January 20, 2009: Praise Song for the Day

A new year has truly begun today. A new era? Yes, a new era. I have hopes. But right now they are just hopes, and it's scary to think about all it.

I just keep my focus on what's in front of me, and I'll pray that Obama keeps his focus on what's in front of him. I don't envy him, even as I admire him. I don't envy his job.

I'm trying to figure out if I can self-talk myself through this quarter. I need to get my reading done, so that I can take the candidacy exam. My reading seems overwhelming. But I must complete it. I want the satisfaction of taking this exam.

On today's schedule: reading Melville, writing notes, taking stock of where I'm at. And a little time spent trying to figure out where the line breaks in Elizabeth Alexander's inaugural poem go. The New York Times listed the transcription without line breaks.

Here's my second go at breaking the lines:

January 20, 2009
Inaugural Poem

Praise song for the day

by Elizabeth Alexander

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

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

Someone is stitching up a hem,
darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky;
A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words,
words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed;
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways
that mark the will of someone and then others who said,
"I need to see what's on the other side;
I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe;
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain, that many have died for this day.

Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

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

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."
Others by first do no harm,
or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love,
love beyond marital, filial, national.
Love that casts a widening pool of light.
Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
anything can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp –
praise song for walking forward in that light.

Fresh start?

I've redone this blog many times over. I'm not sure what I'm going to use it for this time around, but if I come up with a purpose, I'll let you know. Stay tuned.