Soon after Election Day we asked “Who should be the inaugural poet for President-elect Obama?” — and you, dear Readers, responded with lots of names and incisive comments. Now, a month later, the program for Inauguration Day is taking shape, it has been decided who is going to read a poem during Barack Obamaβ��s swearing-in ceremony — and itβ��s someone whose name never made it onto our list: Elizabeth Alexander
, poet, essayist, playwright, Professor of African-American Studies at Yale University, and board member of the Poetry Society of America and Cave Canem. She has published four books of poems:
The Venus Hottentot (originally published in 1990, now available in a Graywolf Press reissue, 2004)
Body of Life (Northwestern University Press, 1997)
Antebellum Dream Book (Graywolf Press, 2001)
American Sublime (Graywolf Press, 2005)
from The Washington Post:
“The Inaugural Poet: Selection Provides Civil Rights Symmetry,” by Michael E. Ruane
“On Aug. 28, 1963, a young government lawyer and his wife pushed their 1-year-old daughter in a stroller from their home in Southwest Washington to the vast civil rights march on the Mall, where the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. stood at the Lincoln Memorial and gave his β��I Have a Dreamβ�� speech. Next month, the little girl, Elizabeth Alexander, now 46, a prize-winning poet and professor of African American studies at Yale University, is scheduled to stand at the other end of the Mall before what will probably be an even bigger throng and read a poem at the inauguration of the nationβ��s first African American president.”
* “Ars Poetica #100: I Believe” from American Sublime, read by Elizabeth Alexander
* “The Venus Hottentot,” read by a fan, Aichlee Bushnell
…ιδού λοιπόν το ποίημα που διάβασε την ημέρα της ορκομωσίας του Μπάρακ Ομπάμα…όσοι επιθυμούν ας το μεταφράσουν στα ελληνικά…θα με ενδιέφερε το ύφος περισσότερο του καθενός…Πρώτε, περιμένω…
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,
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.
-transcribed from the Presidential inauguration ceremony, January 20, 2009
© 2009, Elizabeth Alexander
Σωτήρη σε χαιρετώ.
Σοφό εντελώς να αναρτήσεις το πόνημα της κυρίας Ελισάβετ.
Έχουμε προβλήματα: το ποίημα ετούτο ακολουθώντας, κατά πόδας θα μπορούσα να πω, το αφιόνι του Robert Frost, έρχεται να αναστατώσει σφόδρα στο Ποιείν και στην ελληνική πραγματικότητα όλα τα poetical inaugurations που αδιαλείπτως και σε σχεδόν καθημερινή βάση εμφανίζονατι τριγύρω.
Θα τρέμουν κάποιων τα πόδια τώρα που η Ελισάβετ που έγραψε το ποιηματάρι της για τον Ομπάμα γράφει καλύτερα απ’ αυτούς.
…”Η ευτυχία έχει πεθάνει!” φώναξε αμέσως δυνατά. Εδώ βρίσκεται όλη η ουσία της αποτυχίας του – θα σου το εξηγήσω.
Συνεχίζει να διαβάζει – “Μια άδηλη θλίψη τώρα κυριαρχεί, τώρα απλώνει το ζοφερό της φως του Άδη στη ζωή μου απʼ άκρη σʼ άκρη, στην πόλη μου, και στην ψυχή μου. Μέσα στις πόλεις, η σιωπή μες στους καπνούς ψιθυρίζει. Αυτός είναι ένας Μεσαίωνας.” Χο-χο! Εδώ έχει πιάσει πάτο κανονικά, κάνει λόγο για Μεσαίωνα. Πρώτα έχοντας αποτύχει να ανακαλύψει ένα νέο συναίσθημα, ο ανόητος καλλιτέχνης στρέφεται στην εποχή του και της επιτίθεται αδιακρίτως. Άκουσε και αυτό: “Η ομορφιά, είναι τώρα νεκρή, την εκθέσαμε σε δημόσια κτήρια, και δυο φορές την ημέρα, ουρές σχηματίζονται από μαυροφόρες που έρχονται για να θρηνήσουν στον τάφο της χαράς.” Πω, πω, τι θλίψη!”…