the poetry
establishment? Blanco cannot be much of a poet, if we are to believe America’s
most famous literary critic, Harold Bloom, who insists that poetry is an
“elitist art” in which “cognitive difficulty” is to be greatly prized. But then
Bloom left his appointed stars of cognitive difficulty — John Ashbery and A.
R. Ammons — out of his own anthology of the best English poems. And some of
Ashbery’s poems that were recommended to me by a friend recently are
surprisingly accessible. Furthermore, I am reminded that I was able to like (and
understand) the best poems of the best English language poets as a young boy. Is
it possible that difficulty and obscurity have been overrated — perhaps even
falsely idolized — and that poetry is finally making a u-turn back towards
accessibility? If so, will that give poetry a chance to once again become a
popular art form? Might Blanco be one of the poets to lead such a revival?
Who can say, but one can certainly hope.
Blanco is a civil engineer by education and trade. This quote appears at the
very top of his website’s main page:
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” — William Wordsworth
In an interview with The Poetry Foundation, Blanco says he's been writing,
“Literally around the clock. I’m a night owl, so that means until 4 a.m., and
back up at 9, 9:30, getting back on the computer.”
This version of “One Today” was read by Richard Blanco at the Inauguration on
Martin Luther King Day, January 21, 2013:
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 across windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
the 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 for all of us today.
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 all 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
each day for each other, 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 the 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, 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
The HyperTexts