Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘William Stafford’ Category

My eighth grade year was the Bicentennial year, and to celebrate our class put on a play. Our ever-enthusiastic music teacher Mrs. Enright put together a musical revue of U.S. history. The only part of the play I remember was singing the give-me-your-tired-your-poor portion of Emma Lazarus’ “New Colossus.” I can still sing it today, every note and every word. I thought it was beautiful then and I still do, the way the song builds to that grand last line: “I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” (You can hear it here.)

 

We’ve come a long way from the golden door. These days I’d be singing, “I lift my lamp beside the silver cage.” Or as a host on Fox News put it, “walls made of chain link fences.”

 

I spent the afternoon driving around looking for chain link fences to post a bunch of poems, quotes and song lyrics I hadn’t used from the last go-round with a hot-button immigration issue. Surprising how many facilities use chain link fence and in how many different ways. None of the fences I found, obviously, are as horrifying as the ones in the news.

 

I’ll post my pictures without much comment.

 

On the fence enclosing a high school football stadium I left the poem mentioned above, Emma Lazarus’ “New Colossus,” which is the poem engraved on the Statue of Liberty.

poem is to the left of “Field is Closed” sign

 

The line “Send these, the homeless, tempest-toss to me” is lovely to sing when you know the melody.

 

On the fence of a dog park I left excerpts from “home” by Warsaw Shire

 

Warsan Shire is a British-Somali poet. You can hear her read the poem in its entirety here.

 

On the fence of an abandoned loading area for a big retail store I left Seamus Heaney’s “Mint.”

IMG_0325

poem is above blue trash

 

“Like the discarded ones we turned against

Because we’d failed them by our disregard.”

IMG_0324

 

On the fence surrounding the tennis courts of a local park I left words from Pope Francis.

poem is in center of picture and fence

 

The Pope delivered these words back in 2013 on the isle of Lampedusa which 166 African immigrants had drowned trying to reach.

 

On the fence surrounding a cemetery I left a portion of James Weldon Johnson’s “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”

 

Johnson wrote the song in 1900 in celebration of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. (Listen here.)

 

On the fence of a school for disabled children I left William Stafford’s “Experiments.”

 

“I whine . . ./ when the wind carries what is out there/ too near the room where my comfort is.”

 

Finally, I left a selection from the gospel of Matthew on the fence surrounding a country club golf course.

poem is between trees on a pole

 

Jesus of Nazareth, the most famous of all asylum seekers.

 

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border

by William Stafford

This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed-or were killed-on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.

The matching of poem to location lacks subtlety, I know:  an anti-war poem within strolling distance of the new WWII monument, the more modest D.C. War memorial, the spooky Korean War Veterans memorial and of course the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.  But I couldn’t resist.  Down the hill from the Washington Monument heading towards the Lincoln Memorial was a stumpy mini-obelisk perfect to quickly affix a poem, take a picture and not draw attention.  My initial thought was to mark a spot for poet William Stafford to commemorate the opposite of all these monuments to war.

Stafford was a conscientious objector in WWII, a registered pacifist.  (Which strikes me as funny—what forms do you fill out to register a character trait?  Other than registered sex offenders, are there other types officially labeled and licensed?  How about a registered nut factory?  Or–I’m sorry I can’t volunteer at school today because I’m a registered crankpot.)

While I do really like this poem and honor its peace-loving intentions, I have two thoughts that I didn’t have before I put the poem where I did. How do I know, how did Stafford know, that in the whole history of life–human, animal and insect–no one actually did kill on this spot? Yeats seems more correct that “under every dancer/a dead man in his grave.”  Obviously there’s a difference between being dead and being killed.   But the food chain alone guarantees killing.

My second thought is that this pacifist poem looks out on monuments to two wars which were truly necessary to end an evil.   Without WWII, Hitler would have carried out his Final Solution; and without the Civil War, slavery might have continued a few more decades.  (I’m not a historian but I play one on TV.)

At the Lincoln Memorial, which I visited after posting this poem, I was particularly moved by the words of the Gettysburg address, imprinted on the wall to Lincoln’s right:  “We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we do this.  But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.”

Many times I’ve read those words before but they meant something to me for the first time the day I posted William Stafford’s poem nearby. And that’s the value of keeping opposing positions in shoulder-rubbing distance.

Read Full Post »