Author: Linda Sue Grimes

Image:  Symbolizing of the American Presidential Inaugural Poet –  Created by Grok

Six Inaugural Doggerels

The tradition of presidential inaugural poetry in the United States, while relatively young, has become a significant cultural touchstone. However, a critical examination of these pieces reveals a troubling pattern of failure—with the notable exception of Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright.” 

Robert Frost: “The Gift Outright” – January 20, 1961 (John F. Kennedy)

Robert Frost’s recitation of “The Gift Outright” at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961 stands as the pinnacle of inaugural poetry.  Originally written in 1942, this poem was not specifically composed for the occasion, which definitely contributed to its success. Frost’s work masterfully encapsulates the American experience in just sixteen lines of iambic pentameter.

The poem’s strength lies in its ability to combine historical narrative with poetic artistry. Frost personifies the land as a feminine entity, creating a metaphorical relationship between the American people and their country.  This personification allows Frost to explore complex themes of ownership, identity, and national destiny in a concise and powerful manner.

Critics have praised “The Gift Outright” for its technical proficiency and thematic depth. The poem’s conversational tone, coupled with its use of everyday speech, belies its sophisticated structure. Frost’s ability to create memorable phrases such as “vaguely realizing westward” and “unstoried, artless, unenhanced” demonstrates his mastery of language.

Furthermore, the poem’s division into two rhetorical halves allows Frost to present a nuanced view of American history. The first half explores the colonial period, while the second half delves into the nation’s growth and self-awareness. This structure enables Frost to create a narrative arc that resonates with the American experience.

However, the poet initially intended to preface his recitation of “The Gift Outright” with his new work “Dedication,” which he had composed especially for the occasion [1].  Critical analysis of the intended occasion piece reveals that it, too, succumbs to the same unfortunate level of failure and flaws that afflict the other pieces recited at American presidential inaugurations.

The Failures Following Frost

As Robert Bernard Hass has averred,

No American poet—not even Robert Frost—has written a good, let alone marginally acceptable inaugural poem. Puffed up with political pieties and generally employing coma-inducing, bureaucratic language, American inaugural poems lack the energy and insight of their authors’ best poems and, by and large, remain wholly forgettable. [12]

The subsequent inaugural poems following Frost—Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning,” Miller Williams’ “Of History and Hope,” Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for the Day,” Richard Blanco’s “One Today,” and Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb”—have failed as literary works. 

Literary critics and scholars have consistently highlighted their flaws: a tendency toward didacticism, lack of poetic depth, and an inability to transcend the occasional nature of their composition. 

With the exception of Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright,” these inaugural poems fail as poetry because of their subordination to political agendas, their stylistic weaknesses, and their critical rejection as art.

Maya Angelou:  “On the Pulse of Morning” January 20, 1993 (Bill Clinton)

Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning,” delivered at Bill Clinton’s first inauguration, exemplifies the pitfalls of occasional poetry when it prioritizes message over craft. The piece seeks to unify America by invoking natural symbols—a rock, a river, a tree—and tracing a hopeful arc from historical strife to communal renewal. 

Yet, its ambition is undermined by what critics describe as a “preachy” tone and prosaic execution. Literary scholar Siobhan Phillips notes that Angelou’s work assumes a “racist ignorance” in its oversimplified narrative of American progress, glossing over complex histories with broad, sentimental strokes [2]. This didacticism sacrifices nuance for accessibility, a flaw that alienates the poem from the subtlety expected of great poetry.

Critics like Harold Bloom have been particularly harsh, arguing that “On the Pulse of Morning” lacks the linguistic rigor and imaginative leap of Angelou’s better prose works [3]. Its reliance on repetitive phrasing—”A Rock, A River, A Tree”—and predictable rimes* dilutes its impact, rendering it more sermon than song. 

The Washington Post, covering the event, praised Angelou’s commanding delivery but sidestepped the poem’s literary merit, suggesting its success lay in performance, not text [4]. Such praise remains faint praise at best, and as Alexander Pope quipped: “Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, / And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer [5].” 

Clinton’s decision to revive the inaugural poetry tradition aimed to signal cultural sophistication, yet the poem’s reception reveals a consensus: it fails to stand alone as art, tethered instead to the moment it was meant to embellish [6].   As Jay Parini observes, its “stuffy, pompous” quality reflects the inherent tension of poetry serving a public, political function.

Miller Williams: “Of History and Hope” January 20, 1997 (Bill Clinton)

Miller Williams’ “Of History and Hope,” recited at Clinton’s second inauguration, fares no better than Angelou’s under critical scrutiny. Intended as a meditation on America’s past and future, the poem employs a conversational tone and straightforward prosaic language: “We have memorized America, / how it was born and who we have been and where.” 

While this accessibility aligns with the inaugural setting, it exposes the work’s primary flaw—its lack of poetic ambition. Critics argue that Williams sacrifices depth for clarity, producing a piece that feels more like a civics lesson than a literary creation.

Literary critic Marit MacArthur contends that the poem’s “loose unrhymed iambic pentameter” lacks the mastery Frost brought to the form, resulting in a “thin” and “uninspired” effort [4]. 

Its focus on collective memory and hope—”We mean to be the people we meant to be”—reads as platitudinous, failing to engage with the specific tensions of Clinton’s second term, such as political polarization or economic uncertainty. 

The New York Times review of the inauguration noted Williams’ reading as a “quiet moment” but offered no praise for the poem itself, implying its forgettability, again reminiscent of Pope’s “faint praise.”

Scholar Jay Harvey [7] critiques its inability to address the presidential transition meaningfully, a failing shared by most inaugural poems but absent in Frost’s intended “Dedication,” which, though not delivered, aimed higher. Williams’ work, while earnest, collapses under its own simplicity, lacking the complexity or innovation to endure beyond its occasion.

Elizabeth Alexander:  “Praise Song for the Day” January 20, 2009 (Barack Obama)

Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for the Day,” performed at Barack Obama’s first inauguration, promised a poetic reflection on daily American life amid historic change. Its opening lines—”Each day we go about our business, / walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes”—suggest a grounded, observational approach. 

However, the poem quickly devolves into a catalogue of clichés and vague platitudes, earning it widespread critical disdain. Literary critics argue that its attempt to balance the mundane with the monumental results in a work that is neither profound nor memorable.

Helen Vendler, a prominent poetry critic, dismissed “Praise Song for the Day” as “prosaic and processional,” lacking the “imaginative leap” that distinguishes poetry from prose [1] . Its structure—a series of loosely connected vignettes—feels disjointed, and its language, such as “love with no need to preempt grievance,” is nothing more than sentimental abstraction. 

The poem’s nod to Obama’s election as a transformative moment—”Say it plain: that many have died for this day”—is undercut by its failure to evoke specific emotion or imagery, a stark contrast to Frost’s vivid historical compression in “The Gift Outright.” 

The Poetry Foundation’s coverage noted Alexander’s intent to capture a “public voice” but concluded that the result was “stilted” and overly cautious [2]. Critics agree that its reliance on generality over specificity renders it a poetic failure, overshadowed by the occasion it sought to elevate.

Richard Blanco: “One Today” January 21, 2013 (Barack Obama)

Richard Blanco’s “One Today,” delivered at Obama’s second inauguration, aimed to celebrate American diversity through a journey from dawn to dusk across the nation’s landscapes. 

Its panoramic scope—spanning the Smoky Mountains to the Mississippi River—reflects an stilted inclusivity, particularly as the first inaugural poem by a Latino and purposefully openly gay poet. Thus this breadth comes at the cost of depth, and critics have panned its execution as overly descriptive and lacking in poetic resonance.

Scholar Natalie Bober critiques “One Today” for its “prosaic sprawl,” arguing that its litany of geographic and human details—”the empty desks of twenty children marked absent”—feels more like a travelogue than a poem [6]. The attempt to unify America under “one sun” and “one light” leans heavily on repetition but lacks the rhythmic or sonic sophistication to sustain it. 

The Los Angeles Times praised Blanco’s personal story but found the poem itself “earnest but unremarkable” [4]. Compared to Frost’s taut 16 lines, Blanco’s expansive 80-line effort dilutes its impact, succumbing to what critic John Burnside calls the “outmoded triumphalist vision” of inaugural poetry [8]. Its critical reception underscores a recurring flaw: the inability to transcend the ceremonial context and achieve lasting literary value.

For my full commentary on this poem, please visit “Richard Blanco’s ‘One Today’.” (forthcoming)

Amanda Gorman: “The Hill We Climb” January 20, 2021 (Joe Biden)

Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb,” recited at Joe Biden’s inauguration, captured global attention with its youthful energy and timely references to the January 6 Capitol issue. 

At 22, Gorman became the youngest inaugural poet, and her performance was widely celebrated for its charisma and optimism: “The new dawn blooms as we free it / For there is always light.” Yet, beneath the applause, literary critics have identified significant shortcomings that align it with its flawed predecessors rather than Frost’s exception.

Jay Harvey argues that “The Hill We Climb” fails to engage meaningfully with the presidency’s role or the specific challenges of Biden’s administration, opting instead for a “lofty appeal to our better selves” that skirts political substance [7]. 

Its heavy reliance on alliteration—”we’ve braved the belly of the beast”—and rimed couplets feels forced, prioritizing oral impact over textual depth. Critic Siobhan Phillips echoes this, noting that Gorman’s “global citizenship” rhetoric, while aspirational, lacks the historical grounding of Frost’s work, rendering it “shopworn” and detached from the occasion’s gravity [2]. 

The New Yorker lauded Gorman’s presence but critiqued the poem’s “unfinished” quality, mirroring her own metaphor for America but exposing its artistic limits [4]. Scholars agree that its success as a cultural moment overshadows its failure as a standalone poem, reinforcing the pattern of inaugural poetry’s literary inadequacy.

For my full commentary on this poem, please visit, Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb.” (forthcoming)

Graveyard for Poetic Ambition

Scholar A. R. Coulthard offers the following critique that perfectly encapsulates the flaws and failures of not only his target, Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning,”  but the other poets who have dared to share their wares at the American Presidential Inaugural ceremonies:  

Polemical is almost always bad art because it assumes that worthy ideas are enough. Literary political crusaders who also honor the craft of their work, as Shelley did in some of his proletarian poems, are rare.

More typically, the dogma-driven poet pays insufficient heed to artistic demands, such as the excellent one expressed by the poet-priest Gerard Manley Hopkins when he defined poetry as “speech framed … to be heard for its own sake over and above its interest in meaning.”  

The hack polemicist expects his or her words to soar on noble ideas rather than on the wings of poesy. “On the Pulse of Morning” perfectly exemplifies this attitude. [11]

Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright” remains the gold standard for inaugural poetry, its 16 lines weaving a complex historical narrative with poetic precision that has weathered critical scrutiny.   

Frost had intended to read “Dedication,” a longer, more explicit tribute to Kennedy’s administration, but glare from the sun and his own failing eyesight forced him to recite “The Gift Outright” from memory instead [1]. 

Frost inferior piece,”Dedication,” with its dense 80 lines and overly specific praise—”This is the day the Lord hath made”—was critiqued by Frost himself as less effective, yet its failure underscores the triumph of “The Gift Outright,” which distilled America’s essence without pandering. 

In contrast, the works of Angelou, Williams, Alexander, Blanco, and Gorman—despite their moments of public acclaim—have been universally faulted by literary critics and scholars for their flaws: didacticism, lack of depth, and subservience to political spectacle. Such flaws devolves poetry into polemics, as described by Coulthard.

Frost’s poem, even when recited by necessity rather than choice, transcends its occasion; the others remain shackled to theirs. The tradition of inaugural poetry, while a noble gesture toward culture, reveals a persistent tension between art and utility. 

As these critiques demonstrate, the poems’ failures stem not solely from their poets’ talents but from the impossible task of crafting lasting art under the weight of presidential expectation. Until a poet can match Robert Frost’s balance of craft and context, the inaugural stage will remain a graveyard for poetic ambition.

Sources

[1]  Linda Sue Grimes.  “Life Sketch of Robert Frost.”  Linda’s Literary Home.  Accessed December 3, 2025.

[2] Siobhan Phillips. “Political Poeticizing.”  Poetry Foundation. July 01, 2015,

[3] Harold Bloom. The Best Poems of the Twentieth Century. HarperCollins. 1998. Print.

[4]  Various Authors. Newspaper reviews from The Washington Post, The New York Times, and Los Angeles Times, cited in relevant inauguration coverage, 1993-2021.

[5] Alexander Pope.  “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.” Poetry Foundation.  Accessed March 3, 2025.

[6]  Natalie Bober.  A Restless Spirit: The Story of Robert Frost. Henry Holt. 1991.  Print.

[7] James Harvey. “Of ‘Poetry and Power,’ Robert Frost and His Inaugural Successors.” Jay Harvey Upstage.  January 31, 2021.

[8]  John Burnside.  The Music of Time: Poetry in the Twentieth Century. Princeton University Press.  2020. Print.

[11] A. R. Coulthard.  “Poetry as Politics: Maya Angelou’s Inaugural Poem, ‘On the Pulse of Morning’.”  Notes on Contemporary Literature. Vol. XXVIII. No. 1. January, 1999. pp. 2–5. Via eNotes.  Accessed March 3, 2025.

[12]  Robert Bernard Hass. “Praising Athenians in Athens: On the Failures of the American Ceremonial Poem.” Contemporary Poetry Review. May 7, 2013.

Commentaries on the Six Inaugural Doggerels

Image:  Robert Frost Library of Congress

Robert Frost:  The First American Inaugural Poet

Robert Frost had intended to preface his recitation of “The Gift Outright” with a recently created “Dedication,” but the sun rendered Frost’s reading impossible, so he dropped “Dedication” but continued on to recite “The Gift Outright” from memory.

Introduction with Text of “Dedication”

On January 20, 1961, Robert Frost became the first American poet to present a poem at a presidential inauguration. During the swearing-in of John F. Kennedy as the 35th president of the United States, Frost recited his poem, “The Gift Outright.” Although Frost had composed a new poem, “Dedication,” intended as a preface to his recitation of “The Gift Outright,” he had not committed it to memory in time for the ceremony.

At the inauguration, Frost attempted to read “Dedication” but was hindered by the intense sunlight reflecting off the snow, which obscured his view of the text. He managed to deliver the first 23 lines before abandoning the effort and transitioning to “The Gift Outright,” which he recited from memory [1]. While “Dedication” contains valuable historical insights, it also exhibits some of the exaggerated sentimentality that is often characteristic of occasional poetry [2].

Dedication

Summoning artists to participate
In the august occasions of the state
Seems something artists ought to celebrate.
Today is for my cause a day of days.
And his be poetry’s old-fashioned praise
Who was the first to think of such a thing.
This verse that in acknowledgement I bring
Goes back to the beginning of the end
Of what had been for centuries the trend;
A turning point in modern history.
Colonial had been the thing to be
As long as the great issue was to see
What country’d be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.
Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)
God nodded his approval of as good
So much those heroes knew and understood,
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.
And this is no aristocratic joke
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.
“New order of the ages” did they say?
If it looks none too orderly today,
‘Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.
Everyone knows the glory of the twain
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom’s story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.
Come fresh from an election like the last,
The greatest vote a people ever cast,
So close yet sure to be abided by,
It is no miracle our mood is high.
Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs
Better than all the stalemate an’s and ifs.
There was the book of profile tales declaring
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right divine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.
It makes the prophet in us all presage
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young ambition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday’s the beginning hour.

Commentary on “Dedication”

Robert Frost’s “Dedication,” while providing some insightful commentary, falls short of achieving the status of a genuine poetic work. Even when considered as an occasional poem, its final movement exhibits an excessive tendency towards hyperbolic adulation.

It is worth noting that the poem’s public recitation was ultimately prevented due to Frost’s inability to read it as planned [3]. This fortuitous circumstance may have inadvertently shielded the poet from potential criticism that likely would have ensued had the work been presented in its entirety. The glare of the sun, which impeded Frost’s ability to read the text, served to obscure this less successful composition from public scrutiny.

First Movement:  Invocation to Artists

Summoning artists to participate
In the august occasions of the state
Seems something artists ought to celebrate.
Today is for my cause a day of days.
And his be poetry’s old-fashioned praise
Who was the first to think of such a thing.
This verse that in acknowledgement I bring
Goes back to the beginning of the end
Of what had been for centuries the trend;
A turning point in modern history.

The speaker appears to defer the task of transforming the inauguration into a grand and memorable event by emphasizing the value and relevance of artists’ contributions to such occasions. 

He draws a parallel between his current endeavor and the historical tradition of “poetry’s old-fashioned praise,” suggesting that certain ceremonial moments inherently reflect broader historical patterns.  The speaker’s assertions remain ambiguous and noncommittal, yet they leave room for the possibility of greater clarity and specificity as his discourse progresses. 

He posits that his act of integrating verse into the event is rooted in an ancient tradition. However, he juxtaposes this notion with the phrase “the beginning of the end,” thereby hedging his position to account for potential criticism or failure.

This rhetorical strategy allows the speaker to simultaneously evoke a sense of timelessness while maintaining a degree of self-protection against possible counterarguments.

Second Movement: Forming a New Sovereign Nation

Colonial had been the thing to be
As long as the great issue was to see
What country’d be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.

The author presents a nuanced portrayal of colonial America, characterized by a complex interplay of European powers vying for supremacy in the New World.  The narrative posits a critical question regarding which nation—France, Spain, or the Netherlands—would ultimately shape the nascent American identity.

However, the author resolves this query by asserting England’s ascendancy, attributing this triumph to Queen Elizabeth I.  This pivotal development had far-reaching consequences for the cultural and linguistic landscape of the emerging nation. Consequently, the English language, rather than French, Spanish, or Dutch, became the predominant tongue of the New World.

Furthermore, one can infer that this English dominance extended beyond language to encompass broader cultural elements, including clothing preferences, social etiquette, and culinary traditions. While other European nations maintained a presence in the colonies, their influence was relegated to a secondary rôle in shaping the overarching colonial identity.

This perspective underscores the profound impact of England’s colonial success on the foundational characteristics of American society, highlighting the enduring legacy of early English settlements in molding the cultural fabric of the nation.

Third Movement:  Tribute to the Founding Fathers

Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)
God nodded his approval of as good
So much those heroes knew and understood,
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.

The third movement, while containing historically accurate statements, exhibits structural inefficiencies that diminish its overall impact. The parenthetical remark “(Is it not written on the dollar bill / We carry in our purse and pocket still?)” followed by the assertion “God nodded his approval of as good” reduces the potency of the content. The phrase “Latin of our founding sages,” referring to “E Pluribus Unum” (Out of many, One), loses its significance when presented parenthetically.

Robert Frost’s religious views, characterized by agnostic tendencies, render the attribution of divine approval incongruous with his established persona, raising questions of authorial sincerity. This issue is further compounded by Frost’s secular interpretation of national founding principles, despite the historical significance of religious motivations in the nation’s establishment.

The poem’s nature as an occasional piece, composed to commemorate a politician’s ascension to office, further accentuates the problematic aspects of sincerity. However, the tribute to “Washington, / John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison” as “consecrated seers” remains an accurate historical characterization.

The concluding lines appropriately celebrate the Declaration of Independence, which, alongside the U.S. Constitution, represents one of the most significant texts in both American and global history. The enduring importance of these documents in inspiring national aspirations worldwide is accurately conveyed in the statement “our Declaration / Make everybody want to be a nation.”

Fourth Movement:  Pursuing Natural Rights

And this is no aristocratic joke
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.
“New order of the ages” did they say?
If it looks none too orderly today,
‘Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.

The author addresses the topic of immigration to the newly established nation. It is logical that individuals from various parts of the world would seek to emigrate from authoritarian regimes that suppress freedom in their countries of origin. Furthermore, it is reasonable that these individuals would desire to relocate to this newly formed nation.

This nascent nation, from its inception, embraces the principles of liberty and individual accountability, as enshrined in foundational documents that articulate the fundamental human rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” The author refutes the notion that only the privileged class was valued and permitted to thrive in this new society.

Newly arrived immigrants may initially be considered wards of the state, but this status is temporary and contingent upon their consent. In essence, these immigrants have the opportunity to attain citizenship in this new land of freedom, as it embodies the concept of a “new order of the ages.”

Fifth Movement:  The Courage of a Young Nation

Everyone knows the glory of the twain
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom’s story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.
Come fresh from an election like the last,
The greatest vote a people ever cast,
So close yet sure to be abided by,
It is no miracle our mood is high.
Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs
Better than all the stalemate an’s and ifs.

The speaker then focuses on the very specific event of the Wright Brothers (“the twain”) and their new invention “the aeroplane.”  He then asserts that such feats have put the lie to the “poor fool” who thinks that there is no longer any “glory” in “life and art.”   He insists that the American adventure story in “revolution and outlawry” has been gloriously vindicated and “justified [ ] in freedom’s story.”

The speaker then offers his take of how this recent election, whose result he is now celebrating, played out.  He deems it the “greatest vote a people ever cast”—an obvious exaggeration. 

Yet, while the election was “close,” it will be “abided by.”   The citizenry’s mood is “high,” and that fact is “no miracle.”  He then asserts that such a situation arises out of the courage of the nation.

Sixth Movement:  The Misfortune of the Inaugural Poem

There was the book of profile tales declaring
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right divine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.
It makes the prophet in us all presage
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young ambition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday’s the beginning hour.

The speaker subsequently directs attention to the specific accomplishment of the Wright Brothers, referred to as “the twain,” and their groundbreaking invention, the airplane. The author contends that such technological advancements refute the notion held by skeptics who believe that “life and art” no longer possess any inherent value or significance. 

Furthermore, the speaker asserts that the American narrative of innovation and progress, characterized by “revolution and outlawry,” has been substantiated and validated within the context of the nation’s pursuit of freedom.

The speaker then provides an analysis of a recent electoral event, the outcome of which is being commemorated. While employing hyperbole, the speaker characterizes this election as the most significant democratic exercise in history. 

Despite acknowledging the narrow margin of victory, the speaker emphasizes that the results will be respected. He notes the elevated morale of the citizenry, attributing this not to chance but to the inherent courage and resilience of the nation.

Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright”

Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright” became the first inaugural poem, read at John F. Kennedy’s swearing-in ceremony. This marked the first time a poet had participated in a presidential inauguration, setting a precedent for the inclusion of poetry in such events. The poet Robert Frost’s involvement, at Kennedy’s request, highlighted poetry’s cultural significance in American society.

Introduction with Text of “The Gift Outright”

On January 20, 1961, John F. Kennedy’s inauguration as the 35th president of the United States of America (35) took place. For this momentous occasion, Kennedy extended an invitation to America’s preeminent poet, Robert Frost, to compose and recite a poem. 

Initially, Frost declined the proposition of crafting an occasional poem, prompting Kennedy to request a recitation of “The Gift Outright.” The poet acquiesced to this proposal.  Kennedy then made an additional request of the venerable poet. He suggested altering the poem’s final line from “Such as she was, such as she would become” to “Such as she was, such as she will become.” 

Kennedy believed this revision conveyed a more optimistic sentiment than Frost’s original. Though initially reluctant, Frost ultimately conceded to accommodate the young president’s wishes. Nevertheless, the poet did compose a poem specifically for the event, titled “Dedication,” intended as a prelude to “The Gift Outright.”

During the inauguration ceremony, Frost attempted to read the occasional poem. However, because of the intense sunlight reflecting off the snow, his aging vision was impaired, rendering the text illegible. 

Consequently, the poet proceeded to recite “The Gift Outright” from memory. Regarding the alteration of the final line, rather than simply reciting Kennedy’s requested revision, Frost stated:

Such as she was, such as she would become, has become, and I – and for this occasion let me change that to –what she will become.  (my emphasis added)

Thus, Frost maintained fidelity to his original vision while fulfilling the presidential request. “The Gift Outright” presents a concise historical narrative of the United States, which had just elected and was in the process of inaugurating its 35th president.

The speaker in the poem, without resorting to chauvinistic patriotism, manages to convey a positive perspective on the nation’s struggle for existence, framing it as a gift bestowed upon themselves and the world by the Founding Fathers.

In response to the query—”Well, Doctor, what have we got—a Republic or a Monarchy?”—regarding the outcome of the Constitutional Convention held from May 25 to September 17, 1787, in Philadelphia, Founding Father Benjamin Franklin replied, “A Republic, if you can keep it” [4].

The U.S. Constitution has proven to be an enduring gift. It supplanted the ineffectual Articles of Confederation and preserved the nation’s integrity even during the tumultuous Civil War nearly a century later.

The speaker in the poem offers a succinct overview of America’s struggle for existence, portraying this struggle and the resulting Constitution as a gift the Founders bestowed upon themselves and subsequent generations.

The Gift Outright

The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

Robert Frost Reading “The Gift Outright” 

At Inauguration 

Commentary on “The Gift Outright”

Robert Frost’s inaugural poem offers a brief view into a slice of the history of the United States of America that has just elected its 35th president.

First Movement:   The Nature of Possessing

The land was ours before we were the land’s.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

The speaker commences the initial movement by presenting an allusion to the historical context of the nation over which the newly appointed government official would now preside. 

The speaker posits that the individuals who had established settlements on the territory, subsequently denominated as the United States of America, had initiated their endeavor in liberty while inhabiting the land that would eventually constitute their nation, and they would subsequently become its citizens.

Rather than merely existing as a loosely amalgamated collective of individuals, they would evolve into a unified citizenry sharing a common nomenclature and governance. The official date of inception for the United States of America is July 4, 1776; with the promulgation of the Declaration of Independence, the nascent nation assumed its position among the global community of nations.

The speaker accurately asserts that the land was in the possession of the populace “more than a hundred years” prior to the inhabitants attaining citizenship status within the country. 

The speaker then references two significant early colonies, Massachusetts and Virginia, which would transition to statehood (commonwealths) following the cessation of English dominion over the new territory.

Second Movement:   The Blessings of Law and Order

Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

The period from 1776 to 1887 was characterized by the nascent United States’ endeavor to establish a governmental framework that would simultaneously safeguard individual liberties and institute a legal order conducive to life in a free society. 

A significant initial step in this process was the formulation of the Articles of Confederation and Perpetual Union [5], the inaugural constitution drafted in 1777, which did not achieve ratification until 1781.

The Articles, however, proved inadequate in providing sufficient structure for the burgeoning nation. By 1787, it became apparent that a new, more robust document was necessary to ensure the country’s continued functionality and unity. Consequently, the Constitutional Convention of 1787 [6] was convened with the ostensible purpose of revising the Articles.

Rather than merely amending the existing document, the Founding Fathers opted to discard it entirely and draft a new U.S. Constitution. This document has remained the foundational set of laws governing the United States since its ratification on June 21, 1788 [7]. The struggle for effective self-governance in early America can be poetically described as “something we were withholding,” a reticence that “made us weak.”

Ultimately, the nation found “salvation in surrender,” as the Founding Fathers acquiesced to a document that not only provided legitimate order but also afforded the maximum possible scope for individual freedom. This compromise between structure and liberty has been a defining characteristic of the American governmental system since its inception.

Third Movement:  The Blessing of Freedom

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

The speaker characterizes the early, tumultuous history of the nation as a period marked by “many deeds of war,” referring to the conflict [8] in which early Americans engaged against England, their mother country, in pursuit of the independence they had both declared and demanded.

However, the nascent nation resolutely bestowed upon itself the “gift” of existence and liberty by persisting in its struggle and advancing through territorial expansion “westward.” 

The populace endured numerous hardships—remaining “unstoried, artless, unenhanced”—as they persevered in their efforts to shape the nation into the powerful entity that, by the time of the poet’s recitation, had elected its 35th president.

Sources

[1] Tim Ott.  “Why Robert Frost Didn’t Get to Read the Poem He Wrote for John F. Kennedy’s Inauguration.”  Biography.  June 1, 2020.

[2] Editors. “Occasional Poem.”  American Academy of Poetry. Accessed March 4, 2025.

[3]  Maria Popova. “On Art and Government: The Poem Robert Frost Didn’t Read at JFK’s Inauguration.” brainpickings.  Accessed March 4, 2025.

[4]  Editors. “Benjamin Franklin.”  Respectfully Quoted: A Dictionary of Quotations. bartleby.com. Accessed March 4, 2025.  

[5]  Editors.  “Articles of Confederation.” History.  October 27, 2009.

[6]  Richard R. Beeman.  “The Constitutional Convention of 1787: A Revolution in Government.”  Interactive Constitution.  Accessed March 4, 2025..

[7]  NCC Staff.  “The Day the Constitution Was Ratified.” National Constitution Center.  June 21, 2020.

[8] Curators. “Timeline of the Revolutionary War.” USHistory.org.  Accessed March 4, 2025.

Image: Maya Angelou Reading at Clinton Inauguration People

Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning”

Maya Angelou read her poem, “On the Pulse of Morning,” at Bill Clinton’s first inauguration, January 20, 1993. It was the first time a poem had been included in this ceremony since 1961, when aging poet Robert Frost plied his wares to celebrate John F. Kennedy’s swearing-in.

Introduction and Except from “On the Pulse of Morning”

Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning,” recited at President Bill Clinton’s 1993 inauguration, is often lauded as a unifying emblem of American hope and resilience. However, a rigorous examination reveals it to be a flawed piece of discourse, displaying little more poetic skill or enduring value than a Hallmark card verse. 

Its reliance on clichéd imagery, prosaic language, lack of structural sophistication, and over-dependence on its historical moment undermine its artistic merit, rendering it more a transient political gesture than a work of lasting poetry.   

Poetaster Maya Angelou’s inaugural poem fails to rise above its occasion, and the occasional poem throughout history has proven to be the most difficult to pull off as a true piece of art.

On the Pulse of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, 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.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope—
Good morning.

Reading

Commentary on “On the Pulse of Morning”

Because this piece is so flawed, I have departed from my usual pattern of commenting on each movement or stanza.  Instead, I have offered my critique engaging the main flaws and failures that I have encountered in this inaugural mediocrity.  

It should come as no surprise that this poet, Dr. Maya Angelou, has put on display a piece of Hallmark quality verse that in no way rises the stature of a poem.  For an in depth commentary on the true value of this poet, please visit my article “Dr. Maya Angelou: Sacred Cow of Po-Biz.”

While the late Ms. Angelou was a lovely woman and a truly motivational character, her talent for writing was meager at best and deplorable at worst.  Yet, she cut a dashing figure and carved out for herself a remarkable cultural status.  And despite the fact that she remains painfully undeserving of the adoration she continues to garner, one must begrudgingly admire and remain amazed by her stunning ability to to schmooze and  bamboozle.

The Banality of Imagery

One of the most conspicuous weaknesses in “On the Pulse of Morning” is its dependence on imagery so commonplace that it lacks originality or depth. Angelou invokes natural symbols—the “Rock,” the “River,” and the “Tree”—as voices addressing humanity. While these elements aim to evoke a sense of timelessness and universality, their execution is so conventional that they reveal little more than banality.

A.R. Coulthard sharply observes that such symbols “are the stuff of greeting-card verse rather than serious poetry,” lacking the freshness or intricacy necessary to distinguish them as literary achievements [1]. 

For example, the Rock’s invitation to “Come, you may stand upon my / Back and face your distant destiny” feels less like a poetic vision and more like a recycled trope from inspirational literature, offering no new perspective or imaginative leap.  This reliance on hackneyed imagery persists throughout the poem. 

The River, described as flowing “past the cities and the towns,” and the Tree, standing “rooted in the earth,” present scenes so familiar they could adorn a mass-produced postcard. By contrast, poets like Robert Frost, in “The Road Not Taken,” transform ordinary natural imagery—two diverging paths—into a profound meditation on choice through subtle nuance and ambiguity. 

Angelou’s symbols, however, remain static and predictable, their simplicity aligning more closely with the sentimental shorthand of Hallmark verses than with the layered resonance of canonical poetry.

The poem’s imagery also lacks the sensory richness that elevates poetic expression. Lines such as “The horizon leans forward, / Offering you space to place new steps of change” rely on abstract, visual platitudes rather than engaging the full spectrum of human perception—sound, touch, or smell—that poets like John Keats or Sylvia Plath wield to create vivid, memorable worlds. 

This absence of texture reinforces the poem’s superficiality, rendering its natural motifs as decorative rather than transformative, much like the cursory illustrations accompanying a greeting card’s message.

The Prosaic Nature of Language

Beyond its imagery, “On the Pulse of Morning” falters in its linguistic execution, favoring a prosaic style over the compression and musicality that define poetic craft. Harold Bloom, a towering figure in literary criticism, has expressed reservations about Angelou’s broader poetic output, suggesting that it often prioritizes “moral uplift” over aesthetic rigor [2]. 

This inaugural poem’s language frequently resembles motivational rhetoric rather than art. Consider the lines “Lift up your eyes upon / The day breaking for you”: their straightforward, declarative tone lacks the metaphor, assonance, or rhythmic intricacy one might expect from a poet like T.S. Eliot, whose “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” weaves dense imagery and sound into a tapestry of meaning.

Angelou’s language often feels utilitarian, serving its immediate purpose without aspiring to the ambiguity or depth that distinguishes poetry from prose. For instance, the following lines read more like a self-help aphorism than a poetic utterance: “History, despite its wrenching pain, / Cannot be unlived, but if faced / With courage, need not be lived again.” 

Its clarity and linearity leave little room for interpretation, a stark contrast to the enigmatic richness of Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man,” where language invites multiple readings. 

Coulthard underscores this point, arguing that Angelou’s reliance on “prose-like simplicity” dilutes the poem’s claim to literary status [1]. This simplicity mirrors the directness of Hallmark card verses, which prioritize accessibility over artistry, offering comfort without intellectual or aesthetic challenge.

Moreover, the poem’s diction lacks the precision or inventiveness that might redeem its plainness. Words like “hope,” “change,” and “peace” recur without variation or redefinition, their overuse echoing the repetitive lexicon of commercial sentimentality. 

Literary scholar Helen Vendler has critiqued contemporary poetry for its tendency to lean on “worn-out phrases” when it fails to innovate [3]. In “On the Pulse of Morning,” this tendency is evident, as Angelou’s language remains anchored in the familiar rather than forging new linguistic territory, further aligning it with the predictable cadences of greeting-card rhetoric.

Structural Weaknesses and Lack of Form

The poem’s structural deficiencies further compound its shortcomings, revealing a lack of formal discipline that undermines its poetic integrity. Spanning 106 lines, “On the Pulse of Morning” adopts a free-verse style but without the deliberate patterning or rhythmic coherence that elevates works like Walt Whitman’s “Miracles.” 

Instead, its progression feels haphazard, more akin to a prose  discourse interrupted by line breaks than a crafted poetic artifact. Coulthard notes that the poem’s “lack of structural unity” reflects its origins as an occasional piece, prioritizing its delivery over its permanence.  This absence of form contrasts with the meticulous architecture of a sonnet by Shakespeare or a villanelle by Dylan Thomas, where structure enhances meaning.

The poem’s length, while ambitious, exacerbates its lack of cohesion. Lines meander without a clear arc or crescendo, as seen in the transition from the Rock’s address to the cataloguing of ethnic groups to the final call for unity. 

This sprawling quality dilutes its impact, resembling a laundry list of ideas rather than a unified composition. Vendler argues that effective poetry, even in free verse, requires “an internal logic of form” to sustain its momentum [3]. Angelou’s poem, however, lacks such logic, its loose arrangement mirroring the brevity and lack of depth in the doggerel of amateurs, which similarly prioritize surface sentiment over structural sophistication.

Contextual Over-Dependence and Lack of Universality

Another critical flaw in “On the Pulse of Morning” is its over-reliance on its historical context, which restricts its ability to transcend the 1993 inauguration. Occasional poetry often ties itself to a specific moment, but the finest examples—such as Robert Frost’s “The Gift Outright” at Kennedy’s 1961 inauguration—achieve universality through timeless themes and linguistic innovation. 

Angelou’s poem, by contrast, remains bound to the particulars of American history and Clinton’s political milieu. References to “the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew” and “the Greek, the Irish, the Slav” feel like a roll call of diversity tailored to a 1990s audience, lacking the broader resonance that might speak to future generations. Coulthard contends that this specificity “anchors the poem too firmly in its immediate political milieu,” diminishing its potential as enduring art [1].

Harold Bloom’s broader critique of Angelou’s work amplifies this point. He suggests that her poetry often functions as “a gesture of social goodwill” rather than a contribution to the literary tradition, lacking the “agonistic struggle” that defines great art [2]. 

In “On the Pulse of Morning,” the “agonistic struggle” manifests as an absence of tension or complexity that might lift it beyond its occasion. The poem’s optimistic vision—”The day breaking for you”—presents a sanitized narrative of progress, sidestepping the darker ambiguities of human experience that poets like W.H. Auden explore in works such as “The Unknown Citizen.” 

This lack of depth aligns it with the fleeting positivity of a Hallmark card, which similarly avoids challenging its audience in favor of temporary uplift. The poem’s failure to achieve universality is further evident in its inability to stand alone as a text. 

Unlike Frost’s “The Gift Outright,” which retains its power independent of its inaugural context, Angelou’s work relies heavily on the spectacle of its delivery—her voice, the setting, the audience—to lend it weight. 

Literary critic John Felstiner has noted that occasional poetry risks becoming “ephemeral” when it cannot “survive the page” [4].  The piece of doggerel “On the Pulse of Morning” exemplifies this ephemerality, its meaning tied to a moment rather than a lasting poetic vision, much like a greeting card’s message fades once its occasion passes.

Counterarguments and Rebuttal

Advocates of “On the Pulse of Morning” might argue that its accessibility and emotional appeal constitute its strength, particularly given its role in a public ceremony. The poem’s broad reach and its invocation of collective identity could be seen as virtues, reflecting Angelou’s stature as a voice for inclusivity.   However, accessibility alone does not equate to poetic excellence. 

As Vendler observes, “poetry that merely soothes risks losing its claim to art” [3]. The emotional simplicity of Angelou’s poem, while possibly effective as oratory, lacks the intellectual or aesthetic complexity that distinguishes poetry from prose or commercial verse. Its cultural significance as a historical artifact does not compensate for its literary deficiencies.

Furthermore, the poem’s reliance on its performative context does not excuse its textual weaknesses. Great poetry endures through its words, not its delivery. Shakespeare’s sonnets, for instance, require no stage to convey their power, whereas Angelou’s poem leans on external factors—her charisma, the inauguration’s gravitas—to mask its lack of intrinsic merit. 

This unhealthy dependence reinforces its parallel to a Hallmark card, which similarly depends on its presentation through use of glossy paper, ribbons, or flamboyant visual imagery to enhance its otherwise vacuous content.

Placing Flawed Art on Display

Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of Morning” stands as a flawed piece of discourse, exhibiting little more poetic skill or value than a Hallmark card verse. Its clichéd imagery, prosaic language, structural weaknesses, and contextual over-dependence, as critiqued by Coulthard, Bloom, Vendler, and Felstiner, expose its artistic limitations. Actually, the piece is more qualified to be labeled doggerel than poetry.

While it fulfilled its role as an inaugural address, it lacks the originality, complexity, and universality required of significant poetry. Rather than a literary triumph, Angelou’s poem reflects the pitfalls of prioritizing occasion over craft, its lines echoing the transient sentimentality of greeting-card rhetoric rather than the enduring depth of true poetic art.

The ultimate calamity infused into the culture by these vacuous pieces of inauguration doggerel is that humanity suffers:  sentimental, uplifting words decorated for an enhanced delivery cannot plumb the depths of the human heart and mind.  

Would it not seem that such a momentous occasion as a presidential inauguration would demand the plumbing of those depths, instead of spoon feeding of sloppy sentimentality that continues to be offered up by these poetasters, pretending to be poets?

Sources

[1] A.R. Coulthard. “Poetry as Politics: Maya Angelou’s Inaugural Poem, ‘On the Pulse of Morning’.” Notes on Contemporary Literature, vol. XXVIII, no. 1, January 1999, pp. 2–5.

[2] Harold Bloom. The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages. Harcourt Brace. 1994. Print.

[3] HelenVendler. The Ocean, the Bird, and the Scholar: Essays on Poets and Poetry. Harvard University Press.  2015. Print.

[4] John Felstiner. Can Poetry Save the Earth?: A Field Guide to Nature Poems. Yale University Press. 2009.  Print.

Image:  Miller Williams – AZ Central

Miller Williams’ “Of History and Hope”

Like the other inaugural monstrosities that have gone on before and after, this effort by Miller Williams lacks the vision and skill required to rise to the level of a heartfelt, mind-challenging piece of art.

Introduction and Text of “Of History and Hope”

Miller Williams’ “Of History and Hope,” delivered at President Bill Clinton’s second inauguration in 1997, is frequently lauded as a work of unifying public verse. However, a close reading reveals that this flawed piece of discourse evinces scant poetic skill or aesthetic value beyond the level of a beginner’s doggerel. 

Its structural disjunction, pedestrian diction, ineffectual deployment of poetic devices, and failure to transcend its narrowly occasional nature collectively undermine its artistic legitimacy. 

Drawing upon the insights of scholars and critics such as Helen Vendler, Harold Bloom, Roger Kimball, and Daniel J. Flynn, this commentary  exposes a work that demonstrably falters under rigorous scrutiny.

Of History and Hope

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

Reading  

Commentary on “Of History and Hope”

Far from representing a moment of poetic triumph, the piece emerges as a ceremonial footnote, its artistic merit scarcely exceeding that of a beginner’s doggerel—a missed opportunity on a significant national stage.

First Versagraph:  Pattern of Deficiencies

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.

This initial versagraph establishes a pattern of deficiencies, presenting a desultory structure and uninspired language that intimate a potential that remains unrealized. Helen Vendler posits that a poem’s form must embody a considered “process of thinking,” leading the reader through a discernible and coherent progression [1]. 

In this instance, however, Williams proffers a disconnected concatenation of elements—historical recapitulation (“We have memorized America”), ritualistic performance (“In ceremonies and silence”), and indeterminate questioning (“But where are we going to be, and why, and who?”)—lacking any discernible unifying principle. 

The anaphoric deployment of “We” represents an attempt to forge a collective voice, but its iteration feels superficial, devoid of the rhythmic verve that Vendler celebrates in Whitman’s emphatic cadences [2]. Instead, it more closely resembles a prose oration segmented into lines, a neophyte’s error rather than a purposefully constructed poetic framework.

The diction further reveals a conspicuous absence of elevation. Lines such as “We like the places they take us. Mostly we do” are excessively colloquial, lacking the compression and capacity for surprise that Vendler ascribes to genuine poetic expression.

The metaphor of “the rich taste of it is on our tongues” gestures toward sensory engagement but remains resolutely abstract, lacking grounding in vivid imagery, unlike William Carlos Williams’ meticulously rendered  “The Red Wheelbarrow.” 

Harold Bloom might interpret this as an instance of “weak misreading” of the American poetic canon, a failure to grapple substantively with the historical gravity that the historical canon invokes [3]. 

The tautological effusion “We mean to be the people we meant to be” functions as a political bromide rather than a moment of poetic insight, aligning with Roger Kimball’s likely aversion to artistic expression diluted by populist sentiment (inferred from his cultural critiques) [4]. 

This versagraph, ostensibly intended to provide a foundational grounding for the poem, instead exposes a lack of capacity to establish either structural coherence or poetic  richness.

Second Versagraph:  Transition to Future

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

The second versagraph attempts to offer a transition to the future, yet its shortcomings are amplified, characterized by superficial use of poetic devices and thematic insipid blandness. 

The deployment of rhetorical questions—”But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how”—aims for philosophical gravitas but remains underdeveloped, devolving into the banal repetition of “The children. The children.” 

This reiteration, ostensibly intended for emphasis, feels contrived and maudlin, a far remove from the cumulative force that Vendler identifies in effective anaphora [2].   Tugging at heartstrings remains a dominant feature of political propaganda, not poetry.

The garden metaphor—”how does our garden grow? / With waving hands … and flowering faces”—offers a fleeting glimpse of potential imagery, yet its evocation of nursery-rime cadence (“Mary, Mary, quite contrary”) and reliance on the cliché of “flowering faces” compromise its originality. Bloom might view this as a feeble echo of more robust pastoral traditions, lacking genuine imaginative power.

Structurally, this versagraph fails to forge a substantive connection between past and future, a missed opportunity to enact the “montage in lieu of argument” that Vendler identifies as a strength in Yeats’ occasional verse. 

Instead, it meanders, its allusion to “brambles” too imprecise to bear significant moral weight. Daniel J. Flynn might contend that this reflects a broader cultural predilection for comforting ambiguities over rigorous intellectual engagement, a characteristic flaw in amateur artistic endeavors (inferred from his commentary such as about Maya Angelou: she is “an author more revered than read”) [5]. 

The language maintains its prosaic character—”we can no longer allow”—lacking the requisite elevation to transmute its conceptual content into compelling poetry. This versagraph exemplifies doggerel’s proclivity to depend upon hackneyed tropes without refinement, revealing the limitations of Williams’ artistic skill.

Third Versagraph:  Toward a Communal Credo

Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

The third versagraph represents an attempt at a communal credo, yet its ponderous structure and reliance on sloganeering undermine its efficacy. The anaphoric pattern of “Who … cannot” is intended to generate rhetorical momentum, yet its predictability stifles the element of surprise that Vendler considers crucial to poetic effect. Each line delivers a moral truism—”cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot”—more appropriate to a political speech than to a poem. 

The concluding list—”just and compassionate, equal, able, and free”—reads as a campaign slogan rather than a climactic moment of poetic insight, echoing Flynn’s likely critique of artistic expression subordinated to ideological concerns. This absence of subtlety aligns with Kimball’s skepticism toward cultural products that prioritize message over artistic craftsmanship.

The failed image of a personified entity called “luck”, exemplified in “luck alone turn doorknobs or not,” is quirky yet underdeveloped, failing to resonate as a compelling signal of opportunity. 

Bloom might argue that this versagraph fails to engage substantively with the literary precursors it implicitly invokes—Whitman’s democratic vision or Dickinson’s incisive introspection—rendering it a superficial gesture. 

Its structure, while exhibiting greater pattern than earlier versagraphs, remains fundamentally prosaic, with line breaks that appear arbitrary rather than rhythmically purposeful. This dependence on didacticism at the expense of artistry typifies a novice’s tendency to preach rather than explore, further solidifying the poem’s resemblance to doggerel.

Fourth Versagraph:  Foundering on Sentimentality and Superficiality

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

The concluding versagraph, intended to resolve the poem’s thematic concerns, instead founders on sentimentality and superficiality. The emphasis on children—”eyes already set / on a land we never can visit”—aims for poignancy but achieves only the level of cliché, a common pitfall of neophyte poetry. 

Vendler observes that accomplished poets utilize such motifs to construct intricate montages, not to reiterate sentimental platitudes; Williams bland effort, however, offers no such complexity. 

The phrase “it isn’t there yet” comes across as painfully prosaic, a dismissible line lacking any poetic force to elevate its vision. Bloom might dismiss this as a failure to confront the sublime, a retreat into banality rather than an act of poetic bravery.

The concluding line—”If we can truly remember, they will not forget”—promises a profound connection between memory and legacy yet delivers only a truism, its conditional structure unresolved. Kimball might view this as emblematic of the ephemerality of occasional verse, tethered to its specific historical context of 1997 without aspiring to enduring significance. 

Structurally, this versagraph trails off into a weak conclusion, lacking the decisive cadence of an experienced poet. Its reliance on vague hope rather than substantive insight mirrors doggerel’s tendency to gesture toward depth without achieving it, thereby underscoring Williams’ technical and imaginative limitations.

Defending the Indefensible

Defenders of the poem might assert that its accessibility and optimistic tone are well-suited to its function as a public piece, with each versagraph contributing to a cohesive communal narrative. 

The first versagraph establishes a historical context, the second and third bridge to the future, and the fourth links this trajectory to the concept of legacy. However, accessibility need not entail a sacrifice of artistic integrity—Whitman’s democratic voice achieves a synthesis of both through language innovation, while Williams’ execution ultimately falters, yielding banality rather than genuine resonance.

The motifs of “We” and “children,” while serving a unifying function, lack specificity, and the poem’s optimistic outlook feels generic rather than earned through the rigor of poetic exploration. 

Its simplicity, perhaps intentionally cultivated according to Williams’ conception of poetry as “ordinary conversation and ritual” [6], lacks the requisite tension to effectively balance these poles, ultimately collapsing into prosaic laxity.

Vendler’s emphasis on the intrinsic relationship between form and substance reveals this purported restraint as a critical flaw rather than a virtue.  And while Williams relationship with poetry may cover a reasonable number of year seemingly affording him “experience,”  it is not the number of years of experiences that makes a great poet, or even good one; it is the quality of profound thought and the skill of execution that makes a truly memorable poet.

The Accumulation of Many Missteps

Miller Williams’ piece, “Of History and Hope,” examined across its four uneven versagraphs, reveals a consistent pattern of deficiencies: a structure characterized by aimless wandering rather than coherence, language that plods rather than soars, poetic devices that misfire rather than resonate, and thematic concerns that remain superficial in relation to the historical occasion that prompted the work. 

Vendler and Bloom delineate the benchmarks of poetic excellence—coherent form, linguistic power, inventive thought—that Williams’ poem fails to meet, while Kimball and Flynn might contextualize its shortcomings within a broader cultural landscape that often privileges sentiment over genuine artistic substance. 

Far from representing a moment of poetic triumph, the piece emerges as a ceremonial footnote, its artistic merit scarcely exceeding that of a beginner’s doggerel—a missed opportunity on a significant national stage.

Sources

[1] Helen Vendler. Poets Thinking: Pope, Whitman, Dickinson, Yeats. Harvard University Press.2006. Via Internet Archive.  Accessed March 9, 2025.

[2]  – – -.  The Breaking of Style: Hopkins, Heaney, Graham. Harvard University Press, 1995. Via Internet Archive.  Accessed March 9, 2025.

[3]  Harold Bloom,. The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry. Oxford University Press, 1973.  Via Internet Archive.  Accessed March 9, 2025.

[4]  Roger Kimball.  “Rudyard Kipling:  Unburdened.”  The New Criterion.  April 2008.

[5]  Thomas Lifson.  “Is It Time to Talk Honestly about Maya Angelou?”  American Thinker.  May 30, 2014.

[6]  Miller Williams.  Interview with Elizabeth Farnsworth. PBS NewsHour. 1997. Via “Miller Williams.” Poetry Foundation.  Accessed March 9, 2025. 

Image: Elizabeth Alexander Reading at Obama Inauguration Literary Kicks

Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for the Day”

Taking its place among other inaugural doggerel, Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for the Day” stumbles through 14 flailing movements, finishing with an empty single line displaying a cliché.

Introduction and Text of “Praise Song for the Day”

On January 20, 2009, at the history-making inauguration of the 44th Occupier of the Oval Office Barack Hussein Obama, Yale English professor Elizabeth Alexander delivered her piece, “Praise Song for the Day.” 

Widely panned [1] by poets and critics alike—Carol Rumens writing in The Guardian finds the piece, “way too prosy”[2]—the piece features 14 erratic  movements then tacks on the after-thought of a single-line flourishing a cliché. 

Senior editor of The American Spectator, Tom Bethell [3], sums up the accurate critical position imposed by the vacuity of this inaugural piece:

I hesitate to call it a poem because it had so little connection to poetry as that art has been understood for centuries, indeed millennia. It was so dismal that the New York Times, in its 30-page special section the next day (“Full coverage of the inauguration of the 44th president”), failed to mention Alexander or print her poem. It had all the fizz of a week-old soda. No mention of it in the Washington Post either. What a decline there has been since Robert Frost’s performance at Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961.

As poet and literary critic Adam Kirsch [4], asserted, such a momentous occasion is “just the kind of event that might inspire genuine poetry.”  However, as Kirsch continues, “the praetorian pomp, the Capitoline backdrop, the giant crowds, all seemed more redolent of Caesar than George Washington.”  He asserts that Alexander’s failing to live up to the ancient standards of works delivered by such notables as Horace and Virgil was, however, “oddly heartening.”  

Kirsch then explains:  “In a monarchy, there is no shame for a poet, or for anyone else, in being the monarch’s servant.  In our democratic age, however, poets have always had scruples about exalting leaders in verse.”  Kirsch continues to elucidate the problem a poet faces in trying to write an occasional poem to feature at a presidential inauguration:

Since the French Revolution, there have been great public poems in English, but almost no great official poems. For modern lyric poets, whose first obligation is to the truth of their own experience, it has only been possible to write well on public themes when the public intersects, or interferes, with that experience—when history usurps privacy. (my emphasis)

Because the personal and the public must intersect, if the poem is to be successful, the fact that Alexander’s piece failed that intersection meant that the poem failed.  Kirsch further explains that “Her verse is not public but bureaucratic—that is to say, spoken by no one and addressed to no one.”  Thus, instead offering a genuine intersection of the personal and public, Alexander’s failed to be genuine because it “was a perfect specimen of this kind of bureaucratic verse.”

Praise Song for the Day

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.

Commentary on “Praise Song for the Day”

This piece of doggerel is perfectly suited to celebrate the lack of literary acumen possessed by Barack Hussein Obama at the beginning of his occupation of the Oval Office.

First Movement:   Mundane Beginning

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

The opening lines state a mundane fact; as people move through their day, they pass other people, sometimes looking at each other, sometimes speaking to each other.   A more vacuous set of lines may be difficult to imagine.  According to Tom Bethell, these lines, “could hardly be more wooden.”  

Bethell then quotes an LA Times critic who opined, “Each day we go about our business” was “a strange sentiment for an occasion that on so many levels was not about business as usual.”

Second Movement:    Exaggeration and Bloat

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

The second movement declares that there is noise all around us, and inexplicably the non-informative claim is repeated.  Then added to the repeated line is the jarring image of “bramble, thorn and din.”  The images jerks the readers attention from a likely city setting to the country out in the brambles and briars—out in the sticks.

The bramble and thorn attach themselves to another bizarre and jarring image: “each / one of our ancestors on our tongues.”  This strange, bloated image appears out of nowhere for apparently no reason, unconnected to anything before or after.

Third, Fourth, Fifth Movements:   If You Have to Explain . . . 

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.

The third, fourth, and fifth movements offer a list of Whitmanesque laborer-at-his/her-labor images. Instead of letting the images speak for themselves, however, as Whitman does, this poet finds it necessary to explain. 

After presenting people at their various repairs, “stitching up a hem,” “darning a hole,” “patching a tire,” the speaker tells the reader what s/he just read: those folks are “repairing the things in need of repair.” 

The speaker then reports, “someone is trying to make music,” “a woman and her son wait for the bus,” and a farmer evaluates the weather, while a teacher gives a test. Again, the empty rhetoric continues, reminding the reader that such images could be conjured from here to doomsday.   When Whitman elongated his catalogues, he juxtaposed them with reason and purpose.  No reason and purpose can link this mundane, haphazard list.

Sixth, Seventh Movements:    The Collective

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.

The speaker reveals that the collective “we” are “encounter[ing] each other in words.”  Again, the speaker is delivering the same information with which she began her flabby piece—people speak to one another.  Her further infusion of the fact that we speak to one another in words that need to be considered and then reconsidered again sound empty and without reason and purpose.  

The seventh movement attempts to symbolize “dirt roads and highways” as barriers in service of overcoming distance.  But again, the claims remain mundane offering only attempts-to-be-informative tidbits that we all already know.

Eight Movement:   Juvenile Remark

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.

Playing on the fabricated symbol of “roads,” the speaker prosaically states that she knows something better in future time on “down the road” is in the offing.  An obvious attempt to compliment the presidency she is heralding.  Her notion that the new Occupier of the Oval Office will make us safe renders her claims not only empty but laughable.

Then she offers a juvenile remark about finding that safe place, even as we have to move into the future “we cannot see.”Again, whoever thought otherwise?  We all know we cannot see the future, unless we are of a rare class of clairvoyants.  This straining for profundity becomes monotonous in its disingenuousness. 

Ninth, Tenth Movements:    A Self-Command

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.

The speaker then commands herself, “Say it plain,” implying that she had not been “plain,” although her lines have offered mostly literal prose broken into lines to look like poetry.  And she has offered nothing but clichés and simple claims of which virtually all are already aware.

In the ninth and tenth movements, the speaker situates her historical, racial allusions: she wants to say plainly that many folks preceding our generation have died “for this day.”  A ludicrous, absolutely disturbing idea: really? our founders and ancestors died so that an inexperienced, narcissistic  neophyte, lacking in the basic knowledge of the history [5] of his own country without any ability or hope of presiding over a successful presidency could occupy the Oval Office?

Well, no, not exactly.  The speaker seems to pivot back to cataloguing actual laborers who have been responsible for building things that people need and use: people who “laid the train tracks” and people who “raised the bridges,” as well as people who “picked the cotton and the lettuce.”  Also important are those who built the “glittering edifices” where other people would work to keep them clean.

Eleventh Movement:   Praise the Obama Signs

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

The eleventh movement offers exclamations calling for a “praise song for struggle,” as well as the piece’s title, “praise song for the day.” In addition, she calls for a “[p]raise song for every hand-lettered sign, / the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.”   All those Obama signs deserve a praise-song; all the folks sitting around kitchen tables “figuring-it-out” that Obama will fix their finances [6] deserve a praise-song. 

Twelfth, Thirteenth Movements:   Nattering and Posturing

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.

Movements 12-13 are a nattering of professorial philosophy about love, masquerading as heart-felt profundity, such as loving “thy neighbor,” the medical person first doing “no harm,” or the notion that love is after all the “mightiest word.”

And just when the speaker begins to achieve a low level of genuine poetic value in the two strongest lines in the work, “Love beyond marital, filial, national, / love that casts a widening pool of light,” she destroys that achievement with discord in the line, “love with no need to pre-empt grievance.” Not pre-empting grievance allows grievance to worsen. The “widening pool of light” dries up in political posturing. 

Fourteenth Movement:   Echoing Angelou’s Doggerel

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,

The final movement remains unremarkable except that readers may hear an echo of the Clinton inaugural verse, Maya Angelou’s “On the Pulse of the Morning,” in the line, “On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp.” But again the allusion falls flat appearing to be again straining for some reason to exist.

Final Line:   Which Light?

praise song for walking forward in that light.

The final line, standing orphaned—”praise song for walking forward in that light”— solicits the question, which light?  That “widening pool of light,” one supposes—the one that was darkened by partisan incursion.

Sources

[1]  Edward Byrne.  “Inaugural Poem by Elizabeth Alexander.”  One Poet’s Notes. January 21, 2009.

[2]  Carol Rumens. “Elizabeth Alexander’s praise poem was way too prosy.”  The Guardian. January 21, 2009.

[3]  Tom Bethell.  “Poets Galore and Subsidized Poets.”  The American Spectator.  March 3, 2009.

[4] Adam Kirsch. “Adam Kirsch On Elizabeth Alexander’s Bureaucratic Verse.”  The New Republic.  January 19, 2009.

[5]  Victor Davis Hanson.  “Obama’s Hazy Sense of History.”  National Review.  August 28, 2014.

[6]  Rusty Humphries.  “The “Obama will pay for my gas and mortgage” lady has now turned on him”  Washington Times.  July 15, 2014. 

Image:  Richard Blanco – NPR

Richard Blanco’s “One Today”

Celebrating the second inauguration of Barack Obama, Richard Blanco read his inaugural contribution, “One Today,” which now takes its place among the other inaugural poetic mediocrities, which began with Robert Frost in 1961 at the swearing-in of John F. Kennedy.

Introduction and Text of “One Today”

On January 21, 2013, poet Richard Blanco read his piece, “One Today,” at the second inauguration of Barack Obama.   Blanco lays claim to several firsts as an inaugural reader:  he is the first Latino, the first openly gay, and, until Amanda Gorman [1] offered her word salad in 2021 to celebrate Joe Biden’s presidential ascendancy, had been the youngest poet to read his composition at an inauguration.  

This conglomeration of identities is either a welcome coincidence or a political expediency manufactured to please those dedicated to the political correctness of identity politics.

Blanco’s piece sports a number of technical deficiencies, including inappropriate word choices and trivial talking points, while its theme of unity remains facile and disingenuous.

Thus, it remains a proper vehicle for its purpose—celebrating the second swearing-in of the 44thpresident of the USA.  The Guardian‘s Carol Rumens has accurately identified this inaugural doggerel as a “valiant flop” [2].

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:
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 cafe 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.waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

Commentary on “One Today”

The difficulty of producing a “poem” for the occasion of celebrating the inauguration of president has been on display since Robert Frost first made the attempt at the swearing-in of John F. Kennedy in 1961.  

The poems have not improved, and a case might be made they have, indeed, taken on the postmodern lackadaisical essence that can only be labeled doggerel.  As poet and critic, Robert Bernard Hass has averred,

No American poet—not even Robert Frost—has written a good, let alone marginally acceptable inaugural poem.  Puffed up with political pieties and generally employing coma-inducing, bureaucratic language, American inaugural poems lack the energy and insight of their authors’ best poems and, by and large, remain wholly forgettable. [3]

Fortunately for Robert Frost, the bright sunlight bouncing off the snow on that January day back in 1961 kept his weak composition, “Dedication,” from getting an airing, and his strong poem,”The Gift Out-Right,” which had been written much earlier in 1942 and not for the purpose of an presidential inauguration, became the inaugural poem of record.

First Movement:  Tracking the Sun

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.

The opening movement tracks the sun on its journey from east to west across the USA: “One sun rose on us today.” The speaker finds it necessary to remind his listeners/readers that there is only one sun, not two, just one, and it rose today.  

But after rising on us, it “kindled over our shores.” The word “kindled” is unfortunate because its literal meaning is to ignite or start a fire, but it is supposedly a poem so we are expected to accept the meaning as illuminate.

The sun moves on, “peeking over the Smokies” and then “greeting the faces / of the Great Lakes.” The faces of the lakes must have opened their eyes and shouted, Hey, it time to wake up.  

The sun continues, “spreading a simple truth / across the Great Plains, before “charging across the Rockies.” The reader is left wondering what that simple truth is and then gets jarred by the sun which had merely peeked over the Smokies but is now in attack mode as it charges across the Rockies.

The next absurdity occurs when the speaker claims that the sun, this “one light wak[es] ups rooftops.” Again, one can image the rooftops opening their eyes and proclaiming, I have to get up, it’s morning.  And then the speaker makes voyeurs out of us by allowing us peer through windows behind which is moving, “a story / told by our silent gestures.”

Second Movement:  A Whitmanesque Catalogue

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 for all of us today.

While the sun is going about its business of kindling, peeking, greeting, charging, and waking up rooftops, we the people are looking at our faces in mirrors and yawning.  Now, the Whitmanesque catalogue begins.

A cacophony of noise erupts with “pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,” and fruit stands: “apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows / begging our praise”; no doubt the poet felt a twinge of pride as he whistled to the dog through that rainbow imagery.

Like the historically and rhetorically challenged but ever ready to pepper his discourse with I-this and I-that president, whom he is celebrating, Blanco inserts himself into the ceremonial piece through a cataloguing of workers from truckers, to restaurant workers, to accountants, to doctors, to teachers, and to grocery clerks.

They are all like his mother who “r[a]ng-up groceries . . . / for twenty years, so I could write this poem.”  Richard’s mother worked so Richard could write this piece of inaugural doggerel. The sentimentality of such a solipsistic line is breathtakingly insincere as well as obnoxious.

Third Movement:   Revising History

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.

As soon as the third movement begins, “All of us as vital as the one light we move through, / the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day,” the reader can predict what is coming.  

The only question is how exploitative it will be. We have a hint when he says, regarding the study of history, “we question history.”  Unfortunately, the revisionist trend of history through the ilk of Howard Zinn [4] does not allow students to even know history, much less question history.

Alluding to the Newtown school shooting [5], the speaker refers to those dead children as being “marked absent / today and forever.”  Being marked absent can hardly begin to describe those children’s absence.   This exploitation of the dead might be the most heinous example ever scribbled.  

Poetically, as well as politically—because this is political verse—referring to those children this way jolts the mind and startles the heart with the absurdity that henceforth the teacher will be marking these students absent “forever.” 

The rest of this movement limps into stained glass windows and faces of bronze statues without purpose, without meaning.  The image of mothers watching their children on playgrounds “slide into their day” is contrived, thus silly.

Fourth Movement:  Self-Assertion

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.

Again, a Whitmanesque cataloguing of American workers serves as just another place for the poet to insert himself into his narrative: a nod to farmers, coal miners which gets politically corrected by planters of windmills, ditch diggers, construction workers, whose hands are “as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane / so my brother and I could have books and shoes.”  At least, Richard’s father’s work seems goal oriented, fastened to the harsh reality of material existence.

Fifth Movement:   Postmodern Meaninglessness

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 odd image of the “dust” of farm, desert, city, and plains “being mingled by one wind—our breath” heralds the postmodern meme that meaning does not exist; therefore, meaning can be anything the scribbler says it is, and here the speaker deigns to indulge meaninglessness by juxtaposing breath and dust. 

Pushing the absurdity even further, the rest of the movement commands the reader to breathe, and “hear it / through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,” etc. It is as if the scribbler has run out of things to say but needed to continue because the piece had to meet a certain length requirement.

Sixth Movement:   Continued Meaninglessness

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across cafe 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.

The meaninglessness continues as the speaker continues to command his readers to continue to hear stuff such as playground swings, train whistles, people saying hello in different languages, which again serves as a prompt to insert himself into the piece: or “buenos días / in the language my mother taught me.” And the speaker lets his readers know that his words break from his lips without prejudice. We have to take his word for it.

Seventh Movement:   Absurd Sky Claims

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.

There is one sky and has been “since Appalachians and Sierras claimed / their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked / their way to the sea.”  This empty line must hope the reader fixates on the proper nouns and does not try to make a connection between their putative relationships with the sky as proclaimed here.

Then after another catalogue from steel workers to business report writers, to doctors/nurses/seamstresses, to artists, and back to construction workers who set “the last floor on the Freedom Tower / jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.”  Again, an absurd claim that the sky yields to our resilience offers itself, as the posturing of postmodernist drivel pretends to have significance.

Eighth Movement:  The Sky and Disconnect

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.

Again, the speaker emphasizes one sky; again, unfortunately, to insert himself, this time however obliquely, into the poem. There is, however, a disconnect between the opening lines in which we all look at the sky, tired from work or to try to guess the weather.  

We are not necessarily looking at the sky when we give thanks for love or as the speaker is leading up to, “sometimes praising a mother / who knew how to give, or forgiving a father / who couldn’t give what you wanted.”

Ninth Movement:  Best Image in Emptiest Vessel

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.waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

The best image in this piece is the “plum blush of dusk.” Unfortunately, it is set in the emptiest vessel on the page, the last movement.  The speaker says, “We head home.” Nothing had actually taken us away from home. 

We did, however, crescendo into our day, and the speaker has certainly alluded to a wide variety of workers who would have left home to work, but the very specific, “we head home,” seems to come out of nowhere and fastens readers to a journey on which they had not necessarily been traveling. But the real deficit of this final movement is the gratuitous aping of the statist notion of the collective. 

At this point, readers realize that they have been manipulated with all the “ones,” beginning with the awkward title, “One Today.” Now the speaker continues to hammer away with one sky, one moon, one country. The moon becomes a drummer, “silently tapping on every rooftop / and every window.” 

We “all of us” are “facing the stars” and “hope” becomes “a new constellation,” which we will have “to map,” and we will have to name it “together.” The idea that everyone is acting in lock step is pleasing only to a committed statist.

Sources

[1]   Malcolm Salovaara.  “The Banality Of Millennial Poetry.”  The American Conservative.  January 23, 2021.

[2]  Carol Rumens., “Richard Blanco’s inaugural poem for Obama is a valiant flop.”  The Guardian.  January 22, 2013.

[3]  Robert Bernard Hass.  “Praising Athenians in Athens: On the Failures of the American Ceremonial Poem.” Contemporary Poetry Review.  May 7, 2013.

[4] Robert M. Whaples.  Book Review:  Mary Grabar’s Debunking Howard Zinn Exposing the Fake History That Turned a Generation against America. The Independent Review: A Journal of Political Economy.  Volume 24.  Number 4.  Spring 2020.

[5]  Editors.  “The Sandy Hook School Shooting.”  History.  Last Updated: December 11, 2019.

Image:  Amanda Gorman – Our Weekly

Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb”

Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb,” delivered in 2021 at the Biden presidential inauguration, has been widely praised as a powerful piece of poetry. However, upon closer examination, this doggerel reveals itself to be more akin to political propaganda than genuine verse.

Introduction and Text of “The Hill We Climb”

Robert Frost became the first American poet to deliver a poem at a presidential swearing in; he recited his verse, “The Gift Outright,” at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961.  

Frost had also written a new poem that he intended to read to preface his recitation of “The Gift Outright” but was unable to see his copy, so the new poem remained unread and unrecited.  The last two lines of Robert Frost’s poem, “Dedication,” attempted to prophesy good things to come for both poetry and politics: 

A golden age of poetry and power 
Of which this noonday’s the beginning hour.

If the “golden age” of poetry began that day, it certainly ended at the next poem recitation by doggerelist Maya Angelou in 1993 with her reading of her piece, “On the Pulse of the Morning,” at the inauguration of Bill Clinton.  And regarding “power,” Kennedy’s presidency ended in the president’s assassination—hardly a recommendation for a golden age of power.

Of course, no such “golden age” of either poetry or “power” ever came into being, and then moving on through the next so-called poets to recite poems at inaugurations—Miller Williams at Clinton’s second 1997, Richard Blanco at Barack Obama’s 2009, Elizabeth Alexander at Obama’s second 2013—the stage has opened for the very young, the then early twenty’s Gorman, who took her place in the annals of inaugural poets.

No matter how many times the belabored lie is spouted that the personal is the political—that poets have to be political activists—the lie will remain a lie.  Robert Frost’s inability to read his intended poem, “Dedication,” mercifully saved the poet from the shame of having read one of his weakest pieces of verse.  The bright sunlight saved the aging poet and directed him to recite his much stronger poem, “The Gift Outright.”

If considered as a poem, Gorman’s piece of doggerel is nothing more than a bloated word salad that unfortunately demonstrates the depths to which the art of poetry has sunk in the 21stcentury. 

Fortunately, this piece of drivel should not be considered poetry in the ordinary definition of the term; it belongs with pieces such as Common’s “Letter to the Law” and other HipHop/Rap pieces.  By placing the piece in a different category of art, it can be saved along with the reputation of the poetaster, who is not a poet but instead a spoken-word artist.

The Hill We Climb

When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.
We braved the belly of the beast.
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished.

We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.
And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.

In this truth, in this faith we trust, for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.

This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.
But within it we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be: a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.

Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain.
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the West.
We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked South.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
And every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid.
The new dawn balloons as we free it.
For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Commentary on “The Hill We Climb”

Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb” segments itself into six movements, each clearly demonstrating how it fails as poetry and instead functions as a jumble of propaganda, replete with failed metaphors and unworkable images.  The lines, though broken to appear poetic, are essentially prose lacking the depth, nuance, and artistry that characterize true poetry.

Movement 1: Muddled Metaphors and Other Failed Devices

A juxtaposition of light and shade in the opening lines of “The Hill We Climb” immediately opens up to a trough of confusing mixed metaphors.

The juxtaposition of “light” and “never-ending shade” creates a contradictory image. By definition, shade cannot be endless if light exists. This apparent conundrum undermines the piece’s attempt at profundity from the very beginning.  The metaphor of seeking light in darkness is a cliché that fails to offer any fresh insight or imagery.  

The inconsistent imagery of the subsequent metaphors of “loss we carry” and “sea we must wade” lack coherence, failing to establish a clear connection between these disparate concepts.  

The abrupt transition from carrying loss to wading through a sea is jarring and does not create a unified visual or emotional landscape.  And besides, one cannot “wade” in a sea; as William Logan quipped:  “Not even the Colossus of Rhodes or Paul Bunyan could wade a sea.”  Wading can be accomplished only in shallow water such as that of a creek or low-flowing river. 

The poet/doggerelist obviously chose the term “wade” to rime with “shade.”  This inconsistency in imagery and use of rime for rime’s sake are both hallmarks of amateur writing, not polished poetry.

Clichéd expressions also bedevil this piece.  The phrase “braved the belly of the beast” is a tired cliché that adds little substance to the overall message. Its inclusion seems more focused on maintaining an alliterative pattern than on conveying a meaningful idea. This reliance on overused expressions is indicative of the piece’s lack of originality and poetic craft.

Forced rime, as mentioned above, and non-organic rhythm in such lines as “And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it. / Somehow we do it” demonstrate a failed attempt at rime that sacrifices sense for sound. The vagueness of “Somehow we do it” fails to convey any specific meaning or emotion, serving merely as a filler to complete the rime scheme.

Movement 2: Awkward Autobiography

Self-Aggrandizement in this section attempts to blend personal narrative with broader social commentary, resulting in an awkward, solipsistic tone:

We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

This reference to the author’s personal background feels embarrassingly out of place in what is supposed to be a unifying message for an entire nation. The self-referential nature of these lines shifts the focus from the collective experience to the individual, undermining the piece’s attempt at inclusivity.

The misuse of descriptors such as “polished” and “pristine” for a nation is both inappropriate and unclear:  “And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.”

These adjectives, typically applied to physical objects, are ill-suited for describing the complex socio-political realities of a country. This misuse of language further demonstrates the piece’s lack of poetic finesse and precision.

Vague aspirations in the lines—”We are striving to forge our union with purpose. / To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man”—remain without concrete imagery or specific goals. The alliteration of “cultures, colors, characters and conditions” seems more concerned with sound than with conveying a clear message.

Movement 3: Hollow Platitudes

The empty rhetoric of this movement is rife in simplistic statements that fail to address the complexities of national unity:

We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.

These lines offer platitudes rather than genuine insights. The idea of “closing the divide” by putting differences aside oversimplifies the challenges of reconciliation and unity. The wordplay with “arms” feels forced and fails to address the serious issues of conflict and peace-building.  The repetitive structure of “even as we… we…” becomes tedious and lacks the impact it seemingly aims to achieve:

That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.

This anaphora, while a common poetic device, is overused here to the point of monotony. The parallel structure does not build to a meaningful climax, instead feeling like a series of empty motivational phrases.

The declaration “Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true” is both presumptuous and meaningless, as it fails to specify what exactly should be considered true. This grandiose statement exemplifies the piece’s tendency to make sweeping claims without substantive content.

Movement 4: Biblical Misappropriation

The inclusion of biblical imagery in this section falls flat because it remains disconnected from the rest of the piece:  “Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid.”

This reference to Micah 4:4 seems shoehorned into the text, lacking a clear connection to the surrounding ideas. The use of religious text in this context comes across as an attempt to lend gravitas to the piece without meaningful integration.

The metaphor of “victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made” is particularly clumsy, mixing violent and constructive imagery without clear purpose. This juxtaposition of “blade” and “bridges” creates a confused image that fails to convey a coherent message about progress or unity.

The statement about democracy being “periodically delayed” but never “permanently defeated” is a simplistic view of complex political realities:  “But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.”

This line ignores the nuanced challenges faced by democratic systems worldwide and presents an overly optimistic view that reveals naïveté.  Like the other simplistic lines in this piece, this one clearly demonstrates the vacuity of kind of thinking engaged in by the talentless or by the simply immature.

Movement 5: Overwrought Optimism

This section’s attempt at inspiration fails miserably because it relies on vague and grandiose statements:  “So, while once we asked, how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe, now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?”

The personification of catastrophe  within the rhetorical question about its ability to prevail over “us” is both melodramatic and logically flawed. This oversimplification of complex societal challenges does a disservice to the real issues at hand.

The string of adjectives describing the country (“bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free”) reads more like a list of buzzwords than thoughtful poetry. This rapid-fire approach to description lacks depth and fails to paint a vivid or meaningful picture of the nation.

The movement concludes with a further confusion of mixed metaphors:  “If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children’s birthright.”

The attempt to connect abstract concepts like mercy, might, right, love, and change results in a muddled message that lacks clarity and impact. Mixing metaphors is the hallmark of unsophisticated, immature, and talentless writing, as this poem is demonstrating with nearly every line.

Movement 6: Geographic Generalities

The final movement devolves into a series of geographic clichés that fail to capture the true diversity and complexity of the nation:

We will rise from the golden hills of the West.
We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked South.

These lines rely on stereotypical imagery of each region, offering no new insights or vivid descriptions that would bring these diverse areas to life.  Stereotyping is also a dead giveaway that a talentless hack is merely playing with ideas and concepts that she does not understand.

The image of a “bronze-pounded chest” is both anatomically incorrect and tonally inconsistent with the rest of the piece. This description seems more focused on creating a powerful sound than on conveying a meaningful image or emotion—a weakness that punctuates this piece throughout.

The concluding lines about light and bravery are trite and fail to provide a meaningful resolution to the jumbled ideas presented throughout:  “For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it /  If only we’re brave enough to be it.”  This ending relies on the overused metaphor of light as hope or goodness, offering no fresh perspective or profound insight to conclude the piece of doggerel.

Save a Reputation by Reclassification

A study of “The Hill We Climb” movement by movement results in a clear understanding that this piece fails as poetry because of its reliance on mixed metaphors, clichéd expressions, disjointed imagery, and forced rime/rhythms. It reads more like a collection of motivational quotes hastily arranged into line breaks, lacking the cohesion, subtlety, and artistry that define true poetry.

The attempt to cover a broad range of social and political issues results in a superficial treatment of complex topics, ultimately rendering the piece ineffective as both literature and commentary. The use of forced rimes, inconsistent metaphors, and overwrought language undermines any potential power in its message.

Furthermore, the piece’s self-referential nature and reliance on personal narrative detract from its supposed goal of national unity. Instead of offering a nuanced exploration of American identity and challenges, it presents a series of platitudes and oversimplifications that do little to advance meaningful dialogue or understanding.

The misappropriation of religious imagery and the oversimplification of historical and political realities demonstrate a lack of depth in engaging with the complexities of American society. The geographic stereotypes in the final movement further highlight the piece’s superficial approach to representing the diverse experiences of the American people.

While “The Hill We Climb” may have resonated with some audiences in the context of its delivery, it falls short as a work of poetry. Its reliance on propaganda-like statements, failed metaphors, and unworkable images reveals it to be more akin to political rhetoric than genuine verse. 

The piece serves as an example of how the form of poetry–line breaks and rhythmic patterns–can be co-opted to give the appearance of poetic depth to what is essentially prosaic content.

True poetry challenges the reader, offers new perspectives, and uses language in innovative ways to convey complex emotions and ideas. “The Hill We Climb,” despite its popularity and the platform from which it was delivered, ultimately fails to meet these criteria. It stands as a reminder of the importance of critical analysis in distinguishing between genuine artistic expression and seemingly well-packaged political propaganda.

As mentioned above, this piece of doggerel should not be thought of as poetry in the traditional definition of the term; it should be classified with works along the lines of the HipHop/Rap genre.  

By classifying the piece with the spoken-word/HipHop/Rap category of art, its reputation can be salvaged along with reputation of the “poet,” who is not a poet but instead a spoken-word artist.  If one insists that she is a poet, then she must be classified as a poetaster or doggerelist.

Democrat Doggerel

It might be noticed that only presidents from the Democrat Party choose to feature a “poet” reading his wares at their presidential inaugurations. Consider the Republicans lucky that so far they have not fallen into the trap of so-called “inclusiveness.” Republicans “include” based on character and ability, not skin color or sex identity.

After JFK chose an old white guy to read at his inauguration, the president-elects have since elected mostly back or gay poets. Only Miller Williams, Clinton second inaugural poet, is also an old white guy.

Just wait util the next Democrat becomes president-elect and expect a trans-gender individual, illegal immigrant, or perhaps some would-be assassin to spew forth a piece of Democrat doggerel.

The fact remains that poems written to celebrate politicians have all fallen flat. The occasional poem has lost it shine and so far shows no potential a getting it back.

🕉
Brief Bio of Amanda Gorman

Image:  Amanda Gorman – Time Magazine Cover

Brief Bio of Amanda Gorman

Amanda Gorman is often heralded as a groundbreaking poet and activist, but a closer examination reveals her as one of the most overhyped pop culture figures ever to grace magazine covers. 

The Launching of a Poetaster

Born on March 7, 1998, in Los Angeles, California, Gorman rose from modest beginnings to international fame, propelled by a narrative of triumph over adversity—namely, a speech impediment and auditory processing disorder [1]. 

Yet, her so-called poetry amounts to little more than doggerel—simplistic, cloying verse that lacks the depth or artistry of true literary giants. Coupled with her activism, which critics argue devolves into woke, racially divisive nonsense, Gorman’s meteoric rise seems less a testament to talent and more a product of media frenzy and opportunistic branding.

Gorman’s early life is frequently romanticized. Raised by her single mother, Joan Wicks, a middle school teacher, she leaned into writing as a way to cope with her speech challenges [2]. She has claimed inspiration from luminaries like Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, but her work bears none of Morrison’s complexity or nuance [3], even as it does show the shallowness of Angelou. 

Instead, her verses——rife with platitudes and forced rimes——pander to a zeitgeist hungry for feel-good slogans rather than substantive art. Her designation as the first National Youth Poet Laureate in 2017, at age 19, marked the beginning of her ascent, not because of poetic mastery, but because she fit a marketable mold: young, black, and outspoken on trendy social issues [3]. The title “National Youth Poet Laureate,” bestowed by Urban Word, launched her into a spotlight that her talent scarcely justified.

The pinnacle of Gorman’s overhype came on January 20, 2021, when she read “The Hill We Climb” at President Joe Biden’s inauguration——the youngest inaugural poet in U.S. history [4].  The performance, watched by millions, was lauded as a unifying moment post-January 6 Capitol riot, with lines like “We close the divide because we know, to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.” 

Critics, however, see it differently. The poem’s sing-song rhythm and banal messaging——”doggerel dressed up as profundity,” as one reviewer put it——lack the intellectual rigor of predecessors like Robert Frost or Langston Hughes [5]. 

Overnight Canonization

The poem’s overnight canonization owes more to the event’s emotional weight than to any inherent merit. Gorman herself admitted to rewriting the piece after January 6, suggesting a reactive, rather than visionary, creative process [6].

Her subsequent fame was less about poetry and more about pop culture machinery. Within hours, her social media swelled, and her unpublished books——The Hill We Climb and Call Us What We Carry——topped bestseller lists, driven by hype rather than readership [7]. 

The media fawned, plastering her image on Vogue and Time covers, with Time dubbing her a “voice of a generation.” But what voice? Her collections, released in 2021, are padded with trite observations about identity and resilience, lacking the craft to elevate them beyond Hallmark-card fare [8]. 

Her picture book, Change Sings: A Children’s Anthem, further exposes her penchant for saccharine simplicity over substance. Critics argue this output reflects a calculated bid for mass appeal, not artistic integrity.

Woke Activist Jargon

Gorman’s activism amplifies the case against her. Her sociology degree from Harvard (2020) armed her with jargon, not insight, fueling a brand of advocacy that leans heavily on woke clichés [9]. 

She champions causes like racial justice and feminism, but her rhetoric——steeped in identity politics——often alienates as much as it inspires. Her focus on the African diaspora and systemic oppression, while resonant for some, is dismissed by detractors as reductive and racially charged, prioritizing grievance over unity [10]. 

Her inaugural poem’s call to “close the divide” rings hollow when her broader work fixates on racial fault lines, a stance some label as hypocritical or divisive nonsense masquerading as progressivism.

Thriving on Optics

The Gorman phenomenon thrives on optics. Her inauguration outfit——a bright yellow coat and red headband——became as iconic as her words, signaling her savvy as a style icon more than a poet. Co-hosting the 2021 Met Gala [11] and hobnobbing with elites like Oprah Winfrey cemented her as a celebrity, not a creative artist. 

Her polished image——down to her rehearsed cadences——suggests a manufactured persona, honed through years of speech therapy to mask her impediment with theatrical flair [12]. This performative polish, while impressive, underscores the critique that she’s more entertainer than artist, her “poetry” a prop in a larger act.

Her backstory, too, is overhyped. Growing up with her twin sister, Gabrielle, in a cash-strapped household, Gorman leaned on her mother’s encouragement. Her speech struggles, oft-repeated in profiles, are framed as a heroic arc, but they are hardly unique——many overcome similar challenges without global applause. 

Her claim of “tricking” her brain into fluency via poetry sounds more like a rehearsed soundbite than a profound revelation. Even her ambition to run for president in 2036 feels like a scripted talking point, less a serious goal than a way to keep her name buzzing [13].

In Stark Contrast to True Poets

Contrast Gorman with true poets. Where Emily Dickinson wrestled with existential dread in tight, innovative lines, or Audre Lorde fused raw emotion with structural daring, Gorman offers platitudes like “We will rebuild, reconcile and recover.”

Gorman’s work lacks the risk, ambiguity, or linguistic invention that defines great poetry——it is safe, digestible, and relentlessly on-message. Her activism, meanwhile, pales next to figures like Angela Davis, whose radical clarity dwarfs Gorman’s vague, crowd-pleasing calls for change.

At 26, as of February 21, 2025, Gorman remains a darling of the cultural elite, her every move amplified by a media eager for a fresh face. Yet the sheen is wearing thin. Her poetry’s doggerel nature——rime-heavy, insight-light——and her activism’s woke posturing reveal a figure more indebted to timing and PR than talent. 

Glossy magazine covers cannot create a poet, although they sometimes do assist in creating a brand. Gorman’s legacy, if it endures, which is highly doubtful, may remain in cultural lore as a cautionary tale of hype outpacing substance.

Sources for the Brief Bio of Amanda Gorman

[1]  Editors.  “Amanda Gorman.” Biography.com. January 24, 2024.

[2]  Christine Liwag Dixon. “Amanda Gorman Opens up about Her Struggles with A Speech Impediment.”  The List.  March 25. 2021.

[3]  Editors.  “Amanda Gorman.” Poetry Foundation. Accessed February 21. 2025.

[4]  Editors.  “Amanda Gorman.”  Britannica. November 9, 2021.

Gorman, Amanda. The Hill We Climb: An Inaugural Poem for the Country. Viking Books, 2021.

[5]  Kyle Smith. “Amanda Gorman’s Poem Wasn’t Poetry—It Was Cliche.” National Review. January 22,. 2021.

[6]  Masha Gessen.  “Amanda Gorman’s Inauguration Poem Is a Stunning Vision of Democracy.” The New Yorker. January 20, 2021.

[7] Tommy Beer.  “Amanda Gorman’s Books Top Bestseller Lists After Inauguration Performance.” Forbes. January 21, 2021.

[8]  Christopher Tremoglie.  “The Overhyped Amanda Gorman.” The Washington Examiner. December 15, 2021.

[9]  Editors.  “Amanda Gorman Graduates from Harvard.” Harvard Gazette.  May 21, 2020.

[10]  David Marcus.  “Amanda Gorman’s Inauguration Poem Shows What the Left Truly Believes.” The Federalist.  January 20, 2021.

[11]  Doreen St. Félix.  “Amanda Gorman on Her Met Gala Moment.” Vogue. September 13, 2021..

[12] Charlie Burton. “Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman is the Voice of a New American Era.” GQ.  March 29, 2021.

[13]  Alexia McKay.  “Amanda Gorman Wants to Run for President.” romper.  August 24, 2021.