Remembrance

Image

 

Remembrance

 

Arm and shoulder

Of the left side,

Let me introduce myself,

O, side of the imaginative

feminine.

I ready myself.

Bend the elbow

close, to hug my body.

My hand makes a fist.

I may fight, or

I may lift my arm to the sky.

But

to reach out to fly

along the contour of the horizon

where heaven  meets earth,

here re

sides pain.

My heart arm may reach up to heaven

or prepare to defend,

but to reach wide into the plane

of the plains…

this contracts into spasm, cries out.

Arms of the heart/voice

must meet the land of S/elf/ves.

To be

without defense *or* assistance.

 

The fire of injury screams out,

“how could you be so insensitive,

uncaring?! Aren’t you listening?!”  

Turning inward to explore

desire for a full bodied

voice of gesturing sound,

I discover invitations.

To partner with the dance of

the elbow, where she leads me –

deltoid shrieks and then

renews

potential

for an other kind of awareness,

for an other kind of strength.

Softening into     

                        allowing space,

courage of the heart

opening into the expanse of

two                              arms

feeling da Vinci’s Renaissance

Vitruvian, architectural/fluid expanse of

radiating

–beingness.

She stands within me.

I forgot her.

She stands within me.

I welcome her back.

She’s re-membering me

resonating.

 

Mirrors for one another

smile into this aching center

that flips into an

impulse desire for

slow dance of spine expanse,

play of

de de de

de light ed

resonance, of wails

meeting spaciousness turning

into floating fields

of vibrancy of

home.

 Laura Hitt – February 5, 2013

 

Inaugural Poem – “One Today”

Inaugural Poem – “One Today”

The Inaugural Poem. 

Read by the poet, January 21, 2013

“One Today”

-Richard Blanco

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 behind 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.

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 keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, 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 a 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—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.

And with that, the first immigrant, first Latino, the first openly gay person and the youngest ever chosen became the U.S. inaugural poet.