Tag: poem

Let America Be America Again: An Oracle of Langston Hughes

~ Chris Cocca ~ Leave a comment

I remember learning about Langston Hughes at some point, maybe in high school. I am sure we read one (I am sure it was no more than one) of his poems, and talked about him in the context of the Harlem Renaissance. I’m also fairly certain that whichever poem we read was not “Let America Be America Again.”

Hughes wrote the piece in 1935. I didn’t learn it in 1995, ’96, ’97, or ’98. I came across it last night on a poetry playlist on Spotify. Amazing how prescient, especially considering the ironic foreshadowing of the prime political slogan and dog whistle of the last decade. An excerpt, lest you think Hughes was only concerned with things going on in Harlem:

“Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.”

Read the full poem here: Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes

To You Biographers of Caesar

~ Chris Cocca ~ Leave a comment 
To you biographers of Caesar,
            I am that murdered general, 
a Roman nose engraved on silver coin;
an alabaster column in perfect Roman order,
            a sword, a plough, a prefect,
a century of soldiers—
a bumper crop in Tunis or in Spain.

 To you biographers of Peter, 
            I am that Prince Apostle,
a Hebrew man enshrined beside the Po;
a traitor and evangelist fell prey to Roman order,
            a sword, an ear, a net for men,
a century of soldiers—
an empty cross along the Apis train.     
            
 To you biographers of Arthur,
            I am that coming high-king,
a Celtic myth in Celtic pride entwined;
a pauper and a prince, once, before the Roman order,
            a sword, a stone, a chalice, 
a fief of noble soldiers—
the Cup of Christ long kept by England's swain.   
             
 To you historians of Athens,
            I am that naval power,
the wisdom of my people long beheld;
Master over Sparta before the Roman order,
            a sword, a fleet, the polis, 
a city-state of scholars—
the light of pagan Europe in my blade.   

 You genealogists of Adam,
            I am the father sinner,
God's firstborn from the dirt of Eden's shade;
a farmer and a workman, the sewer of disorder, 
            a sword, a tree, the rocky earth,
left to my warring children—
their history still in my image made. 



  
  
I wrote this maybe 15 years ago while I was reading Leaves of Grass.  The poem is really nothing like “To a Historian,” but I loved that title so much.  I think that was the impetus.

To Statecraft Embalmed – Marianne Moore

~ Chris Cocca ~ 1 Comment

An early work, and I love it. “To Statecraft Embalmed” starts with an image that might just as easily refer to a certain (current) political figure:

The only version of the full text I can find online isn’t formatted exactly how piece is presented in her Collected Works, a volume I seem to have misplaced precisely as I sat down to write this post.

The whole thing reads to me as uncanny prophesy, hard plumage and all.