POETRY UNSCRIPTED:
HOW U.S. INAUGURAL POETRY AND POST-9/11 POETRY SHOULD
SERVE TO CHALLENGE THE STATUS QUO
_______________
A Thesis
Presented to the
Faculty of
San Diego State University
_______________
In Partial Fulfillment
of the Requirements for the Degree
Master of Arts
in
English
_______________
by
Lauren Ashley Benard
Spring 2015
iii
Copyright © 2015
by
Lauren Ashley Benard
All Rights Reserved
iv
DEDICATION
To my father for fighting for our country in Vietnam and thus making my college
education possible. To my mother for encouraging me to always give my best effort. To my
husband, Bradford DeLuca, for being supportive and patient as I completed my research.
v
The language of poetry is a language of inquiry, not the language of a genre. It is that
language in which a writer (or a reader) both perceives and is conscious of the perception.
Poetry, therefore, takes as its premise that language is a medium for experiencing experience.
-Lyn Hejinian
vi
ABSTRACT OF THE THESIS
Poetry Unscripted: How U.S. Inaugural Poetry and Post-9/11
Poetry Should Serve to Challenge the Status Quo
by
Lauren Ashley Benard
Master of Arts in English
San Diego State University, 2015
American poetry took a cultural shift when it instituted the Consultant in Poetry
position (1937), which was later revised to the title of U.S. Poet Laureate Consultant in
Poetry (1985). Under the position, poets were selected to write ―occasional poems,‖ poems
written specifically for national occasions. Starting with Robert Frost, five poets (Robert
Frost, Maya Angelou, Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander, and Richard Blanco) were
asked by U.S. presidents (John F. Kennedy, William Clinton, and Barak Obama) to recite
poems at their presidential inauguration ceremonies, quickly establishing a general
understanding of poetry to the public. However, Robert Lowell and Frank Bidart challenged
such dominant power structures by publishing their own inaugural poems (without being
sponsored by a president) and did not participate in the traditional inaugural ceremony. The
perception of the ―acceptable‖ poet was further provoked when New Jersey‘s former poet
laureate, Amiri Baraka, read his poem ―Somebody Blew Up America‖ in response to the
September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. His controversial response was non-traditional and
challenged normative ideologies. My thesis not only examines the public spaces established
for poetry responding to national events, but it also considers what kind of language is
deemed appropriate in the poetic sphere. Similar to the inaugural poets, governmentsponsored poetry written by U.S. Poets Laureate in response to 9/11 follows a rigid script.
The latter half of my argument juxtaposes the poets laureate with independent poets that
submitted their works to online journals, magazines, and various anthologies. Therefore, I
argue that authentic responses to presidential inaugurations and national traumas (ones that
challenge normative ideals) do not reaffirm what we already know (that war is bad and love
is good) while government-sponsored works often possess didactic undertones.
vii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
ABSTRACT ............................................................................................................................. vi
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ................................................................................................... viii
CHAPTER
1
INTRODUCTION .........................................................................................................1
2
―YOU HAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH UNTIL YOU SAY SOMETHING‖:
U.S. POETS LAUREATE AND INAUGURUAL POEMS .........................................7
3
CREATING A SPACE FOR POETRY AFTER 9/11 .................................................26
4
HOW SOON IS ―TOO SOON?‖: LESS TRADITIONAL RESPONSES TO
9/11 ..............................................................................................................................42
5
CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................59
BIBLIOGRAPHY ....................................................................................................................65
viii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For teaching me to be a more interesting writer and thinker, my gratitude goes to
Joseph Thomas. For offering me guidance in my research by sharing helpful articles, my
appreciation goes to June Cummins. Many thanks to my out-of-department reader, John
Putman, for lending me his expertise in U.S. History. Lastly, for making the life of a graduate
student enjoyable and fruitful, I thank the Sirens of 600: Megan Parry, Kelli Magargal, Molly
Hatay-Ferens, Lauren Lamoly, and Ashley Rose.
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
On October 12, 2001, Vanity Fair magazine rushed a one-off special issue in
recognition of the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. Grayden Carter,
the magazine‘s editor, suggested that the attacks generated a ―seismic shift,‖ and going
forward, the magazine would dedicate at least 60% of its coverage to serious subjects (J.
Day). Within the special issue titled, ―One Week in September,‖ Toni Morrison published the
poetic eulogy, ―The Dead of September 11.‖ It is interesting how a magazine that is more
commonly known for its attention to fashion included a eulogy by Toni Morrison; however,
it is not surprising that of all the poets, Vanity Fair would include a response from a wellknown American literary figure rather than a newly emerging poet (since Toni Morrison is a
familiar name to most). Morrison‘s poem addresses the difficulty in relating to the victims
who lost their lives in the attacks:
To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim
false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed
just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,
knowing all the time that I have nothing to say--no words
stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture
older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you
have become. (27-33)
The lines ―[k]nowing all the time that I have nothing to say‖ acknowledge that her words
alone cannot console the amount of loss the victims‘ loved ones, and all who were affected
by the attacks, were feeling. Writing poetry about 9/11, especially in a short period of time
(the magazine was published one month and one day following the attacks), is a difficult task
for writers due to the pressure to make sense of the tragedy. Morrison‘s poem, therefore,
represents that it is not easy to express the convoluted emotions manifesting from 9/11. She
does not claim ―false intimacy,‖ or a forged relationship with the victims, but she does pay
tribute to the horror of the day with vivid imagery describing that words cannot be ―stronger
than the steel that pressed you into itself‖ and ―the ancient atoms you have become.‖ She
2
does not attempt to diminish the attacks with poetry because language cannot replace the
tragedy of the day.
The literary aftershock in response to 9/11 neither started nor ended with Morrison; it
proceeded into various media, such as newspapers, magazines, blogs, online journals, and
anthologies. Thus, my thesis aims to examine the type of script national poetry tends to
follow, specifically what kind of speech, in poetry, is deemed appropriate to stand in as
―emotional reservoirs‖ for the nation‘s trauma. There are several competing responses—
emotional, intellectual, and political. However, ―we‖ are so diverse as a nation, that different
sub-groups have a variety of responses— as communities and among individual
communities— and yet Charles Bernstein‘s ―official verse culture‖ tends to let through the
gates only certain kinds of responses that are then naturalized as ―poetic‖ responses, and
these works make their way through, often because they signify a certain (often unconscious)
ideological position. Bernstein explains his concept in ―The Academy in Peril: William
Carlos Williams Meets the MLA‖:
Official verse culture is not mainstream, nor is it monolithic, nor uniformly bad or
good. Rather like all literary culture, it is constituted by particular values that are
as heterodox, within the broad context of multicultural American writing, as any
other type of writing. What makes official verse culture official is that it denies
the ideological nature of its practice while maintaining hegemony in terms of
major media exposure and academic legitimation and funding. (248-249)
I include Bernstein‘s observation about ―official verse culture‖ because it is still relevant in
the current conversation regarding ―public poetry,‖ verse read before or by a public audience
such as an inauguration. ―Acceptable‖ or ―official‖ poems, those deemed acceptable by the
government to represent national poetry, signify a certain ideological position: they identify
the U.S. in certain ways and our enemies in other ways, and signify liberal humanistic values
consonant with the myths surrounding the nature of the United States.
While the bulk of my project focuses on post- 9/11 poetry (written within two years
of the attacks), it is important to acknowledge that national poetry encompasses more than
what was written in response to 9/11. As a result, I begin with a brief history of the U.S. Poet
Laureate Consultantship to exemplify how ―occasional‖ poems (government sponsored and
written about and for a specific national occasion) are situated in national poetry. Occasional
poems are confined because they are government sponsored; as a result, the responses are
3
forced rather than natural. I argue that government-sponsored poetry offers less depth to its
readers as it does not influence independent thought. The issue at stake is that official poems
are more likely to establish our current and future culture‘s general understanding of poetry:
that poetry is neutral and disarming. Instead, I want to focus on the alternative ways poetry
operates in culture by discussing marginalized poems in order to examine the limits placed
on the freedom of speech. My thesis will argue the following three points: (1) The ―official‖
inaugural poems signify optimism while the ―unofficial‖ inaugural poems express honest
beliefs about America‘s political journey. (2) The poets laureate, when juxtaposed with lesspopularized writers, demonstrate that government-sponsored poetry abides by a neutral
script. However, poetry should provoke independent thought, which is illustrated by various
poetry submissions to anthologies and magazines. (3) The controversial responses to 9/11
demonstrate the alternative, and arguably more fruitful, ways to engage with poetry written
in response to 9/11.
Chapter 2 traces the emergence of U.S. inaugural poets and chronicles how each of
the five ―official‖ inaugural poems track social change. I review the political and aesthetic
dimensions of their presence: the cultural shift from Robert Frost, the first official inaugural
poet, to Richard Blanco, the most recent. Since thousands of people are exposed to the
inaugural poems because the ceremony is broadcasted on television, the official inaugural
poets are more likely to represent the general population‘s view of acceptable poetry: Poems
discuss unity and hope in America with the coming President. The public poems demonstrate
the nation‘s traditional view of poetry, but that is limiting because all poetry cannot be
categorized as occasional poetry. While such poems serve their own purpose (attempting to
join art and politics), they should not be representative of poetry‘s overall function in society.
Therefore, I juxtapose the five official inaugural poets (Robert Frost, Maya Angelou,
Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander, and Richard Blanco) with Robert Lowell and Frank
Bidart, two unofficial inaugural poets who did not read their poems at the inauguration but
who wrote poems to challenge the nation‘s unsteady position. I contend that their poems,
contrary to the official inaugural poems, provoke independent thought and do not reaffirm
what we already know (that love is good). Lowell and Bidart published their works (Lowell
in the Partisan Review and Bidart in Slate’s e-magazine), but they were not commissioned by
the government to do so. Therefore, they possessed freedom to write beyond the normative
4
expectation because there were no enforced guidelines. Lowell and Bidart‘s poems generate
more complex thought because they directly address anxieties rather than reduce them; such
poems would not be written with the government‘s approval, or at least they would not be
read before an inaugural audience.
The chapter concludes with an analysis of Amiri Baraka‘s, ―Somebody Blew Up
America,‖ exemplifying what a public poem should not represent (in the eyes of the U.S.
government). Baraka read his poem for the first time in the U.S. at the Geraldine R. Dodge
Poetry Festival in 2002; he previously read it in Spain, Portugal, Africa, Switzerland, Italy,
and Finland, but it was not until he read it in the U.S. that he was repudiated (―The ADL
Smear‖). At the time of the reading, Baraka was the New Jersey state Poet Laureate, but if
you research the position now, you will quickly learn that it ceases to exist. I argue that
Baraka‘s poem serves as a strong example of what poetry can offer society: truth, opinion,
and courage. He shocked his U.S. audience, causing them to think more objectively, rather
than reiterating our sugar-coated journey as American citizens. Baraka‘s post-9/11 poem
demonstrates the consequence poet‘s face when they surpass the familiar and acceptable.
When poets laureate such as Robert Frost or Maya Angelou set the stage for nationallyaccepted poetry, it is no wonder that society is upset to hear that Baraka‘s controversial
words are also considered poetry. By permanently erasing the New Jersey Poet Laureate
position, the government demonstrates that there are poetic boundaries.
My discussion of ―appropriate‖ responses to the attacks on the World Trade Center
continues in Chapter 3, which focuses on the impulsive release of poetry in the aftermath of
9/11. A dichotomy between public and private 9/11 poems exists: I revisit the occasional
poem in this chapter to juxtapose public versus private delivery. For instance, two of the past
poets laureate, Robert Pinsky and Billy Collins, published mainstream poems that seek to
fulfill the nation‘s duty (to deliver contemporary art on the subject of 9/11) in order to
document history through poetry. However, their poems are not a strong representation of
poetry‘s function after 9/11 because they are written for a wide audience with high
expectations. I substantiate my claims by referring directly to the poet‘s own public
reflections on their 9/11 poems. (I primarily discuss the poets laureate to contrast the
language in their poems with the non-laureate poems included in various anthologies.) Next,
I address this need for relevant literature in relation to the way readers also turned to WWII
5
poetry, such as W. H. Auden‘s ―September 1, 1939,‖ to feel connected to the trauma since
Auden‘s poem took on new meaning in the aftermath of September 11, 2001. Here I consider
the implied expectation that we need new content that directly and overtly addresses the
national tragedies that occur in our lifetime by recognizing that poems were published
quickly in order to supply society with up-to-date literary responses. My chapter focuses on
the Australian e-journal, Masthead, which published 22 poems exactly 17 days following the
attacks; there was a sense of urgency to publish immediately.
The latter half of the chapter, therefore, analyzes select poems from the September
11: American Writers Respond anthology. The poet, Bruce Bond, defers the attention from
the towers to a woman painting, unaware of the attacks, yet noticing no planes in the sky that
day; he takes a unique stance to illustrate how others‘ daily routines were affected before
they were aware of the attacks. The notion of ―witness‖ is complicated by Lucille Day who
reimagines the 9/11 victims as though they are still alive, but on the contrary, Rachel Vigier
suggests that all identity is lost in the ash and there is no indication of who they once were.
The final two poems I review serve to transition into the final chapter. The less-reviewed
anthology An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind takes a hyper-political stance.
The vivid language emerging from the poems is vengeful. In contrast to the poets laureate
constrained responses, these individual poets focus on identity and revenge.
Chapter 4 focuses on less-traditional responses to 9/11 that transcend the dominant
ideology that 9/11 must follow a specific script. I explore the notion of when it is ―too soon‖
for artists to share publicly a non-sympathetic opinion about the attacks. The comedians
Gilbert Gottfried and Louis C. K. tell controversial jokes just weeks following the attacks,
and unsurprisingly, they receive a very negative response from their audience. In terms of
poetry, I examine two concrete poems that draw the readers‘ focus to the shape of the towers,
which suggests the subject prior to being read. First, the Oulipian poet, Ian Monk, performs a
reading of ―Twin Towers‖ in New York, but the poem does not memorialize the victims;
instead, it focuses on the towers‘ abject qualities. The concrete form continues with
Anastasios Kozaitis‘ ―wtc 11‖ where the letters that comprise the poem‘s form descend into
legible words and parody the falling ash from that day. These poems are controversial
because they represent the buildings that no longer exist.
6
The chapter also explores the highly-circulated anthology, New York Poets, from
which I‘ve selected a poem that challenges the dominate cliché language in 9/11 poems.
Nikki Moustaki‘s ―How to Write a Poem After 9/11‖ questions the very writing process. I
argue that poetry does not necessarily have to answer questions, but it should offer
knowledge about how to change, which echoes the common notion that ―everything changed
after 9/11.‖ I conclude the chapter with an examination of Kenneth Goldsmith‘s ―World
Trade Center‖ poem from Seven American Deaths and Disasters. He retells the tragedy by
transcribing the newscasters‘ words into a prose poem. Goldsmith manipulates language by
deeming the work as prose poetry even though there are no other implications (form and
rhyme scheme) that it is a poem. Such poems are less identifiable as poetry to the general
reader, and this chapter focuses on delving deeper into those lesser-known texts.
Ultimately, my aim for this thesis is to examine the way acceptable, public, national
poetry limits the general population‘s idea of poetry‘s ability to promote social change. As
history has demonstrated, poetry serves to join art and politics, but the highly circulated poets
are not always the best representation of what poetry can accomplish. Inaugural poems and
other poetry responding to national traumas, such as 9/11, should not follow such a limited
script. Just as Morrison does not deliver false hope in ―The Dead of September 11,‖ society
should be more aware of the questions that poetry can pose rather than turning to poetry for
answers.
7
CHAPTER 2
“YOU HAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH UNTIL YOU
SAY SOMETHING”: U.S. POETS LAUREATE AND
INAUGURUAL POEMS
In 1936, Archer Huntington, founder of The Hispanic Society of America and strong
advocate for the arts, provided endowments for ―maintenance of a chair of poetry of the
English language,‖ and soon after, in 1937, Joseph Auslander served as the first Consultant
in Poetry to the Library of Congress (―About the Position‖). Auslander‘s term as the first
appointed consultant was not set to expire, but the time limit changed when Archibald
MacLeish assumed the Librarian of Congress position in 1939 and decided the
Consultantship should be rotated every one or two years. The title changed to ―Poet Laureate
Consultant in Poetry‖ in 1985 because Hawaii State Senator, Spark Matsunaga, piloted
legislation for 22 years to revise it (Schmidt xvii). As a result, under Public Law 99-194,
Section 177, the official Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry title reads as follows:
The Congress recognizes that the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress
has for some time occupied a position of prominence in the life of the Nation, has
spoken effectively for literary causes, and has occasionally performed duties and
functions sometimes associated with the position of poet laureate in other nations
and societies. (2 U.S.C. 177: Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry)
The laureateship evolved to mirror established values of other nations. For instance, based on
the revised description, the Consultant ―has occasionally performed duties and functions
sometimes associated with the position of poet laureate in other nations and societies,‖ so the
consultantship transitioned into a laureateship by tradition. The position initially developed in
the mid- 20th century in America, but it was a long-standing institution associated with
European style royalty and court. The 1985 law therefore illustrates how the United States
wanted to liken the laureateship to the position in other nations. While the ―consultant‖
position was initially similar to that of a reference librarian, and the consultant mainly served
as a collection specialist and resident scholar in poetry and literature, the transition to the
―laureate‖ title established more focus on arranging poetry events among the general public.
8
The U.S. Poet Laureate currently reports to the Poet Laureate Consultant in the
Poetry‘s office on the third floor of the Jefferson Building, in the Library of Congress. Reed
Whittemore, twice Consultant in Poetry, describes the position as ―a rare and special one in
the library world and the federal bureaucracy, as well as within the world of poetry, that it is
a job of opportunity, a catbird seat‖ (McGuire 3). William McGuire fashioned from this
quotation the title of his magisterial study of the laureateship: Poetry’s Catbird Seat.
McGuire further remarks that ―Certainly the Consultant was not meant to be the Poet
Laureate of the United States of America‖ (25). My analysis attempts to eclipse the general
understanding that the laureates‘ duties speak for the nation as a whole. I will discuss how
national poetry consists of multiple voices, and the laureate position offers one example of
poetry‘s relationship to American politics. Furthermore, I will examine the inaugural poems
that are perceived to speak for and to the nation by exploring the language and topics that are
forbidden by the very fact of a poem being ―officially‖ inaugural.
While the Poets Laureate represent a portion of the nation‘s artistic voice, the study of
poetry cannot simply end there. Poetry popularized by the laureate position, or made public
through presidential inaugurations, partly exemplifies how the nation perceives itself.
However, I should emphasize that America does not have a single poetic voice; rather, the
U.S. poetry scene contains multiple and distinct poetic communities. In Samuel Delany‘s
essay, ―The Politics of Paraliterary Criticism,‖ he emphasizes, ―Art becomes great when it
becomes endowed with the national spirit, and the national spirit is one with the dominant
ideology of the society‖ (248). He continues, ―Society itself has become too complex for the
notion of a single national spirit, bodied forth in the nation‘s great art, to endure‖ (Delany
248). In order to challenge the notion that America maintains a single national spirit, I will
discuss the established inaugural poets and shift to less discussed poems that challenge the
dominant ideology.
On March 4, 1857, Col W. Emmons‘ poem ―An Ode in Honor of the Inauguration of
Buchanan & Breckinridge, President and Vice President of the United States‖ was printed on
a broadside to celebrate America‘s new leaders. The original print, housed at the Library of
Congress in Washington, DC, can also be viewed digitally online. There readers find the
word ―Inauguration‖ printed in large bubble letters filled with stars and stripes, which
anticipates the poem‘s proud, patriotic tone. Fifteen stanzas follow the ostentatiously
9
spangled title, those stars and bars hinting that the ode should be read to the tune of the ―Star
Spangled Banner.‖ Nine years later, in March 1865, ―An Inaugural Poem Dedicated to
Abraham Lincoln of Illinois, and Andrew Johnson of Tennessee‖ was printed on a press in a
wagon for Lincoln‘s procession, and it was subsequently published in The Chronicle Junior.
(Lincoln was assassinated one month later, in April 1865.) The 19th century inaugural poems
were not read at the swearing-in ceremony, yet these two inaugural poems depict the event‘s
chauvinistic attitude. The hyper-political language celebrates the new presidency, but the
content behind such inaugural poems evolves as time goes on. Before the U.S. Poet
Laureateship existed, poetry permeated various political events.
Inaugural poetry took a historic shift in 1961 when John F. Kennedy invited Robert
Frost to recite a poem at his inauguration ceremony. At the time, Frost had recently
completed his two-year appointment as the Consultant in Poetry from 1958-1959. Kennedy
recommended that Frost read his poem ―The Gift Outright,‖ but he also extended the option
to compose a piece for the occasion. Frost responded to Kennedy‘s invitation in a telegram:
If you can bear at your age the honor of being made president of the United
States, I ought to be able at my age bear the honor of taking some part in your
inauguration. I may not be equal to it, but I can accept it for my cause— the arts,
poetry— now for the first time taken into the affairs of statesmen. (310)
No doubt Frost asserts he is not ‗equal‘ to the honor of reading an inaugural poem because he
thought himself unable to write the kind of civic-minded verse such occasions generally
demand. Let me explain.
Frost did not originally intend to read ―The Gift Outright,‖ that cold and windy day
on January 20, 1961. Instead, he composed the poem ―Dedication‖ (later titled ―For John F.
Kennedy His Inauguration‖) specifically for the occasion. However, the glare and the wind
prevented him from reading it, so he recited the poem ―The Gift Outright‖ from memory
anyway. It is no surprise that ―Dedication‖ (written for the inauguration) and ―The Gift
Outright‖ (previously written but recited on Inauguration Day) have distinctly different tones
and messages. The flow of the language in ―Dedication‖ sounds unnatural and pedantic; for
instance, Frost begins ―Dedication‖ by stating the honor in his position:
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.
10
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. (1-10)
.................................
The golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday‘s the beginning hour. (77-78)
Frost situates his optimism toward the unification of art and politics between the beginning
and end verses. While the formal rhyme scheme appeals to some, the poem ultimately lacks
depth. Therefore, one can conclude that it is best Frost did not read ―Dedication‖ because it
does not accomplish the purpose Kennedy had in mind. According to Kennedy, the poem
was intended to influence independent thought in the audience. Kennedy himself explains
that ―[he] asked Robert Frost to come and speak at the Inauguration because [he] felt [Frost]
had something important to say to those of us who are occupied with the business of
Government, that [Frost] would remind us that we are dealing with life, the hopes and fears
of millions of people‖ (Schmidt xlviii). It was not fallacious for Kennedy to believe that
Frost‘s poem could positively influence his listeners, but such desired results are difficult to
achieve. Kennedy‘s explanation suggests that poetry possesses value beyond mere political
rhetoric. Now, if one examines ―The Gift Outright,‖ which Frost read by heart, the one that
was not intended for the inauguration but was still recited, it offers a different message. The
focus shifts to colonial America:
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,
11
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become. (1-16)
―The Gift Outright‖ quickly segues from a ceremonial poem to a national poem by
foregrounding the American image. In The Marginalization of Poetry, Bob Perelman
concludes:
As a political act, [Frost‘s] recitation was a minor ornament. But in terms of the
explicit or subterranean political allegiances of poetry, Frost's position--lone sage
facing and possessing the landscape for the nation--is an affirmation of the
American status quo that is difficult for poets to ignore. (113)
Before his assassination, Kennedy spoke the following words about Frost at Amherst
College: ―When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.‖ He continued with, ―When power leads
man towards his arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the
areas of man‘s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence‖
(Kennedy). Poetry, in this context, is held to a high standard, and it cannot influence
everyone in the way Kennedy intended, but his statement reflects a common view of poetry‘s
ideologically healing powers.
Like Frost, Maya Angelou is a poet familiar to most Americans, her standing in the
1990s is commensurate with Frost‘s in the 1960s. Therefore, it was no surprise when
President William Clinton invited her to read ―On the Pulse of the Morning‖ at his first
inauguration in 1993. Since Angelou was the first female and African-American to recite an
inaugural poem, the contrast between Frost and Angelou sparked a national conversation.
According to the scholar Zofia Burr, the gender and racial differences were prominently
discussed even before Angelou recited her work. Therefore, with Angelou‘s recitation, one
can dismantle the ideology that America consists of a white, male-dominated voice. The
news media deploys the selection of inaugural poems as a benchmark by which they measure
social progress. Burr explains:
Newspapers and magazine articles that compared the two poets underlined the
differences in their racial and gender identities and asserted an ostensibly
uncomplicated narrative of social progress in the fact that a ‗black woman‘ would
be standing in the place of a ‗white man,‘ occupying a representative role, that in
the earlier era, it would have been hard to imagine anyone but a white man
fulfilling. (55)
With gender and racial differences set aside, Angelou‘s poem satisfies the national
understanding of inaugural poetry: Her poem further confirms conventional understandings
12
of what poetry is and does, as opposed to what poets tend to believe poetry represents. For
instance, Angelou‘s poem personalizes the listeners‘ experience by addressing the audience
in second person:
Lift up your eyes upon
The 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 new beginnings. (76-87)
Additionally, Angelou‘s words speak to the private thoughts of her listeners. She touches on
the common subject of ―rebirth‖ and the ―American dream.‖ Her riveting poem rekindles the
hope the audience has not only for society but also for their individual selves:
Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister‘s eyes, into
Your brother‘s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning. (101-108)
The ―pulse‖ divides the living from the dead and morning suggests a new beginning, a fresh
start. Angelou‘s poem delivers a call-to-action, and it puts into words what the audience
feels, therefore, reaffirming what is already known. However, poetry should not simply
reaffirm what we already know because such a strategy does not deliver new knowledge or
challenge the dominant view. In this case, Angelou‘s poem parallels and reinstates general
themes in President Clinton‘s inauguration speech. In Clinton‘s address, he attends to a
similar theme regarding the rebirth of the American Dream: ―There is nothing wrong with
America that cannot be cured by what is right with America. And so today we pledge an end
to the era of deadlock and drift, and a new season of American renewal has begun.‖
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Angelou‘s words, aligned with President Clinton‘s, arouse an internal thought process and
speak to an audience far broader than the selected academic audience poetry generally
navigates. However, the inward thinking it conjures does not surpass silent meditation.
Angelou‘s inaugural offering inspired poets, Larry Fagin and Clark Coolidge, to
parody her poem. Using an Oulipian technique, ―S+7,‖ (in which each noun in a given text is
replaced by the noun seven entries away in an abridged dictionary). Their title, ―On the
Pumice of Morons,‖ sets the poem‘s satirical mood. Fagin and Coolidge rewrite Angelou‘s
final stanza in the following manner:
Here on the pumice of this new davenport
You may have the gradient to look up and out
And into Sisyphus‘s eyeholes
And into Brown Betty‘s eyewash,
Your countertenor,
And say simply
Very simply
With hooray—
Good moron. (101-108)
The parody and critiques leveled by Fagin and Coolidge demonstrate language‘s flexibility
even as it mocks the inflated rhetoric in Angelou‘s poem. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was
condemned to the eternal task of rolling a large stone to the top of a hill from which it always
rolled down. ―Sisyphus‖ sounds similar to Angelou‘s original reference ―sister,‖ but it could
also allude to the perpetual (and ultimately fruitless) message conveyed by typical inaugural
poems. Fagin and Coolidge‘s parody calls attention to the mediocrity in Angelou‘s words,
reminding us that her words tell us what we already know. They published roughly 100
copies of their version as a chapbook and posted it online, but in comparison to Angelou‘s
audience, Fagin and Coolidge‘s satire reached only a small number of readers (Silliman).
A pattern surfaces in official inaugural poems, one wryly highlighted by Fagin and
Coolidge‘s satire: They attempt to transmit the underlying element of hope the president
delivers in his inauguration onto the listeners. Such hopeful rhetoric is also found in Miller
Williams‘ ―Of History and Hope,‖ which he read at President Clinton‘s second inaugural
address in 1997. Williams‘ begins with ―We have memorized America,/ how it was born and
who we have been and where‖ (1-2). The first lines suggest that America‘s past cannot be
altered, so the audience should focus on how the next generation will fashion the future. He
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depicts ―America‖ as a poem, one that can be memorized and internalized. His poem differs
from his antecedents because he places emphasis on the children‘s role:
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… (11-17)
The first two lines set a pragmatic tone; however, once he arrives to the children, the lines
assume the tone of the popular nursery rhyme, ―Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.‖ Rather than
agreeing with the original rhyme by ―being neatly in a row,‖ he subverts the poem‘s language
to ―rarely in a row.‖ The contrariness relates to the children because the poems attempt to
administer their beliefs about their generations‘ future. The allusion to the well-known
nursery rhyme appeals to the listener and reinforces the implication that children serve as a
vehicle for social change. With each inauguration we, the American citizens, still are not the
people we intend to be, and the road to the American Dream continues to progress. Clinton‘s
speech similarly parallels the children: ―May those generations whose faces we cannot yet
see, whose names we may never know, say of us here that we led our beloved land into a
new century with the American Dream alive for all her children….‖ Inaugural speeches and
their accompanying poems allow future generations to measure cultural change; Frost and
Angelou discuss the past, but Miller evokes insight into the future.
In an interview with Jackson Meazle for the Oxford American magazine, Williams
responds that he ―didn‘t feel [his] poem was so much a political document as a consideration
of how to look at a nation‘s past.‖ There is no formula for inaugural poetry. Being a social
object, it cannot be simplistically defined as ―good‖ or ―bad.‖ Williams further focuses on the
children:
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. (30-34)
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The final line assumes that our experiences can be documented through poetry and then
shared with the next generation to continue striving for a ―gift‖ (echoing Frost‘s ―The Gift
Outright‖). In the same interview, Williams expresses how honored he was to be selected.
Knowing the poem would be widely circulated, he ―wanted the poem to be true,
understandable, and agreeable‖ (Meazle). Williams suggests here that inaugural poetry—a
verse designed for a broad audience—lends itself to the bland and flavorless, a criticism
implied by Fagin and Coolidge‘s parody. By ―understandable,‖ he seems to mean
―unsophisticated,‖ and by ―agreeable‖ he implies ―inoffensive.‖ The poem establishes a
connection and provokes thought, but this connection and thought is all directed inward, does
not provoke action, does not inspire the complex and often ambiguous responses we
frequently expect from poetry.
Elizabeth Alexander delivered a poem at President Barack Obama‘s 2009 inaugural
address. Rather than focusing on the future, Alexander discusses the everyday in ―Praise
Song for the Day.‖ The past poet laureate Billy Collins (U.S. Poet Laureate from 2000-2001)
stated, ―I don‘t envy her. Such poems are nearly impossible to bring off‖ (Weinstein). He
does not share why he believes inaugural poems are nearly impossible to write, but I would
link his hesitation to the extremely high expectations deriving from the audience. In most
cases, poetry can offer a response to society‘s emotions, but it cannot deliver definitive
answers. Emmit Beliveau, the executive director of Obama‘s inaugural committee, argues
that poetry exemplifies ―the important role that the arts and literature can play in helping to
bring our country together‖ and that Alexander ―is an incredibly accomplished author and
academic‖ (Seelye). Recall Delany advising us to reconsider the concept of ―great art.‖
Beliveau‘s words suggest that only nationally-recognized academics can produce the kind of
art that can ―bring our country together.‖
Alexander‘s poem acknowledges the distance between individuals, but it is language
that can connect one another. Beginning with the vague line ―Each day we go about our
business‖ (Alexander 1), Alexander moves forward with her point that ―All about us is
noise./ All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each/ one of our ancestors on our
tongues‖ (4-6). The repetition emphasizes the commonplace noise the general population
encounters, and she calls on the audience to listen. The tone shifts when she states ―What if
the mightiest word is love?‖ (Alexander 36). The rhetorical question lacks depth and
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weakens the ending. The cliché reduces power because it tells us what we already know: love
is good. Lastly, ―Praise song for walking in that light…‖ (Alexander line 49) echoes lines
from Obama‘s inaugural speech: ―Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves
off, and begin again the work of remaking America.‖ This poem exemplifies the tendency of
inaugural poems to resonate with the uplifting messages found in contemporary inaugural
addresses.
Since inaugural poems now occur more frequently (two for President Clinton and two
for President Obama; President Bush opted for an inauguration without poetry), they spark
discussions about poetry among the public. In a New York Times article, ―The Intersection of
Poetry and Politics,‖ Dwight Garner offers an overview of the inaugural poets in preparation
for Elizabeth Alexander‘s 2009 reading. Garner references an email from Christian Wiman,
the editor of Poetry magazine: ―In a way, the poem itself is not the point.‖ His refreshing
statement concludes that poetry‘s political position involves something beyond the poem
itself. Wiman continues:
I would guess that a president-elect decides to have an inaugural poem in the first
place not in the hope of commissioning some eternal work of art, but in order to
acknowledge that there is an intimate, inevitable connection between a culture‘s
language and its political life. That Obama wants to make such a gesture seems to
me a pure good — for poetry, yes, but also for the country. (Garner)
The connection between language and politics comes across as inevitable. Many poets are
hesitant to share their work because of the high expectation, so poetry changes when the
expectation ceases to exist. Poetry alone cannot grant peace and unity, but if society focuses
on what poetry is not doing, then we lose sight of what it is doing.
Despite the collective shortcomings of the inaugural poems, their focus on the past
offers a mutual strength. Richard Blanco recited ―One Today‖ on January 20, 2013, the latest
inaugural poem receiving a considerable amount of public feedback, and much like
Angelou‘s performance, Blanco‘s reading serves as a pivotal moment in inaugural history.
Richard Blanco, not only the youngest poet to read an inaugural poem, is also the first gay
and Latino male invited to do so. Obama chose Blanco because his ―deeply personal poems
are rooted in the idea of what it means to be an American‖ (Stolberg). In other words,
Blanco‘s cultural background challenges conventional notions of American identity, a
challenge that echoes President Obama‘s own significance as the U.S.‘s first biracial
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Commander in Chief. The poem begins by summoning a nation of millions of individuals:
―My face, your face, millions of faces in morning‘s mirrors,‖ an opening that includes quick
reference to his immigrant mother ―on our way to […]/ […] ring-up groceries as my mother
did for twenty years, so I could write this poem‖ (Blanco lines 7, 13-14). However, it ends
with a collective voice, one marked only by its home: the United States. That is, Blanco
encourages Americans to remain unified as a nation:
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. (63-69)
The pedantic elements of poems like this take away from what poetry can ultimately offer.
Instead of a deeply personal poem rooted in what makes his experience unique—or at least
different from white-male-middle-class experience—Blanco turns to generalities that end up
supporting the very world-view to which he was chosen to provide a counter point. The poem
focuses on his own story and experience as an American immigrant, but it does not
encompass a wide audience until the very end, when it suggests that we can map hope
together. Blanco does not represent individuals, making it difficult for the audience to relate
in any but the most abstract of ways (we are all Americans).
Therefore, it is no surprise that society questions poetry‘s value. There are numerous
articles challenging the purpose of poetry in the 21st century; they argue that it is obsolete.
Alexandra Petri published the op-ed ―Is Poetry Dead?‖ for The Washington Post on January
22, 2013 and determines, ―You can tell that a medium is still vital by posing the question:
Can it change anything? A medium is only vital if it can change anything.‖ Aside from the
overgeneralization of the question, it is entirely black and white. Petri does not describe what
she means by ―change anything‖; one might wonder how long it takes for change to occur,
and to whom the change is occurring. On the same day, John Deming wrote an open letter to
Alexandra Petri, published in Coldfront Mag interrogating the empty assumptions behind her
argument. If the conversation about poetry remains an active and passionate one, then poetry
cannot be dead; the discourse can be recognized as challenging the idea that poetry ought to
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serve some kind of instrumental purpose. Petri concludes that the media now fulfills our
aesthetic needs with precise images:
All the things that poetry used to do, other things do much better. But naturally
we still have government-subsidized poets. Poets are like the Postal Service — a
group of people sedulously doing something that we no longer need, under the
misapprehension that they are offering us a vital service.
In his response, Deming suggests that poetry contributes to political change because in
Robert Frost‘s words, ―A great poem ends in a great clarification of life… a momentary stay
against confusion.‖ While Frost makes a relevant point, the poet Sandra Doller, featured in
Entropy magazine, proposes an alternate riposte to the tricky question:
If poetry is truly ―verbal art‖ (I know some people hate that term, but I find it
useful in thinking outside genre) and attentiveness to—presence in— language,
then this is incredibly important in navigating messages, deciphering meanings,
engaging in resistance to dominant power structures.
Doller‘s understanding exceeds Petri‘s because she recognizes the importance of poetry
beyond cultural approval. Blanco‘s poem may not yield any prominent change because it
does not engage in resistance to dominant power structures.
As a result, Petri‘s focused attention to Richard Blanco results in a loophole. To ask
whether or not his poem will change anything (still not exactly sure what anything is) only a
few days after he has read it is not a fair question. Poetry should continue being read at
inaugurations because its position in history measures social change; however, the general
population could benefit from more aesthetic variety. According to Perelman, Kennedy‘s
poem was ―the high water-mark of cultural prestige for poetry in America‖ (111). Therefore,
the larger concern is that its role should be reevaluated. Based on the five inaugural poems
examined thus far, it appears that public poetry—such as the official inaugural poems— does
not encourage radical experimentation; rather, it is a space for retrenching mainstream ideas
of the poetic. Inaugural poems tell the audience more about what the inaugural poets believe
poetry is, than what the general population thinks poetry is. They write for the occasion and
in turn, their conception of the audience—―The Nation‖—silently dictates the content of the
inaugural poem. However, an inaugural poem does not need to be read at the ceremony to
generate an impact.
Frost, Angelou, Williams, Alexander, and Blanco can be researched and studied as
the poets chosen to participate in the inaugural events. Each poem speaks to the time period
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in which it was written and influences readers and listeners of that time while continuing to
document those events for current audiences. The conversation does not end here, however. I
will now shift gears and focus on two poets who wrote poems alluding to two presidential
inaugurations that contain critical yet sensible undertones. Poets are more inclined to
acknowledge America‘s cultural flaws when they are not performing as part of a public
ceremony. The public poet writes what he or she thinks the occasion warrants, not what he or
she might write in other, less ceremonial contexts.
Two culturally-significant inaugural poems that deviate from the weighted down
complexities of public expectations are Robert Lowell‘s ―Inauguration Day 1953‖ and Frank
Bidart‘s ―Inauguration Day.‖ The poems‘ titles immediately clue the reader in on the subject
matter. Lowell‘s ―Inauguration Day 1953‖ offers a distinct date, while Bidart gives his poem
(published in Slate 2009) a more general title, despite its being occasioned by Obama‘s
historic first presidential term. Each poet actively participates in the political discussion but
remains marginalized by not partaking in the political proceedings in the normative public
fashion.
When provided the opportunity to engage in the White House Festival of Arts, Lowell
publicly declined the offer on May 30, 1965, in a letter to President Lyndon Johnson
published in the New York Times. Although Lowell was tempted to accept, he changed his
mind and informed Johnson, ―[He] thought of such an occasion as a purely artistic flourish,
even though every serious artist knows that he cannot enjoy public celebrations without
making subtle public commitments‖ (―Inauguration Day 1953‖ 459). Lowell refers to himself
as a ―serious‖ artist, suggesting that poets who do engage in political festivities are perhaps
superficial. Moreover, Lowell makes a point to conclude, ―[He] feel[s] [he is serving] you
and our country best by not taking part in the White House Festivities of the Arts‖
(―Inauguration Day 1953‖ 459). Lowell suggests that many artists worry that political
ceremonies are not conducive to quality art, as the restrictions limit their ability to create
work that is complex and nuanced, as opposed to celebratory and simply affirmative. Three
years earlier, on May 31, 1962, Lowell wrote a letter to Edmund Wilson, articulating his
discomfort at a White House party:
[E]veryone there seemed addled with adulation at having been invited. It was all
good fun but next morning you read that the President has sent the 7th fleet to
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Laos, or he might have invaded Cuba again—not that he will, but I feel we
intellectuals play a very pompous and frivolous role—we should be windows, not
window-dressing. Then, now in our times, of all times, the sword hangs over us
and our children, and not a voice is lifted. (Letters 409)
The honest discomfort openly displays the cumbersome relationship between poetry and
politics. As a result, Lowell must have found that his words would deliver more truth by
being published in the Partisan Review rather than being spoken at an inaugural ceremony.
The poem‘s tone shifts when such anxieties are projected within the poem:
The snow had buried Stuyvesant.
The subways drummed the vaults. I heard
the El‘s green girders charge on Third,
Manhattan‘s truss of adamant,
that groaned in ermine, slummed on want…
Cyclonic zero of the word,
God of our armies, who interred
Cold Harbor‘s blue immortals, Grant!
Horseman, your sword is in the groove!
Ice, ice. Our wheels no longer move.
Look, the fixed stars, all just alike
as lack-land atoms, split apart,
and the Republic summons Ike,
the mausoleum in her heart. (Lowell, ―Inauguration Day 1953‖ 1-14)
Lowell‘s work concerns itself with American history, and it colors a moment of supposed
renewal with darker tones of the past and death. More importantly, it avoids downplaying the
friction experienced in America. The language in Lowell‘s poem, less accessible than the
language in the ―popular‖ inaugural poems, attracts an elite audience and delivers a much
deeper message. The verse offers its own background starting with the statue of Peter
Stuyvesant, and ends with Grant (similar to Eisenhower, another general turned president). In
this context the line, ―Cold Harbor‘s blue immortals, Grant!‖ examines Grant in a negative
light, as a man who sentenced his men to their death. The ―mausoleum‖ in America‘s heart
offers a daunting rather than hopeful image. Echoing his letter, Lowell‘s poem exemplifies
the window poets could represent instead of window dressing.
Similarly, Frank Bidart breaks away from the traditional inaugural poem in 2009, the
same year as Alexander‘s ―Praise Song for the Day,‖ offering a less optimistic message
regarding America‘s history. His poem, ―Inauguration Day,‖ stands apart due to its dual
voice: the plural italicized voice separated by each stanza. For instance, ―Today, despite what
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is dead/ despite what is dead but lodged within us, hope/ hope made wise by dread begins
again,‖ illustrates the impending anxiety that history will repeat and introduce new
hardships, and the singular voice of the past references the White House as ―full of illusions‖
(Bidart 12). In his essay ―Frank Bidart‘s ‗Inauguration Day,‘‖ Steven Gould Axelrod
describes the subversive text as challenging the dominant ideology: ―The poem emphasizes
exactly what official lyrics must suppress: ever-present fear of assassination; dominant role
violence and white supremacy have played in American history…‖ (39). Axelrod examines
what topics must be left unsaid, what kind of poetic approaches are forbidden, and what kind
of difficulty is left off the table. Although the poem treats the same inauguration as
Alexander, one cannot easily recognize Bidart‘s verse as an official inaugural poem when
compared to the others. His poem presents the inaugural ceremony from an alternative
perspective:
Today, despite what is dead
staring out across America I see since
Lincoln gunmen
nursing fantasies of purity betrayed,
dreaming to restore
the glories of their blood and state
despite what is dead but lodged within us, hope
under the lustrous flooding moon
the White House is still
Whitman's White House, its
gorgeous front
full of reality, full of illusions
hope made wise by dread begins again. (Bidart)
When read alongside Alexander‘s poem, ―All about us is noise/ all about us is noise and
bramble‖ and ―despite what is dead/ despite what is dead‖ highlights the uncertainty poets
have about the present. Bidart‘s repetitive language suggests that anxiety closely follows
hope as well as fear that history will repeat, which it does. Axelrod notes, ―Bidart, however,
joins a counter-tradition in ‗Inauguration Day‘—a line of unofficial poems critiquing
American history, institutions, and character‖ (2). The counter-tradition adopting the
―Inauguration Day‖ title offers more truth to its readers about the dominant ideology.
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John F. Kennedy intended for poetry to provoke independent thought. In the
aforementioned speech he delivered at Amherst college, Kennedy states, ―If sometimes our
great artists have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their
concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes him aware that our Nation
falls short of its highest potential.‖ Kennedy‘s words suggest that criticism and poetry are not
mutually exclusive. However, there is a clash of ideals that insists inaugural poems presented
at the public ceremony, and inaugural poems available to the public, but published
separately, should appeal to separate audiences. One audience consists of the general public
and the other of poets. Poetry and politics, although composed of very different rhetoric, will
remain prominent in culture whether prompted by a president or not. It is no coincidence that
some of the discussed inaugural poets at one point had an aversion to writing political poetry.
While the poem which promotes inward thought reaffirms what society already knows, the
outward poem challenges our notions of what it means to be an American, especially during
times of national trauma. A clash between ideals exists in inaugural poetry, and the response
extends in terms of war and terror.
In 2002, Jim McGreevey, the governor of New Jersey, appointed Amiri Baraka as the
state poet laureate. Baraka, an influential political activist, spent most of his life fighting for
the rights of African-Americans. Only one other poet, Gerald Stern, served as the New Jersey
Poet Laureate position before Baraka. It was a new position and he was expected to promote
poetry in the traditional sense. However, McGreevey did not spend much time getting to
know Baraka, and his poem ―Somebody Blew up America,‖ a provocative response to 9/11,
cost the state of New Jersey its poet laureate position altogether. The poem‘s inflammatory
nature runs against the grain of what we traditionally think of as public, occasional verse.
Consequently, the governor was shocked that the laureate would write an offensive poem,
and later stated that they should have read more of his poetry before offering him the
position. (McGreevey must have heard he was a good poet and trusted that he would write
affirmative, uncritical, and patriotic poetry.) The governor could not legally fire Baraka, so
the only recourse was to eliminate the office of the laureate, which is why Baraka served
only for one year instead of the traditional two. According to the ―New Jersey Poet Laureate‖
section of the Library of Congress website:
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When McGreevey attempted to fire Baraka, he found no provision in the law for
removing a state poet laureate. Subsequently, on October 17, 2002, a bill was
introduced to the New Jersey Senate that would eliminate the position of state
poet laureate; it passed and became effective July 2, 2003. (United States Library
of Congress)
When Baraka learned the position would be eliminated, he published a statement entitled
―The ADL Smear Campaign Against Me I Will Not Apologize, I Will Not Resign‖ in
CounterPunch magazine. In his statement, Baraka declares: ―[N]ew Jersey is now officially
ignorant. There is no laureate like other states; we are just content to be laureateless.‖ Baraka
relates to Lowell and Bidart because they did not read their poems at presidential
inaugurations since their poems‘ unparalleled qualities would have made the audience
uncomfortable. Therefore, Baraka‘s example does more than challenge poetry‘s position; it
serves as a warning to other poets who want to shed light on society‘s weaknesses in addition
to its strengths.
The ambiguous ―somebody‖ in the poem‘s title influences readers to repeatedly
question ―who‖ society characterizes as good and evil. It signifies the country‘s past by
focusing on the negative events. Although the lines consist of a series of questions, he
dismisses the question marks, and he manipulates language to further elevate his point. The
rhetorical questions push the audience to see past their ignorance; however, most immediate
reactions result in a misunderstanding and low tolerance of the poem‘s subject. Toward the
middle of the poem, the most controversial lines suggest that Israel was responsible for the
atrocity:
Who knew the World Trade Center was gonna get bombed Who told 4000 Israeli
workers at the Twin Towers To stay home that day Why did Sharon stay away?
Who? Who? Who? (Baraka, ―Somebody Blew up America‖ 108-111)
................
Who make money from war Who make dough from fear and lies Who want the
world like it is Who want the world to be ruled by imperialism and national
oppression and terror violence, and hunger and poverty. (Baraka, ―Somebody
Blew up America‖ 113-115)
Many of Baraka‘s lines include anti-Semitic sentiments, which contributes to the general
understanding that Baraka‘s laureate position was revoked for his insensitivity. For instance,
the stanza referencing the ―4000 Israeli workers‖ is included in the ―New Jersey Poet
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Laureate‖ section of the Library of Congress website to illustrate the offensive nature of his
accusation.
Baraka‘s poem demonstrates how poetry‘s ideology shifts: poetry does more than
console and ameliorate; it challenges our ideas of freedom, even as ―official‖ poetry limits
the possibility of what can be said. In a NPR interview, Baraka declares, ―You have freedom
of speech until you say something‖ (Author Amiri Baraka) I allude to Baraka‘s poem because
when discussing poetry in contemporary American culture, it is necessary to acknowledge
what is deemed appropriate and what is not. A dualism surfaces: the message to the dominant
ideology becomes that poetry is important when it sympathizes with the audience and
glorifies the nation; however, when it challenges our beliefs and unveils our country‘s flaws,
it is dangerous and should be removed.
Not only does Baraka‘s poem acknowledge toxic events in America‘s history, but it
unearths how normative society does not want to label it in the same category as the other
examples of uplifting poems. In ―The Aesthetics of Politics/The Politics of Aesthetics: Amiri
Baraka‘s ‗Somebody Blew Up America,‘‖ Piotr Gwiazda concludes that, ―The manner in
which the mainstream news media handled the controversy reveals what happens when the
word ‗poetry‘ enters public conversation‖ (446). However, Baraka‘s poem supplies important
background about America‘s history with terrorism. He wanted to voice how Black
Americans have experienced domestic terrorism, so throughout his poem, he demonstrates
how terrorism will not cease to exist. Baraka prompts his readers to consider terrorism as a
whole. The overwhelming amount of negative response demonstrates that political poetry is
confined to a gatekeeper within the government. His own intention for the poem, to expose
America‘s ongoing battle against terrorism, does not align with that of society‘s because he
was perceived as anti-Semitic.
Robert Pinsky (U.S. Poet Laureate from 1997-2000) acknowledges Baraka‘s
phenomenon in a poem titled ―The Forgetting.‖ Pinsky discusses how people are forgotten
over time, hinting that the vocal leave an impact. He does not directly refer to Baraka, but he
alludes to him when he writes, ―Imagine!—a big tent filled with mostly kids, yelling for
poetry. In fact/ It happened, I was there in New Jersey at the famous poetry show‖ (Pinksy,
―The Forgetting‖ 7-8). Pinsky recognizes Baraka‘s poem as an example of an historical event
that could be forgotten over time. Pinsky continues:
25
I was in the big tent when the guy read his poem about how the Jews
Were warned to get out of the twin towers before the planes hit.
The crowd was applauding and screaming, they were happy—it isn‘t
That they were anti-Semitic, or anything. They just weren‘t listening. Or
No, they were listening, but that certain way. In it comes, you hear it, and that
self-same second you swallow it or expel it: an ecstasy of forgetting. (―The
Forgetting‖ 25-30)
His words engage with the historical elements of the poem‘s context. Those that were not
carefully listening praised Baraka‘s jazz-tuned poem while others examined and rejected his
message.
Much of the general population believes that the poets laureate and inaugural poets
must unify society with language, but the government communicates a vivid message by
revoking the laureate position for ―saying something.‖ There are poems that reaffirm our
understanding of politics: the five highly-circulated inaugural poems do not invigorate
independent thought. While Lowell and Bidart openly express their opinions of inaugural
ceremonies in an authentic manner. In both examples, the poets write about important
moments in history, yet one method is deemed acceptable and the other is not. In a similar
vein, poetic responses to 9/11 demonstrate a comparable issue: society praises poetry when it
secretes sympathy, but once it crosses a familiar line, it is less understood. Thus, it is
necessary to be knowledgeable and to engage with what poetry is in light of the double
standard society establishes because poetry serves as an additional medium to understanding
cultural events, such as presidential inaugurations and 9/11. The restrictions regarding what
can be said versus what is forbidden to say create a difficult standard for poets; as a result,
the spaces in which you find political poetry are limiting.
26
CHAPTER 3
CREATING A SPACE FOR POETRY AFTER 9/11
On September 8, 2002, Robert Pinsky (U.S. Poet Laureate between 1997-2000)
published his poem, ―The Anniversary,‖ in the special issue of The Washington Post
Magazine commemorating 9/11‘s one-year anniversary. Similar to the inaugural poets, many
of the poets laureate‘s ―occasional poems‖ tell more about what the poets believe poetry is
than what the general population thinks poetry is. A handful of U.S. Poets Laureate wrote
poems inspired by the events of 9/11. Such poems, similar to the inaugural poems, follow a
definitive script. The poems composed by the laureates reach a wider audience than poems
about 9/11 not written by laureates, which is not good because the laureate poems generally
do not provoke independent thought. Pinsky‘s poem focuses on the images society attaches
to 9/11: the icons created by words as well as the spectacle conveyed by the media. Here are
the first four stanzas of the poem:
We adore images, we like the spectacle
Of speed and size, the working of prodigious
Systems. So on television we watched
The terrible spectacle, repetitiously gazing
Until we were sick not only of the sight
Of our prodigious systems turned against us
But of the very systems of our watching.
The date became a word, an anniversary
That we inscribed with meanings—who keep so few
More likely to name an airport for an actor
Or athlete than ―First of May‖ or ―Fourth of July.‖
In the movies we dream up, our captured heroes… (Pinsky, ―The Anniversary‖ 112)
The poem starts in the present tense, and this tense, coupled with his use of the first-person
plural, draws us into his position: ―We adore images, we like the spectacle‖ (―The
Anniversary‖ 1). Pinsky comments on how the attacks were portrayed on television rather
than how the trauma affected individuals worldwide, which reduces the readers‘ ability to
27
relate to the poem. When readers cannot relate to a poem on some level, then a poem is less
likely to encourage independent thought.
Ann Keniston, an Associate Professor of English at the University of Nevada, Reno,
addresses the general shift in public poetry‘s tone following the attacks. In her article, ―‗Not
Needed Except as Meaning‘: Belatedness in Post 9/11 American Poetry,‖ Keniston contends
that:
[9/11] has been so central to recent poetry partly because [it] coincide[s] with a
series of preexisting preoccupations and problems: writing ‗public‘ poems has
allowed poets of the 2000s directly to consider larger questions about the cultural
position and role of poetry. (3)
She concludes that when poets write publicly, they are presented with the opportunity to
challenge poetry‘s cultural position. For instance, when Baraka wrote ―Somebody Blew Up
America‖ he roused the public‘s understanding of the trauma through poetry, and his actions
reflect the repercussions that result from sharing an honest opinion. Pinsky‘s poem, however,
does not take a provocative stance. As Keniston observes, ―An incommensurable event like
the collapse of the towers, that is, is made less powerful but also more manageable by being
transformed into an image, which can be critically evaluated and repeated‖ (675). Pinsky
engages with the attacks just as many people did: by watching them on television. His poem
refers to the towers as the spectacle, but he also alludes to a sense of betrayal from them in
the lines, ―Until we were sick not only of the sight/ Of our prodigious systems turned against
us/ But of the very systems of our watching‖ (―The Anniversary‖ 5-7). Therefore, the
collapse of the towers transformed into poetry can be repeatedly evaluated.
Although I focus on the first four stanzas of his poem, I will highlight some of the
remaining stanzas to demonstrate the national voice that Pinsky attempts to represent. He
names well-known American figures to infuse their opinions about Americans. For instance,
he imitates Marianne Moore‘s voice: ―O Americans — as Marianne Moore would say,/
Whence is our courage? Is what holds us together‖ (―The Anniversary‖ 32-33). I believe he
includes Moore to encourage his readers to remain courageous and unified. Pinsky briefly
includes a reference to firefighters entering the buildings at the crime scene: ―Some say the
doomed firefighters/ Before they hurried into the doomed towers wrote/ Their Social Security
numbers on their forearms‖ (―The Anniversary‖ 18-20). The firefighters represent his attempt
to acknowledge the grim details, but it is a short reference that lacks a substantial opinion.
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Lastly, Pinsky alludes to Ray Charles‘ rendition of ―America the Beautiful‖ to remind
readers and listeners alike that despite the ugliness in the world, America is beautiful: ―Ray
Charles singing it,/Alabaster cities, amber waves, purple majesties./ Thine every flaw. Thy
liberty in law. O beautiful‖ (―The Anniversary‖ 54-56). I do not intend to argue that all poets
laureate produce poor poetry. Rather, I am suggesting that Pinsky‘s government-sponsored
poem maintains a political standpoint to serve as a voice for the nation. Serving as a poetic
voice for the nation can be troublesome because it generalizes poetry‘s role in society.
The public response to Pinsky‘s poem demonstrates that his work was well received,
and such a response is problematic because it situates the poem as being a strong
representation. Pinsky went online on Monday September 9, 2002, to field questions about
his poem; the transcript is available on the discussions portion of The Washington Post
Magazine‘s website. One commenter from San Diego stated, ―I so admire the fact that you
found a way to write a moving poem on this occasion without falling into sentimentalism or
jingoism. Clearly, you're not afraid to look at the American character–indefatigable, fallible,
hokey, courageous, energetic, wholehearted, and resilient‖ (―This Week: 9/11‖). The
commenter clearly admires Pinsky‘s work and indicates that Pinsky is ―not afraid to look at
the American character,‖ which is an interesting observation given my argument that the
American character should be rendered as transparent. Pinsky responds to the commenter
with, ―This is exactly what I had in mind: an honest ode with terror in it‖ (―This Week:
9/11‖). I include the interview because it demonstrates the public discourse deriving from the
poem. Pinsky‘s interpretation of terror, as I will discuss, differs from other examples.
Readers turn to Pinsky to better understand poetry‘s purpose and that is problematic because
one individual should not represent the nation‘s understanding of poetry.
I will now shift to a poem written by Billy Collins, the poet laureate at the time of the
September 11 attacks. Collins read his poem ―The Names‖ on PBS Newshour on September
6, 2002. Anyone can access the four-minute video on PBS‘ website. He first read it before a
special joint session of Congress in New York in 2002, and he read it for the second and last
time for the PBS video (―Poet Billy Collins‖). In the PBS version, photos of the victims slide
across the screen as he reads his poem. The video ends with American flags at the
gravestones of the victims, which emphasizes the national voice he was literally called to
represent. In a subsequent interview, he shares that he received a phone call from a public
29
affairs part of Congress asking him to write a poem about the attacks, but he was reluctant at
first because he does not usually write occasional poems about national events (Collins,
Preview Of). Collins did not want to complete the assignment when Congress first called him
because he believes ―language in poetry is different than the language in politics‖ (Collins,
Preview Of). However, he suggests that ―The Names‖ still remains important because its
cohesive structure demonstrates that the victims are still dead and, therefore, society‘s
memorializations are still relevant. Although it is fair to acknowledge that society‘s
memories will remain relevant, Collins‘ statement is odd because he situates his poem as
timeless, and even if it does remain an official documentation of the 9/11 attacks, it is
important to consider what message the poem is prompting society to remember.
Collins‘ approach is much different than Pinsky‘s because he focuses his attention on
the victims; however, Collins places the individuals in a very sentimental light. Collins
begins his poem with a sense of familiarity: ―Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night/
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze‖ (―The Names‖ 1-2). The rainfall further
prompts the speaker to recall the names of victims in alphabetical order. He transitions from
night into morning, suggesting that time continues to move forward. The speaker leaves the
safe indoors and ventures outside where the names are visible: ―Among thousands of
flowers/ Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,/ and each had a name—‖ (Collins, ―The
Names‖ 11-14). It seems that nature, against the image of terror, distracts the reader from
reflecting on the grim attacks. He continues down the alphabet and when he arrives at the
letter ―x,‖ Collins writes, ―(Let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)‖ the parenthetical sets
the ―x‖ apart, which is intended to represent the names of all victims not found (―The
Names‖ 42). Collins‘ approach appeals to pathos because all unfound victims are accounted
for in one letter. He ends the poem with the line: ―Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of
memory/ So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart‖ (Collins, ―The
Names‖ 54). Collins shares that although he did not write the poem with names of actual
victims in mind, seven names were, coincidentally, factual. The issue at stake with ―The
Names‖ is that Collins is not emotionally attached to 9/11. Keniston notes, ―As linguistic
constructions, [poems] are always artificial and figurative even though comprised of ‗real‘
emotions‖ (661). Since poetry represents a linguistic construction, government-sponsored
poetry addresses representative emotions in order to appeal to the authentic feelings of those
30
impacted by the attacks. Keniston‘s arch quotations emphasize that poems are comprised of
language, which generate emotion, but a poem cannot simply be comprised solely of
emotions because the emotion is dependent on language.
I will now allude to another example of neutral poetic responses to 9/11. Richard
Flynn, a literature scholar at University of Georgia, argues in ―Marketing 9/11: Children and
Victims, Agents, and Consuming Subjects,‖ that children are censored when taught about the
September 11 attacks. I do not intend to shift my argument to children‘s literature, but I will
briefly refer to Flynn‘s research to extend my argument that what is representative of
―acceptable poetry‖ relates to children‘s views, and in turn adult understandings, of poetic
responses to 9/11. Flynn shares that the following haiku was modeled to children: ―They
crushed our buildings/ but did not touch/ the spirit of America.‖ In response, a child writes:
―Feeling scared of war./ Lots of smoke came from tower/ Country‘s really strong, though!‖
(Flynn). The child demonstrates more awareness than what was delivered in the simple
haiku. For instance, the child admits to being afraid of war even though the original haiku
does not reference war. The haiku example relates to the role of the poets laureate because
they are ―modeling‖ acceptable forms of poetry for society. With Flynn‘s study in mind, I
will return to Collins‘ thought process as poet laureate.
On September 24, 2001, in the Editorial/Opinion section of USA Today, five of the
most recent poets laureate (at that time) were asked to ―select a piece of their work that they
believe has a message for these difficult times‖ (―Poetry and Tragedy‖). Billy Collins, who is
listed first, suggests that ―a poem about mushrooms or about a walk with the dog is a more
eloquent response to Sept. 11 than a poem that announces that wholesale murder is a bad
thing‖ (―Poetry and Tragedy‖). Collins‘ statement provokes confusion when it is paired with
his own 9/11 poem, ―The Names,‖ because he did write a poem for the occasion although he
was determined not to. He accompanies his statement about occasional poetry by suggesting
that poetry moves us ―inward not outward.‖ However, Collins‘ statement minimizes poetry‘s
abilities; poetry should provoke us to try and change our world.
Collins‘ bourgeois conception of literature contributes to the lack of freedom in
poetry. In the context of my argument, poetry should push beyond inward speculation. As
Terry Eagleton notes in his essay, ―The Subject of Literature,‖ ―[Liberal humanism] cannot
see that ‗creative inwardness‘ is part of the problem, not part of the solution‖ (101). Eagleton
31
continues, ―For what one is being taught to do, in exactly that process of interior
appropriation, is to deepen, sustain, and reproduce a particular historical form of subjectivity,
which is appropriate to a social order quite hostile to any such solidarity with the oppressed‖
(100). Collins discounts poetry designed to provoke action beyond silent meditation, and it is
more troublesome that such a view derives from ―the nations official lightning rod for poetic
impulse of Americans‖ (―Poetry and Tragedy‖). Many scholars would ridicule that statement
because if Americans only reference the laureates‘ representation of poetry, they are limiting
their understanding of poetry‘s social abilities.
Poetry enables a discussion in society, but emotions deriving from that discussion can
be problematic. The Philadelphia poet, Katie Ford, emphasizes in ―Writing About the City:
New Orleans, Destruction, and the Duty of the Poet‖ that writing for specific occasions can
be easily rendered as unauthentic. Although her essay explores the duty of the poet in relation
to Hurricane Katrina, her ideas are applicable to other traumas. When commenting on poetic
responses to trauma, Ford believes the poet discovers the subject organically through the
compositional process, and it should not be predetermined before the act of writing; since
people are affected by trauma on different levels, one poem cannot account for everyone‘s
feelings. Ford asserts, ―Writings about disaster and extremity are easily vexed with cliché,
sentimentality, and horrifyingly easy conclusions, all of which reduce and even strip the
disaster down from what was, an event unspeakably terrible.‖ I appreciate Ford‘s odd claim
because ―unspeakably terrible‖ is different than something being impossible to fully
communicate (but still worth attempting to do so).
One way readers dealt with the rushed, sentimental responses was by turning to
poems previously written before the attacks. A popular poem was W. H. Auden‘s
―September 1, 1939.‖ On December 1, 2001, Peter Steinfels published the article, ―Auden‘s
Poem is Drawing New Attention,‖ in the New York Times. He remarks how when America
was first attacked, many sought insight from poems written before 9/11 (because that was
their only option, of course). Although Auden‘s poem was originally a response to the Nazi
invasion of Poland, it was read on National Public Radio on September 15, 2001 (four days
following the attacks). Auden originally wrote the poem in Manhattan although he was
discussing Poland, but the lines: ―Into this neutral air/ Where blind skyscrapers use/ Their
full height to proclaim/ The strength of Collective Man‖ equate to a general perception of
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New York (Auden and Mendelson 34-37). The reference to the skyscrapers in New York is
important because it identifies the change in the poem‘s meaning. However, the difficulty in
relying on poetry responding to different wars and eras suggests a cookie-cutter view that
each tragedy is the same, when in actuality each event produces its own quandaries: the 9/11
attacks sparked an authentic response, and the poetry produced about it cannot be replicated
just as poetry responding to other national tragedies cannot.
In the 22nd W. H. Auden Society Newsletter, published in November 2001, Nicholas
Jenkins was one of the Stanford University faculty members asked how 9/11 had changed his
research and teaching. Jenkins responded that he was not ultimately changed, but his
thoughts about Auden‘s poem acquired a new understanding: ―While the lines in Auden‘s
original context possessed a figurative meaning, the attacks cause them to be literal‖ (5). The
readers no longer read the poem as a fictional piece of literature, but rather as a relevant
portrayal of the day‘s events. One should be careful comparing the two events as the poem
was written in a different context with no intention of being an emotional work for 9/11.
Jenkins continues to reflect on the poem:
And after September 11, 2001 and all those photographs of workers in boots and
masks picking through hills of twisted steel and powdered concrete, who cannot
now feel some strangely prophetic reverberations in lines such as those about the
‗unmentionable odour of death‘ that ‗Offends the September night‘? (6)
As with all tragedies, when the attacks first occurred, there were no other poems to find
solace in. It makes sense that people would resort to previous poetry to seek a connection in
the first days following 9/11, but that does not make 9/11 a special case because whenever
tragedy happens and we want to turn to poetry for consolation, we can only turn to poems
already written. However, it is more interesting to examine what provokes people to turn to
poetry written in other contexts. It is helpful to consider the implied expectation we have in
our contemporary, digital, online culture, which provides instantly new and novel ―content‖
that directly and overtly relates to what is happening in our lives. Just as we expect new
coverage of tragedies, we also want up-to-the minute artistic and literary responses. There
was a rush to deliver 9/11 documentaries and dramatized films as quickly as possible after
the attacks. While Auden‘s poem, read either before or after September 11, 2001, responds to
trauma, the two events are not comparable. Poems reflecting other tragic events do not pose
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the same questions pertaining to 9/11, yet there was a strong demand for poetry to address
those emotions.
On September 28, 2001, seventeen days after the terrorists attacked the World Trade
Center, Masthead—an Australian literary journal—was revived by the flood of writings
responding to 9/11. Originally a print journal, Masthead established its digital e-publication
following a two-year hiatus. The journal reintroduced itself with the ―American Terror‖
special edition intending to provide a space for writers to meditate on the traumatic event.
Alison Croggon, an Australian poet, launched the special edition with a pronounced
reference to Muriel Rukeyser‘s influential book of lectures, The Life of Poetry, as (in
Croggon‘s words) ―the spirit driving factor‖ for the written submissions. Croggon recognized
a parallel between Rukeyser‘s 1940s meditations and the concerns of present-day poets;
therefore, Rukeyser‘s following words produce a social backdrop for the journal‘s poems:
All of our nature must be used. It is fatal now to hold back from it. The war that
has been over the world was a war made in our imaginations; we saw it coming,
and said so; and our imaginations must be strong enough to make a peace. First,
to create an idea of peace, and then to bring it about. (30)
The Life of Poetry was published in 1949 and is based on a series of lectures just after the
outbreak of World War II in Europe (Rukeyser xv). This particular lecture is published under
the title ―The Security of the Imagination.‖ Rukeyser‘s lecture refers to World War II and
emphasizes the importance of the imagination even, and especially, during times of war. Her
past account regarding peace and imagination within the confines of war reverberate in the
current context of 9/11; her statement speaks to the conflict surrounding writers in their
response to the attacks on New York City. Rukeyser‘s thoughts about imagination suggest
that poetry should bring about a peace of mind to be experienced.
Masthead‘s contributors are from around the world and include poets from the U.S.
(specifically New York City), Iran, England, and Australia. The international nature of the
contributors demonstrates the scope of the attacks‘ effect: When Masthead was reestablished (thus becoming a space for poetry) writers lined up to fill that space. In her book,
Songs of Ourselves the Uses of Poetry in America, Joan Shelley Rubin notes that ―especially
after September 11, 2001, when grieving Americans posted ―huge numbers‖ of poems
online, the Internet has functioned as a powerful stimulus to poetry‘s popularity‖ (383).
Rubin‘s observation confirms that there was an extraordinary large number of poems
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submitted online, which validates Croggon‘s intent. In an email correspondence between
Croggon and me, she shares her motivation for re-issuing the journal:
The day 9/11 happened, I was quite sure that something fundamental had been
irrevocably changed. I put out a call for responses to the attack, on the various
poetry email lists I was then a member of (poetryetc [sic], britishpoets [sic], if I
remember rightly, which were then rich communities of poets, as you can see by
who responded). Masthead is a curated site, and was usually invitation only, but
in this case, given the nature of the issue, because I wanted it to be a generous and
various picture of the immediate response, I published every submission that I
received.
Between September 1, 2001, and September 28, 2001, Croggon received 10 prose responses
and 22 poems; she accepted all 32 works. She continues, ―It was a pretty passionate act at the
time. I think I did it because I couldn't write anything myself and couldn't think of anything
else to do except to make a space for those who felt they wanted to speak‖ (Croggon). She
does not delve into why she could not write her own poem; instead, the focus remains on the
―safe‖ space produced for poets to deliver their responses to the attacks.
While Masthead‘s poems seek to establish clarity in the residual ash following the
attacks, they cannot decontaminate the day of its memory. In Masthead’s introduction,
Croggon further alludes to Rukeyser emphasizing the freedom in writing:
Always we need the audacity to speak for more freedom, more imagination, more
poetry with all its meanings. As we go deeper into conflict, we shall find
ourselves more constrained, the repressive codes will turn to iron. More and more
we shall need to be free in our beliefs. (30)
Rukeyser emphasizes the importance of freedom of expression in poetry; however, in
response to 9/11, the amount of freedom of speech within poetry is limited. Thus, my
analysis refers to poems as social objects, and I am more interested in determining their value
in the ongoing conversation regarding poetry. As Samuel Delany emphasizes, art (which is
applicable to poetry) cannot, and should not, be defined because it serves as a social object
that constantly develops and changes with culture (239). Poetry operates as a conversation
between the writer and the reader, encouraging independent thought but also motivating
social change; it should serve to challenge the status quo.
Masthead‘s poems respond to the attacks and openly discuss how poetry influences
society‘s understanding of the change in history. Many of the poems fulfill the traditional
understanding of poetry: They are consoling and easy to understand. For instance, Hakan
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Anderson—a contributor to a journal from Britain—writes, ―Can we understand history now
when we see it so clearly when it isn‘t all old rhetoric in congresses and classrooms But [sic]
the very mould it is made from?‖(7). Although his observation sounds archaic, Anderson
comments on the then-present moment morphing into history. He emphasizes how one‘s
understanding of September 11, 2001, will be better for those who recognize it in real time
and not within a classroom. His poetic response embodies how some readers familiar with
the day of the attacks will understand the cultural scar left by those attacks, but I will further
touch upon the role of the witness in the latter half of the chapter.
Andrea Baker, an experimental poet from Brooklyn, wrote, ―Letter Out,‖ which
suggests that ―only art remains in the circuit of meaning‖ (8). She reflects on the closing of
post offices and banks on 9/11, yet she highlights that the art of poetry still persists (as
demonstrated by the Internet). Furthermore, Baker shares her memories of the day and
focuses on the noise surrounding the scene: ―I would like to discard every part of myself/
other than that which witnessed/ I want to touch it/ to gather it/ to distribute the soft music of
conglomerate sirens‖ (6-7). Her statement suggests that the attacks shaped her identity for
some time; she reflects on the memory of the attacks and shares her perspective through
poetry. Her desire to ―gather‖ and ―distribute‖ her memory reflects her earlier statement that
only art remains in the circuit of meaning because even though the establishments closed for
the day, writers continued to compose their art. However, I am concerned that the art to
which she refers is of sentimental value, which in turn, offers more freedom to write
acceptable works.
I argue that most of the works submitted to Masthead promote simplistic
understandings of poetic responses to 9/11. (There is one exception I will refer to in the next
chapter that takes a different approach.) The Masthead poems enable a discussion about how
poetry operates in society; especially, ―occasional verse‖ or poetry prompted by a specific
occasion or event. As I have discussed, ―occasional verse‖ is a kind of public poetry written
about an event important to the here and now (consider the inaugural poets and poets
laureate), as opposed to some kind of ―transcendent‖ or ―universal‖ poem that ostensibly
transcends contingent, historically specific moments. I want to emphasize that there is a
difference between poetry rooted in history and poetry that strives for posterity—poetry
designed to be useful to contemporaries, and poetry designed to be entered into the hallowed
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annals of The Great Tradition. Thus, in order to adapt and acknowledge impending anxieties,
poetry‘s cultural position transforms as society changes. Poetry offered an immediate
response to the trauma because individuals in society desired to document such reactions.
Beyond Masthead and the select poets laureate, the September 11, 2001: American
Writers Respond (edited by William Heyen) proves as another popular space for poetry,
housing varied responses. Published on September 1, 2002, the anthology contains 126
poems, of which I will focus on only three. In the Preface, Heyen offers this explanation:
I cautioned myself against optimistic over-reaction, reminded myself of
America‘s accelerating amnesia when one headline takes the place of another,…
but I continued to feel that the events of September 11th had awakened us and
shaken our senses of identity and security. (x)
Heyen struggled with placing a call for poems because he was unsure if more tragic acts
would ensue; as a result, he withdrew his proposal for the anthology one day after submitting
it (x). However, after much contemplation, he realized the important role the anthology
would have in culture. Poetry would represent a communicative space: ―[He] guessed that
others might be feeling the same contraries, the same paralyzing complexities that [he] felt as
the desire for art disintegrated with the prodigious symmetries of the Twin Towers‖ (Heyen
x). The poems I have chosen to focus on within Heyen‘s anthology specifically discuss
imaginative participation and the difficulty of identifying with the victims.
Bruce Bond, a contributor to the anthology and Professor of English at the University
of North Texas, shares his thoughts about writing political poetry:
The challenge of all politically charged art is for the authority of the work to
reside not merely in the given situation […], but in the quality of spontaneous
imaginative participation in that situation, what calls us to drag the newsreel to the
recesses of the unconscious, to wed a passionate authenticity with expressive
freedom. (Bond, ―The Altars of September‖ 55)
It appears that Bond believes the source of the poetry in the anthology (and all politicallycharged art for that matter) should not simply be the attacks, but rather the source should be
the impact the attacks had on individuals. The writers in the anthology share natural
responses rather than government-sponsored ones; a natural response represents one not
commissioned by congress. Bond uses the phrase ―imaginative participation‖ to describe the
readers‘ experience considering current politics and our place in history (as determined by
9/11). However, imaginative participation could be counterproductive by overstating the
37
criminal and tragic acts of 9/11 and by not prompting responsible thinking in the readers
about the poetry and politics and our place in history. Imaginative participation also risks
blowing out of proportion something that while is clearly devastating, in perspective, it is
minor compared to the level of the wholesale destruction of Europe with World War II
(consider Auden‘s poem). I am not dismissing the ability to engage with 9/11 poetry, but I
want to encourage thoughtful interaction in the readers. While I do focus on how these
writers generate poetry—the sources, inspirations, the occasions that prompt it or whether the
inspiration comes naturally or by governmental invitation—it changes how readers engage
with the work.
Bond illustrates his own imaginative participation in his poem, ―The Altars of
September.‖ First, he constructs an intimate image of a woman imagining the falling towers:
―That night she closed her eyes and saw/ the trapped birds of voices shatter/ against the
crumbling walls, like a scene/ in a movie replaying the disaster,/ lighting up the back of the
brain./ With each collapse the glass rose up,/ restored, bright with sky‖ (―The Altars of
September‖ 1-7). The first stanza consists of multiple binaries. For instance, she depends on
her imagination to recreate the day‘s event since her eyes are closed. Also, ―collapse‖ and
―rose up‖ suggests that people affected by the tragedy will rise and be restored. Bond
includes various keywords associated with the attacks and acknowledges the well-known
images portrayed in the media. Overall, the poem recapitulates the tragic scene engrained in
the minds of our generation ―as if those towers/fell still deeper through the floor/ of the
mind‖ (Bond, ―The Altars of September‖ 14-15). The line focuses on the mental
interpretation of the attacks; it suggests that the memories we carry in our minds will remain
close. He further emphasizes the painting and the woman: ―She always imagined the
distance/ between a painting of a day/ and the day behind it as a path/ that carries us into our
lives‖ (Bond, ―The Altars of September‖ 25-28). The thematic elements of the dream and the
painting suggest that the event was not real, and although it was, poetry creates a comfortable
distance from reality.
In an email, I asked Bond whether he was influenced by any particular artist. He
responded that on the morning of September 11, he was in Santa Cruz, and he was scheduled
to give a reading that night. He remained in Santa Cruz for several days because the airports
were closed:
38
During that time, I heard a story about a painter who had driven down the coast to
paint early the morning of 9/11. So she had no contact with the news, but she did
notice how silent the skies were, how uncanny that was—no airplanes anywhere.
(Bond ―Questions for M.A. Thesis‖)
Bond spent several days in a coffee shop working on the poem with the TV in the
background. I believe his approach blurs the lines between the imaginary and the real
because his fictitious poem is influenced by the media. The woman painting was real (as
evidenced by the radio show), but the dream was imaginary. Bond continues, ―What I did
know is that the bitterness directing [sic] this country was something most underestimated.
We were waking up to something. And one inextricable part of that something was
ourselves‖ (Bond ―Questions for M.A. Thesis‖). Perhaps he means that we were waking up
to a self that was made horrible by enemies, a self that was seen as a devil by others.
The next two poems focus on reimagining the victims that lost their lives as a result
of the attacks on September 11. The San Francisco poet Lucille Day fantasizes about
knowing the victims in her poem ―Strangers.‖ Day begins: ―I didn‘t know the man in black
pants/ who plunged headfirst/ from the top of the north tower‖ (1). She continues to identify
a mother, a couple, and a fire chief, to represent various victims involved in the attacks.
Although she did not personally know any of these people, she sympathizes with who they
might have been. Moberley Luger, a scholar at University of British Columbia, discusses
how Day complicates the ―witness‖ profile. Luger‘s dissertation focuses on how poetry after
9/11 serves social functions of public remembering and in this poem, the witness position.
She comments that ―Day forges her connection to the events of 9/11 by placing herself
poetically in situations that she did not know physically: she writes her witness position‖
(Luger 118). Luger‘s observation is apparent when the speaker in Day‘s poem imagines that
the victims are just like her: ―Yet I have felt sun on their skin/ and tasted wine on their lips. I
have run using the long muscles of their legs and felt air/ rush into their lungs, their hearts
pumping in my chest‖ (24-30). Day‘s conclusions fuel this desire to animate the dead and, in
turn, imagine them to be more like her. Rather than considering the victims as ash, she views
them as healthy and pure. As readers, her technique allows us to animate the dead and
imagine them as healthy and alive. Our circumstances, in this case the 9/11 attacks, change
the way we perceive the victims in a positive light. However, Rachel Vigier, a Canadian
poet, views the victims at the disaster scene as pure ash with no prior identity.
39
Vigier was in New York at the time of the attacks, and she tends to blur identity in
her poem, ―Burnt Ground.‖ Vigier also wrote a separate book of post- 9/11 poems titled The
Book of Skeletons, but I will not elaborate on those at this time. The speaker in Vigier‘s poem
does not rely on the imagination to connect with the victims individually. Instead, she
recognizes the day as a blemish in history; September 11, 2001 will continually be
recognized for the tragic attacks and loss of life. For instance, located near the fallen twin
towers, the speaker evaluates the tarnished memory of the day: ―On this street, a powdery
dust/ settles on my shoulders/ as I think of the moment—just before/ when it‘s still an
ordinary morning/ on a bright September day‖ (Vigier 1-5). The powdery dust does not
automatically recall the disintegrated bodies of the dead, but quickly the poem makes this
connection clear: ―This is the moment—just after/when I think whose dust is this/ blowing
across the ground?‖ (Vigier 13-15). In a divided culture, when terror compromises freedom,
poetic language boosts the ability to imagine and process the changes in society. The phrase
―whose dust is this?‖ assumes that anyone can claim the dust as their own because as readers,
we do not know to whom the dust belongs. Vigier lays claim to the dust as a poetic image by
using the incinerated bodies of the dead in her art, just as the reader does by reading and
engaging in the poem. Unlike a name or characteristic that more accurately defines
someone‘s existence, dust is usually associated with unwanted, disposable debris. As a result,
notions of identity are challenged: readers are brought to terms with identity being a
construction that can easily vanish and, in this example, become mixed in a pile of ash. The
reader does not know the person who has been reduced to ash, but the reader could know
people who have been affected by pain and can relate to those feelings, to the way identity is
not only measured by flesh and actions, but also can be summoned with words. Vigier‘s
poem acknowledges the reality of the scene, and it provokes questions rather than fantasy.
One cannot determine an identity such as Day does based on the ash, and by not offering a
simple solution, greater concerns are addressed.
I will conclude this chapter with an analysis of two poems from the lesser-known
anthology An Eye for and Eye Makes the Whole World Blind, edited by Allen Cohen. The
front cover of Cohen‘s anthology illustrates a bald eagle covered with tiny American flags
holding a peace sign in its claws, and the burning New York skyline resides in the
background. The design suggests a pro-war narrative, but the two poems I discuss do not fit
40
that characterization. The anthology‘s call for poems was sent out over the Internet and by
email; out of over 800 submissions, 120 poems were selected (Cohen ii). Many of the
collection‘s poems contain unfiltered undertones—poems that do not resist powerful
language. When compared to the poems previously discussed in this chapter, select works
from the anthology could be viewed as controversial. Therefore, these poems serve to discuss
more provocative responses to 9/11.
Poetry should provoke thought, generate reflection, inward and outward; it should
raise questions rather than answer questions. Poet Julia Vinograd, from Santa Barbara,
California, realistically portrays her speaker‘s grief in her poem, ―World Trade Center‖:
I am an old woman in a black dress
Kneeling in the ruins, clutching my shoulders,
Teeth clenched and lips drawn back in a snarl,
Rocking back and forth in grief and rage.
I need to tear out my enemy‘s throat
For the taste of his lifeblood
Is better than strawberries.
I need to squeeze my enemy‘s throat:
More than I need to hold my lover in the sweet and warm.
His body‘s in front of me, squashed to a bloody pulp
With fallen metal. (1-11)
Vinograd employs vivid imagery to illustrate the woman‘s grief. She does not reflect upon
the remnants from afar; instead, the speaker is physically ―kneeling in the ruins, clutching
[her] shoulders‖ (2). The ―enemy‖ that is absent in previously discussed 9/11 poems strongly
surfaces here, indicating that the need for revenge is more important than love. Furthermore,
the raw complexities of her descriptions transcend the angelic features described in other
poems. Consider how Vinograd‘s tone differs from that of Day‘s. The relationship between
the speaker and deceased lover is prominent because the speaker‘s emphasis is on future
revenge rather than recovering her loss. The poem allows the reader to feel deeper emotions,
which in turn promotes a desire to seek justice.
The less-sympathetic tone continues in a poem that highlights the dystopian
landscape on September 12, 2001, the day after the attacks. Ann Marie Samson, another
California poet, wrote ―Nothing is the Same the Day After.‖ The ambiguous title suggests a
41
change, but it does not indicate whether the change is good or bad. Samson‘s description also
memorializes the victims in a realistic way:
They are gathering in the black smoke
Of the mangled, the singed, and the buried
Searching the rubble of the once was,
Searching the buried living and the buried dead,
The people tossed down from the sky
Like flaming rockets,
Swan diving from the list of the living. (8-14)
She foregrounds an abject scene to show that the living and the dead are intermixed. The
point is that poetry can serve to capture a moment, and the realistic details make for a
stronger account of the aftermath. For instance, the victims flinging from the sky is a more
vivid image than Collins‘ walk through nature. Of course, the two poems offer different
perspectives of the day after the attacks. If Collins presented a poem that likened the victims
to ―flaming rockets‖ rather than ―flowers,‖ it would not be accepted by the public because of
the abject imagery. Samson acknowledges the scene for what it is: a disheveled disaster.
To say it simply: There are poetic boundaries. In the traditional sense, poetry
responding to 9/11 should be sympathetic, healing, and patriotic. Collins‘ statement that
poetry is ―inward‖ vs. ―outward‖ in relation to Terry Eagleton‘s comment about liberal
humanism demonstrates a clash in ideals that complicates poetry‘s role. Masthead‘s quickly
published special issue, ―American Terror,‖ represents mostly traditional responses, mildly
reflecting on the attacks. Also consider that Masthead, the online journal, was published only
days after the events. There was no time even to reflect on what happened much less write
something meaningful about it, and then a special issue of the first draft poems hit the
internet. While these poems represent a portion of the responses, I urge us to review other
various responses. Various spaces for poetry exist: Many follow a traditional format, but
several poems push traditional boundaries.
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CHAPTER 4
HOW SOON IS “TOO SOON?”: LESS
TRADITIONAL RESPONSES TO 9/11
Three weeks after the September 11th attacks, the comedian Gilbert Gottfried
performed in New York at the Friars Club Roast for Hugh Hefner. During his monologue,
Gottfried joked that he had to leave early that night to fly out to Los Angeles, but he could
not catch a direct flight because ―they said they had to stop at the Empire State Building
first‖ (Katsilometes). He must have been unsure how the audience would respond because
according to Tom Katsilometes‘ article ―In retrospect Gilbert Gottfried‘s 9/11 joke was
maybe ‗too soon,‘‖ the crowd immediately began booing him. For instance, when one man
walked out yelling ―Too Soon,‖ Gottfried quickly transitioned into his alternate skit: ―The
Aristocrats‖ (Katsilometes). Clearly, language referencing the attacks (whether in comedy or
poetry) was, and still is, constrained after 9/11. What can be stated about the 9/11 attacks is
restricted, especially in comedy. Perhaps Gottfried desired to ameliorate the tension with his
joke; however, the joke was not accepted by the audience, and his failed attempt quickly
spread over the backwoods of the Internet as demonstrated by numerous online articles.
In a similar instance, the comedian Louis C. K. told an offensive joke at the Comedy
Cellar in New York, which involves his visit to California at the time the 9/11 attacks
occurred. He explains his joke on the Opie and Anthony radio show titled ―Louis C.K.
Discusses his Sarah Palin Tweets and ‗Offensive‘ Comedy.‖ In the skit, his wife (at the time)
called him at his hotel crying, and he immediately assumed that she was angry with him.
However, when she expressed that she was crying because the United States was under
attack, he was relieved to know that he was dismissed from his presumed trouble. C. K.
shares that upon telling this joke, a man walked out yelling ―Not OK!‖ (―Louis C.K.
Discusses‖). Most people in the crowd disapproved of the joke, but it is useful to consider
that the joke was not necessarily aimed to shame the destruction of the towers; rather, it
comments on the stresses of marriage. A national disaster, at that moment, was better than his
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wife being angry at him. I include Gottfried and C. K.‘s jokes to draw attention to other
provocative responses to 9/11 and to evaluate when such responses are deemed appropriate.
Although they are not poems, the controversial delivery of the jokes exemplifies how
sensitive the topic of the attacks was to the public. While Gottfried‘s joke was directly about
9/11, C. K. focuses on how a national disaster was preferable to being in trouble with his
wife. These jokes were unacceptable because the grief and outrage were still raw and vivid.
It is common knowledge that the 9/11 attacks affected many people around the world,
but I want to explore that concept in further depth. The scholar, Neil J. Smelser, studies
society‘s emotional shift in his essay ―September 11, 2001 as Cultural Trauma.‖ Smelser, an
Emeritus Professor of Sociology at the University of California, Berkeley, has dedicated
years of his research to collective behavior. Examining collective responses to trauma and the
shifts in culture allows society to study how a medium such as poetry operates. He examines
the emotional shift stemming from the attacks:
There were widespread feelings expressed that the year 2001 was a scarred or
ruined year, that the world must be regarded as having a pre-September 11 and
post-September 11 reality, that the events would not only never be forgotten but
also that we would never be able to forget them. However tempered these
reactions may become over time, it is difficult to believe that this social
psychology will not endure in significant ways over centuries of future history.
(Smelser 266)
Although he does not indicate if his statement reflects his own personal feelings regarding
the change after 9/11, his observation acknowledges the strong belief that society will
continually be affected by the trauma. I wonder, however, what sets 9/11 apart from other
national traumas; it seems that most generations would not be able to forget the traumas of
their time. For instance, a present-day Vietnam Veteran may still be impacted by his
experiences, but then subsequent generations are affected by their own traumas, and the cycle
continues. In regard to 9/11, the attacks will partly endure because people residing in or
visiting New York will be reminded of Ground Zero, various films attempt to reenact the
traumatic events of the day, and the attacks are included in history books all over the globe.
As a culture that craves instant gratification, we desire immediate responses to the violence
in our world (not just 9/11). The post-9/11 mentality that everything changed also evolves in
culture‘s relationship with poetry: Poetry documents cultural change for the current society to
understand as well as for future generations to learn from, and it is necessary to consider
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what message the poems are leading the general population to remember. When one
acknowledges language that is deemed acceptable as well as language that challenges various
boundaries, that recognition offers an opportunity to break away from the traditional forms.
The broad notion that ―everything changed‖ proves problematic because it does not
offer more depth; it is an overarching phrase that does not explain what ―everything‖ is and
how it has ―changed.‖ Changes occur every day, and the phrase‘s intention is unclear when it
is hastily tossed around. In Adrienne Rich‘s ―Six Meditations in Place of a Lecture,‖ she
alternatively suggests that ―everything had been flung into sharper relief‖ (261). In her
original context, she suggests that our nation was ―riven with violence for a long time,
fantasizing itself as safe‖ (Rich 261). As a result, the attacks reaffirmed the fears of many
people, and the inflated fear changed how the general population perceived notions of safety.
In her meditation, Rich also alludes to David Budbill‘s published response in October 2001:
―We as a nation have never been innocent. What is over is not our innocence. What is over is
the American age of impunity‖ (261). By alluding to Budbill, Rich reinforces her own point
that America is not exempt from punishment. With America‘s lack of innocence in mind,
Rich continues, ―We were citizens of a body insulted and wounded, and endless war would
be the nostrum of our pain‖ (261). The attacks do not stand alone; they come with a war that
still continues to advance. The War on Terror, which continues to progress as a result of the
terrorist attacks, still reminds society of September 11, 2001, explaining why it was and still
is too soon to write controversial jokes and poems.
The previous chapter reviewed various nationally-accepted poems that not only
sympathize with the victims who lost their lives in the attacks but also with the survivors‘
reactions to the trauma. However, more poets discuss the 9/11 tragedy in a non-traditional
sense (similar to Amiri Baraka‘s ―Somebody Blew Up America‖). Non-traditional, in this
context, refers to poems that provoke deeper thought by raising questions rather than
attempting to answer them. My approach is not meant to discredit the more traditional poems
as they serve their own purpose for readers who prefer a conciliatory approach, but by
shedding light on the less-circulated poems, general society can examine alternative poetic
responses to the change after 9/11.
Before the World Trade Center was attacked, David Lehman suggests that there were
mixed feelings about the building‘s aesthetics. Lehman, a New York poet, wrote about the
45
building prior to the notorious 9/11 attacks. To illustrate a view of the World Trade Center as
a monument, I refer back to his 1996 poem titled, ―World Trade Center‖ regarding the
sudden bombing in 1993. Rather than romanticizing the monuments by describing them as
beautiful architecture, Lehman honestly critiques the structure: The World Trade Center was
simply a building until it became a threat, and then it was viewed as an American symbol.
Lehman writes:
I never liked the World Trade Center.
When it went up I talked it down.
As did many other New Yorkers.
The twin towers were ugly monoliths
....
The World Trade Center was an example of what was wrong with American
architecture
And it stayed that way for twenty-five years
Until that Friday afternoon in February
When the bomb went off and the buildings became
A great symbol of America like the statue
Of liberty at the end of Hitchcock‘s saboteur.
My whole attitude toward the World Trade Center changed overnight.
I began to like the way
It comes into view as you reach Sixth Street. (―World Trade Center‖ 1-4, 9-18)
Lehman contrasts the World Trade Center before and after violence to demonstrate that the
buildings represented an American symbol, and the lines ―My whole attitude toward the
World Trade Center changed overnight‖ portrays how terror induces vulnerability in society
(―World Trade Center‖ 16). In a single day, the speaker‘s view of the World Trade Center
altered because a sense of security was compromised. While ―World Trade Center‖
documents the bombing, his next poem, written directly after 9/11, also possesses a dubious
tone.
Lehman contributed two poems to Poetry After 9/11: An Anthology of New York
Poets. The poem I focus on, ―9/14/01,‖ is dated three days after the attacks and
acknowledges America‘s enhanced vulnerability. In the first lines, the speaker shares that he
would have written the poem differently before 9/11 (but of course he would have because
before 9/11 there was nothing else to write about). Not only does Lehman‘s poem echo
Smelser‘s before-and-after 9/11 dichotomy with thoughts of change after the attacks, his
words also draw attention to the intention for the attacks:
46
Before September 11
I would have written it
one way. I would have
interviewed the soldier
who volunteers to die
as penance for his part
in the erotic shipwreck.
He had understood her
as little as she had
understood him though
there were children
to consider and now
they were orphans.
I would have depicted
the plane crash as an
accident in a world of
disorder not a careful
calculation. But now
they love us, because
we‘ve taken this hit,
and in case you forget
all you have to do is
look up and it‘s not there. (―9/14/01‖ 1-23)
After 9/11, it was difficult to perceive the attacks as an accident but rather as a thoughtful
calculation. The poem hauntingly ends with the memorial that the towers are not there, and
the skinny, single-column form could represent a tower itself. As I will review, many 9/11
poems follow the ―tower‖ format to represent the subject discussed as the figurative towers
embody what existed before the attacks. Lehman‘s two poems conclude that the twin towers
were illustrated as nothing remarkable (recall Lehman calling them ―ugly monoliths‖) while
they were present, but because America ―took this hit,‖ writers strive to understand why the
monuments are now glorified. Therefore, the sudden reaction to the attacks on the towers
summons the realization that terror could reoccur at any moment. Although the towers‘
architecture was flawed, they are gone, and as Lehman‘s lines suggest, ―and in case you
forget/ all you have to do is/ look up and it‘s not there,‖ that void is difficult for our nation to
fill. The poems, then, serve as one instance of remembering the towers and making sense of
the historical day to future generations.
There are two poems that foreground the twin towers as an essential component of the
poem‘s meaning. The first poem I will discuss, respectably entitled ―Twin Towers,‖ visibly
47
captures the reader‘s attention as two narrow, identical columns occupy the page. Aside from
the occasional apostrophe and hyphen, capitalization and punctuation are dismissed. The
sentences run together to illuminate the chaos within the towers on a typical business day. Ian
Monk, an experimental British poet, performed the poem on April 1, 2009, at the OuLipo
conference (short for ouvroir de littérature potentielle: workshop of potential literature) in
New York, and it was subsequently published in the Brooklyn Rail e-publication on
September 4, 2009. The explicit descriptions prompt a distinct reaction from the reader; one
that is not quick to over sympathize. He describes the towers‘ inner workings with
descriptive language:
this concrete jungle has
a thousand windows a ton
of cement per cubic yard
steel iron and aluminum
looking glasses wood for
doors and banister rails
along stair-well windows
copper and bronze frames
people there people here
and a spaghetti junction
of cable wire delivering
electricity… (Monk, ―Twin Towers‖ 1-12)
Monk, however, neither refers to the notable September 11th date nor the attack. A video of
Monk‘s reading is available on a blog titled ―images of OuLiPo in New York.‖ As he reads,
he nervously confesses, ―I‘m now going to dare do something which I‘ve never dared to do,
which is to read this poem in New York,‖ and he holds up a large piece of white paper,
approximately 2‘ long, with the poem clearly emulating the shape of the twin towers, and he
charmingly asks the audience: ―That reminds you vaguely of something, doesn‘t it?‖ (Monk
"Click to Watch Ian Monk Reading Twin Towers"). Since he was performing in New York
City, Monk could have been nervous to read the poem because he did not want to offend
anyone who may have an emotional tie, just as Gottfried and C.K. vexed their audiences with
offensive standup comedy.
Monk read the poem in two parts: He begins reading the first column quickly, which
primarily discusses the inner-workings of the offices, but he slows down when he focuses his
attention on the people:
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but right there
are people and people is
a person a machine there
are lifts with wires and
cables buttons lights to
show if they‘re going up
....
and then and then people
and people and answering
machines people flashing
lights because there are
messages from people the
voices of people talking
hi bye-bye- till tomorrow… (―Twin Towers‖ 97-113)
The stanza describes the quick relations of people completing their daily routines as they
work within the towers. Monk‘s voice slows down as he completes his last sentence, and
then he makes a rip at the top of the page and begins to slowly tear the document down
between the two towers. Once he has completely separated the two towers, he crumbles the
first tower up, throws it to the side, and sits back in the audience. A few minutes later, he
rises to read the words organized in the shape of the second tower, and when he finishes, he
crumbles it up and throws it to the side, perhaps representing how quickly the towers
themselves crumbled. In Monk‘s case, the performative elements behind the poem are clearly
necessary to understanding it. By only studying the poem in the OuLipo book, or on the
Brooklyn Rail, the engaging performance loses its aura. That is not to say that it cannot be
read separately, they are not mutually exclusive, but it loses some impact.
The second tower poem discusses the various people working in the building.
Business men eagerly make it through the day: ―an accountant a banker a/ secretary a
bookkeeper a/ few piles of red tape of/ mail of what have you of/ objects insurance clerks/
managers and managers an/ accountant yet again…‖ (―Twin Towers‖ 114-119). He does not
glorify the workers; rather, he focuses on the mundane. I do not aim to insist that all the
victims lead boring lives; I think he exaggerates their characteristics to resist the common
portrayal that the victims are more entitled than those survived by them (consider Lucille
Day‘s ―Strangers,‖ for instance). Although the poem was written and performed after 9/11,
there are no references to the attacks; instead, Monk writes about the towers and the people
49
as if they are still present. His non-traditional method demonstrates that purposeful poems
can be written about 9/11 without containing obvious, clichéd language.
Similar to Monk, Anastasios Kozaitis, a contributor to Masthead, wrote the twintower shaped poem ―wtc 11.‖ The poem‘s anatomy contains a disarray of letters falling down
identical towers mirroring the same letters, which congeal into identifiable words at the very
bottom of the text. The structure forces the reader to follow the letters down to the base,
stirring thought in the reader through its aesthetic effect, which parallels the falling ash
(commonly associated with 9/11). The identical text in each tower mirrors one another, and
the poems formatted as the twin towers illustrate the connection to 9/11. As a result, the
memory of the towers continues to exist in form. Each word descends until the reader can
interpret the following phrase: ―To vaporize into piles the pile a pile our pile‖ (Kozaitis). The
poem‘s words pile upon one another to create meaning. In one sense, the piles could refer to
debris or the fallen bodies on the day of the attacks. Concrete poems do more than identify
with the topic; they slow the reader down to visualize and contemplate the scene.
Furthermore, misplaced, unclear phrases appear: ―flooring the feared no more onto a
coliseum floor/ as a david throws his stone hides under a belly/ other underneath the heel of a
giant [sic]‖ (Kozaitis). Here is an implied allusion to the biblical David and Goliath story,
perhaps recognizing a tie to the power struggle between the victims and the terrorists.
Kozaitis continues his final lines with: ―we never had time to shut our mouths/ the eyes of
glass hit the pavement wide open‖ (20-21). His reference to time reaffirms that terror occurs
unexpectedly, and we, as a society, cannot prepare for the consequences. Furthermore, the
description ―eyes of glass‖ suggests that society was blind to the attacks—even though
society‘s eyes were open, they were not attentive to the approaching terror. Kozaitis and
Monk‘s techniques are less comforting because they render the negatives into positives; they
write from a pragmatic standpoint.
A similarly realistic perspective is encouraged in Poetry After 9/11: An Anthology of
New York Poets (to which Lehman contributed). The anthology was published on September
1, 2002 (the same publishing date as September 11, 2001: An Anthology) and offers 45
responses from New York poets. The editors, Dennis Loy Johnson and Valerie Merians,
indicate in the Forward that ―[they] asked poets around New York City not for something
therapeutic or explicatory or even commemorative; we asked them to simply chime in with
50
work they had done since the event that they felt showed its influence‖ (ix). Their casual
request offers no specific instruction and refers to the 9/11 attacks simply as ―the event.‖
Johnson and Merians‘ approach suggests that poetic responses to 9/11 do not need to overtly
address the attacks. Although several of the anthology‘s poems do not focus on the aftermath
as their prime focus, the poem that I discuss from the anthology resists clichés associated
with the typical post-9/11 form.
Nikki Moustaki‘s compelling poem ―How to Write a Poem after September 11th‖
teases out the finer aspects of writing poetry following 9/11. I place emphasis on Moustaki‘s
poem because it acknowledges an alternate way to respond to the 9/11 attacks. She
challenges the clichés that some poets depend on in order to strongly convey how difficult a
task writing about national trauma can be. In ―How to Write a Poem after September 11th,‖
which Richard Blanco referred to as he personally wrote his inaugural poem, ―One Today,‖
Moustaki deconstructs the nuances of language (―Richard Blanco discusses‖). For example,
Moustaki begins with ―First: Don‘t use the word souls./ Don‘t use the word fire./ You can
use the word tragic if you end it with a k./ The rules have changed‖ (1-5). She analyzes the
common language many poets utilize to express grief and implies that poetry follows a set of
rules. Her focus on the rules changing advances the notion that poetry should not need to
follow a particular script. Moustaki‘s tone suggests her knowledge of poetic tools, but she
does not overtly indulge in them, remaining critical of the subject. For instance, she offers an
extensive list of what not to write:
Don‘t say the air smelled like smoldering desks and drywall,
Ground gypsum, and something terribly organic,
Don‘t make a metaphor about the smell because it wasn‘t
A smell at all, but the air washed with working souls,
Piling bricks, one by one, spreading mortar.
Don‘t compare the planes to birds. Please. (Moustaki 7-12)
When describing what not to write, Moustaki paints a larger picture recounting the reality of
9/11. By dismissing the focus on the smell, she emphasizes the actual subject: the lingering
remains of the victims as demonstrated in the lines, ―the air washed with working souls.‖ In
the subsequent lines, she negates the impulse to compare the planes to birds perhaps because
such euphemisms detract from the day‘s devastation. In 1990, the comedian George Carlin
voiced his disgust towards euphemistic language: "Americans have trouble facing the truth,
51
so they invent the kind of a soft language to protest themselves from it, and it gets worse with
every generation‖ (George Carlin: Doin' It Again). He gives an example of the term ―shell
shock‖ and how it evolved to battle fatigue, then operational exhaustion, and now presentday ―post-traumatic stress disorder.‖ Moustaki‘s technique is similar: She tells her readers
not to compare airplanes to birds because the comparison has become a cliché. Moustaki
continues to deny innocence by delineating realistic descriptions:
Don‘t call the windows eyes. We know they saw it coming.
We know they didn‘t blink. Don‘t say they were sentinels.
Say: we hated them then we loved them then they were gone.
Say: we miss them. Say: there‘s a gape. Then, say something
About love. It‘s always good in a poem to mention love. (13-17)
The first line of this second stanza invalidates the personification of the buildings, and in a
subtle tone, Moustaki expresses that the attacks were expected. The transition from what the
buildings know, to what society believes, demonstrates that she does not agree that the
buildings can be characterized. At first it seems she refers to the building when she says, ―We
hated them then we loved them then they were gone.‖ However, her tone could be interpreted
in several ways; it turns skeptical when she states the importance of including ―love‖ in the
poem, reminding me of the line in Elizabeth Alexander‘s inaugural poem: ―What if the
mightiest word is love?‖ After a few lines describing everyday routines, ―Say: If a man walks
downstairs somewhere/ Another man is walking up…‖, she abruptly follows with ―Press
hard. Remember you‘re writing with ashes‖ (Moustaki 18-19, 27). Moustaki‘s technique
appeals to pathos because the ash represents an intimate image enabling the reader to lose
distance from the trauma; she writes with the spirit of those victimized by the attacks. Ash,
commonly associated with 9/11, reminds the readers that what poets are writing about is
gone, and similar to Vigier‘s ―Burnt Ground,‖ identity cannot be determined in the remains
of the ash.
Next, Moustaki strings together unrelated reasons that justify the way life
unexpectedly changes, just as the attack on the towers was out of the United States‘ control.
She acknowledges that poetry tracks social change:
Say: the phone didn‘t work. Say: the bakery was out of cake,
The dogs in the pound howled. Say: the world hadn‘t
Asked your permission to change. But you were asleep.
If only you had written more poems. If only you had written
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More poems about love, about peace, about how abstractions
Become important outside the poem, outside. Then, then,
You could have squinted into the sky on September 11th
And said: thank you, thank you, nothing was broken today. (Moustaki 28-35)
Moustaki‘s final lines suggest that making observations and writing more poems cannot undo
what has been broken. Poetry in itself does not prevent disaster, and it does not answer
questions, but it can offer knowledge about how to change. Moustaki‘s poem promotes
change by offering an alternative approach to writing about national trauma.
My goal is not to represent 9/11 poetry as non-therapeutic; many poems changed in
tone after 9/11 to illustrate the reverberating impact terror had on society. As a result, the
tone instills anxiety in the reader. For instance, ―October,‖ a poem by Louise Glück (US Poet
Laureate 2003-2004) encapsulates the month directly following the attacks. Glück first
published ―October‖ in the New Yorker on October 28, 2002 as a chapbook, then
subsequently in her volume Averno. She was not prompted to write her poem by the
government, and ―October‖ is characteristically different from the previously discussed
laureate poems. She diverts from the clichéd language to which Moustaki is adverse when
describing the remnants of fear in society. Divided into six sections, the poem‘s first section
questions the purpose of describing sounds specific to trauma:
I can‘t hear your voice
for the wind‘s cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care
what sound it makes
When I was silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
What it sounds like can‘t change what it is–. (Glück 17-23)
Although she does not overtly mention 9/11, Glück suggests that describing sound cannot
change the fear associated with the terror. The underlying anxiety describes the endless
attempts society makes to apply meaning to the attacks: The sounds and the commotion
cannot change the day. In the next section, Glück begins:
Summer after summer has ended,
balm after violence:
it does me no good
53
to be good to me now;
violence has changed me. (29-33)
September, in the U.S., is the transitional month between summer and fall, but the repetition
of ―summer after summer‖ emphasizes a lengthened season; ―summer after summer‖
parallels ―balm after violence‖ indicating that relief after summer has ended. However, the
speaker does not feel entirely recovered. In fact, ―violence has changed me‖ was a
commonly-quoted line of Glück‘s after the attacks. On September 11, 2011—the tenth
anniversary—Harvard held a memorial for ten alumni who were killed. The memorial
included ―a series of outdoor poem pillars dedicated to the Harvard dead. ‗Violence has
changed me,‘ reads one in part, an excerpt from Louise Glück‘s ―October.‖ But then later,
‗Tell me this is the future,‘ she writes. ‗I won‘t believe you‘‖ (Koch and Ireland). The poem
deals with the lingering fear that individuals felt even ten years later. Glück‘s poem is unique
because ―October‖ does not blatantly refer to 9/11; it speaks to multiple audiences without
having to include other attack-related imagery:
It does me no good; violence has changed me.
My body has grown cold like the stripped fields;
now there is only my mind, cautious and wary,
with the sense it is being tested. (43-46)
The title, ―October,‖ embodies mournful remembrance with language responding to the
change in society; the violence awakened fear. Since the descriptive language does not
plainly refer to 9/11, it requires more thought to understand Glück‘s poem.
Although the discussed works can be recognized as poems due to the carefully
organized stanzas, it is necessary to understand that poetry does not consist of one unified
language. Sometimes the most recognizable poems are the poorest representations. For
example, Eric D. Snider worked for the Utah newspaper, The Daily Herald, when the 9/11
attacks occurred, and he shares that locals submitted their written poetry to the newspaper on
September 12, 2001. Since The Daily Herald does not publish poetry, the editors passed the
poems onto Snider because ―he has a fondness for bad art‖ (―Bad 9/11 Poetry‖). Snider
admits, ―It is not the sentiments expressed in these poems that I find amusing, of course. It‘s
the poor way in which they are expressed.‖ As a result, he published a handful of these
poems on his blog humorously titled ―Bad 9-11 Poetry.‖ Andrea Dietrich submitted the poem
entitled ―Ballad of 9/11,‖ which Snider sarcastically recommends singing to the tune of the
54
―Gilligan‘s Island‖ theme song. Her poem reviews a bystander‘s understanding of the
attacks:
A bright blue Indian summer morn.
An unexpected jolt.
Hundreds instantly massacred
On day of thunderbolt.
Workers in the tower‘s twin
Who gaped in disbelief,
Minutes later too were hit
That day of horror and grief.
By radio and TV show
The news was quickly spread.
The world was left incredulous.
A day for feeling dread.
And still the killing wasn‘t done.
Before our nations‘ eyes
The Pentagon was next attacked
That day of sad surprise.
Back to the scene in Manhattan,
Some folks were stuck in rooms
of towers with tops obscured by smoke.
That day of shadows and gloom. (Dietrich 1-20)
Dietrich‘s four-line stanzas share a unique narrative of September 11, 2001. Starting with the
first stanza, she inaccurately likens the attacks to a thunderbolt and then the third stanza
forcefully describes the tragedy as ―A day for feeling dread‖ in order to rhyme with the
previous line ―The news was quickly spread‖ (Dietrich 7, 9). Dietrich begins her poem by
alluding to the twin towers, but she quickly shifts to the pentagon in the fourth stanza, and
then abruptly refers ―Back to the scene in Manhattan/ Some folks were stuck in rooms‖ (1718). Her disjointed poem demonstrates how rushed responses, in most cases, are not
thoughtful encounters of the event; instead, they express personal feelings to be shared with
the community. The immediate, rushed responses are not challenging reads. Let me clarify,
Masthead published all of its submissions 17 days after the attacks; however, Alison
Croggon sent her call for poems to a group of writers, and although those submissions were
55
not of the highest quality either, she still directed the call for poems to an established group
of writers as opposed to a community with no writing experience.
Contrary to The Daily Herald poems, some poems are not easily recognizable as
―poetry,‖ but they provoke thought by sharing explicit details about the attacks. Kenneth
Goldsmith represents an artist that disrupts the traditional poetic form. He does not challenge
clichés by critiquing the writing process as Moustaki does, but he develops his own unique
writing process by transforming the mundane into art. For instance, on September 1, 2000,
Goldsmith transcribed that day‘s New York Times newspaper in its entirety and published the
non-fiction work: Day. He refers to the process as uncreative writing and states that ―Day is a
monument to the ephemeral, comprised of yesterday's news, a fleeting moment concretized,
captured, then reframed into the discourse of literature‖ (Goldsmith ―From the Author‖).
After 9/11, Goldsmith repeated his project with the newspaper from September 11, 2001,
entitling it ―The Day,‖ to exemplify how mundane the newspaper was the day of the 9/11
attacks before journalists could report on the tragic events:
D8 L THE NEW YORK TIMES TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
Metropolitan Forecast
Today Less humid, sunshine
High 79. Noticeably less humid air will filter into the metropolitan region on.
Brisk winds from the northwest. High pressure building east from the Great Lakes
will promote mainly sunny skies. Daytime readings will peak in the lower 80‘s.
tonight Clear, lighter winds. (―Day‖ 1-7)
The weather forecast demonstrates one example of his end result. He intended to share the
simplicity of the day before any attacks occurred. I focus on his ―uncreative process‖ to
cultivate an appreciation for the simple modes of poetry which reap broader understandings.
The context behind ―The Day‖ leads to my analysis of Goldsmith‘s published book of
prose poems entitled Seven American Deaths and Disasters in which he transcribes radio and
television reports from American tragedies (including John F. Kennedy‘s assassination,
Columbine shootings, and the World Trade Center attacks) revealing the wearisome language
as iconic. He does not follow the traditional poetic form (organized stanzas) as many of the
previous poems have done. Instead, his writing transforms the mundane news into poetic
prose simply by calling it poetry. Such a strategy proves effective because he relies on literal
language and emotion rather than the figurative: he lifts the descriptions straight from the
radio broadcast. His words cannot be accused as false or inflated because they deliver
56
objective information. Since hurried responses to 9/11 tend to embellish the victims with
emotional attachment, his work disregards that method.
September 11, 2001, unfolds at a new speed through Goldsmith‘s rendition. Although
the 9/11 attacks were repeatedly displayed in the media, when rendered into text, the words
reveal new dimensions of the trauma; Goldsmith describes the traumatic events in real time.
The anxiety surrounding the attacks heightens as the dialogue continues, and it is evident that
the attacks were not presented as strongly in the beginning. For instance, he describes how
one interviewee on the radio observes, ―They have that needle sticking out of the top of the
World Trade Center, and I have always wondered if someone would get too close and
accidently bear into it‖ (Goldsmith, Seven American Deaths and Disasters 135). The segment
begins with relatively calm dialogue when the North tower was hit; at first the plane
appeared to be an accidental crash to some, and they were not expecting the next plane. The
dialogue rapidly develops into a much more frantic report when the second explosion sets in:
Oh my Gosh! Oh my Gosh! I… I… I… You‘re listening to special coverage of
what is a catastrophic, um, day. This is beyond belief that the United States, uh,
could be under attack. The Pentagon attack, now the South tower of the World
Trade Center, um, has collapsed with I‘m sure, enormous, enormous loss of life.
(Seven American Deaths and Disasters 139)
The poem‘s tone increases in fear when the second tower is hit, and the repetition of the
newscaster is natural rather than aesthetically planned. While the news is rendered into a
poem, the form does not give itself away as a poem. Therefore, it serves as a non-traditional
response to 9/11.
The transcription becomes more dismal as the chaos ensues. The newscaster refers to
a witness named Kenny on the line who was ―in the basement of the World Trade Center, uh,
when the building just came down and the elevator blew up. There was lots…lots of smoke.
He says, I dragged a guy out, his skin was hanging off‖ (Seven American Deaths and
Disasters 115). Based on Moustaki‘s technique, she would appreciate the vivid imagery
Goldsmith presents; there are no metaphors, just honest descriptions. The raw qualities offer
more insight and straddle the boundaries of a traditional response. When poetry is composed
of facts, it is less generic. Goldsmith‘s poem is non-traditional, but it is not as controversial
as Baraka‘s; therefore, it is still acceptable because the subject matter does not make
accusations. Goldsmith does not discuss terrorism or the reason behind the attacks; he
57
focuses on individual stories from that day; his strategy challenges poetry‘s form and
language. When readers finish Goldsmith‘s poem, they gain knowledge from that day,
knowledge that they may not receive in poems dependent on imaginary scenarios.
Post-9/11 poetry can be categorized into various responses. Goldsmith‘s ―World
Trade Center‖ is comprised of multiple voices, none of which are his own. He comments on
the anxious tone in the reporters‘ voices: ―The jerky, jittery texts felt more like shattered
dialogues from Ulysses than stable media reportage‖ (Seven American Deaths and Disasters
173). He illuminates their tone to preserve the frantic emotions from that memorable day. His
works indicate that poetry can be comprised of non-fiction elements, and in the context of
9/11, that is a helpful approach. He shares his experience assembling the poem:
The next step was to actually render them back into speech as poetry readings by
surgically extracting punchy excerpts which seemed to embody the spirit of the
fuller tape; stumbles and stutters were left intact. As cathartic for me as these
readings were, I found the audience was often moved to tears by mere
transcription. These were not unsophisticated audiences; understanding full well
the cliché device I was employing, they were still moved. (Goldsmith, Seven
American Deaths and Disasters 175)
Objective news, rendered into poetry, provides a cathartic release because it captures the raw
emotions from the tragic event. Goldsmith includes every pause and hesitation to best convey
the amount of shock reporters were feeling as the events of 9/11 unfolded. What is interesting
is that ―World Trade Center‖ reads as prose, but Goldsmith constitutes his words as poetry
without any other definitive factor. It is non-traditionally a poem, but it is arguably more
engaging and powerful than works recognizable as poetry.
When discussing post-9/11 rhetoric in poetry (or comedy), it is important to consider
the poem‘s implied message. Language that challenges notions of freedom in speech can
serve to rethink the status quo and re-open the discussion regarding poetry‘s position in
culture. Although the discussed poems are not as widely circulated as the laureate poems (or
are only circulated among a specific audience), they push uncomfortable truths, allowing
room for change. Lehman shares his honest opinion about the World Trade Center‘s
unappealing appearance before it was terrorized, which encourages readers to also view the
attacks as more than the destruction of major New York monuments. Poetry—as illustrated
through Moustaki‘s careful analysis of writing poetry in response to trauma—should promote
change rather than reinstate what we already know. Dietrich‘s submission to The Daily
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Herald exemplifies the trouble with such recapitulating poems, yet her work contributes to
post-9/11 poetic discourse by simply being posted on Eric Snider‘s blog. Glück‘s ―October‖
omits any relation to the September 11, 2001, attacks from her title, but her recollection
demonstrates how the violence impacted society even though the subject matter is seemingly
removed from the notorious scene. Monk and Kozaitis similarly illustrate poems that do not
directly respond to the attacks but address the tower‘s flaws. Lastly, the honest descriptions
surface with Goldsmith‘s transcribed poems, which adopt a post-modern approach. The
varied responses ultimately validate that freedom of speech produces a thoughtful discussion
regarding poetry and 9/11.
59
CHAPTER 5
CONCLUSION
When I began researching my thesis topic, I was interested in learning how poetic
responses to national trauma changed after the September 11, 2001, attacks. In doing so, I
noticed a connection between the five ―official‖ inaugural poets writing for presidential
inaugurations and two of the poets laureate‘s responses to 9/11. The connection was not in
the poems‘ content (as each poem speaks to its own topic). Rather, the connection was in the
delivery. I defined ―official‖ poetry as poems being read and accepted before a public
audience. Since the official, acceptable inaugural and laureate poems fall under the
―occasional poem‖ category, I quickly learned that while these poems speak for the nation,
they do not generate new thought processes, which is limiting. For instance, the matter-offact trajectory of a provocative poem allows readers to transcend the popular, reaffirming
characteristic of a government-approved poem. During my research, it became evident that
offensive, challenging language is not permitted as it relates to government-sponsored
poetry, so I decided to delve deeper into the provocative poems, using the occasional poems
as my backdrop. Rather than solely viewing national poetry in terms of consolation and
healing, I focused on what is deemed inappropriate within the public sphere. The best poems
worth examining, I have found, are the ones that acknowledge the language that should be
forbidden in national poetry, the ones that challenge notions of freedom in speech.
Poetry‘s social role will continue to evolve because it is a social object. Adam Kirsch
spoke to poetry‘s changing social role in a post on The New York Times‘ ―Bookends,‖ a
weekly online discussion about the world of books. Kirsch attributes poetry‘s fluctuating role
in society to the fact that society‘s cultural literacy has changed, meaning poetry does not
have to take the strong political stance it once did. He refers to the poet, Percy Shelley, as his
example to express that when writing specifically for change, poets now need to be aware
that their works may not make a difference. As Kirsch remarks, ―[p]oets in our time prefer to
imagine themselves not as legislators, but as witnesses—those who look on, powerless to
change the world, but sworn at least to tell the truth about it.‖ Kirsch‘s observation serves as
60
a current voice on the topic, and I mostly agree with his evaluation, but I do not believe the
poet is at fault. Rather, it seems that the regulations put forth by the government prevent
poets from expressing honest opinions in order to fulfill that ―legislative‖ role. My thesis has
tracked how the few poets that serve as ―legislators‖ are overlooked by the many that serve
as ―witnesses.‖
My first chapter addressed how poems written by the inaugural poets represent the
nation‘s general understanding of what poetry is and what it can accomplish. I surveyed all
five of the ―official‖ inaugural poets to demonstrate how their poems evolved in the public
sphere. I learned that the poems possess a common denominator: public, political poems,
whether documenting a historical moment or providing sympathy to those affected by
national traumas, instill an assuring message in the audience. It will be interesting to observe
how many presidents continue to invite poets to read at their inaugural ceremonies. Thus far,
only presidents of the Democratic Party have invited poets to recite their works, but it would
be fruitful to learn how a poet would represent a Republican presidential inauguration. There
is also room for more research to be completed on the poet James Dickey who read his oftenoverlooked poem, ―The Strength of Fields,‖ at President Jimmy Carter‘s 1977 dinner
ceremony the evening before his inauguration. Although Dickey‘s poem was approved to be
read before a public audience, it was not read at the official inauguration ceremony. As a
result, in the context of my argument, it did not classify as an official government-sponsored
inaugural poem. I would encourage scholars to extend my research on Dickey as it fits in the
context of future arguments.
My focus shifted from the ―official‖ inaugural poets to the ―unofficial‖ ones to
complicate the idea that inaugural poems have implied guidelines. I referred to Lowell,
Bidart, and Baraka as non-traditional writers that push literary boundaries and share more
honest depictions of America‘s struggles. For instance, my reference to Lowell‘s personal
experience at the White House in which he decided that he did not want to mix art with
politics, paralleled Baraka‘s removal as the state of New Jersey‘s poet laureate, and confirms
a power struggle between dominant ideals. I analyzed Bidart‘s ―Inauguration Day‖ alongside
Alexander‘s ―Praise Song for the Day,‖ to demonstrate that readers are provided two very
different perspectives of President Clinton‘s second inauguration: Alexander encourages her
audience to remain hopeful, while Bidart reminds his audience of the difficulties Americans
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have yet to overcome. The way two distinct poems can describe a single event (Clinton‘s
second inauguration) demonstrates that Alexander‘s voice is acceptable to speak for the
nation while Bidart‘s is not. As poetry‘s social role continues to evolve, I hope that more
―provocative‖ poems will be read publicly and be taught in classrooms because such poems
challenge dominant power structures. However, I do not expect that inaugural poets will read
non-traditional poems before a public audience (at least not any time soon) because, as
demonstrated, the subject matter would be offensive to the listener uneducated in this type of
poetry.
The complex delivery of inaugural poems inspired me to review the kind of script
poetry written after 9/11 tends to follow. I specifically delved into what is deemed
appropriate versus inappropriate by dividing the 9/11 poems into two chapters. The first of
the two explored the quick poetic responses to the attacks. I referred to two poets laureate—
Pinsky and Collins— to establish the context of their responses and demonstrate how the
language of their 9/11 poems relates to the language of the didactic inaugural poems. Some
of the poets laureate were expected to write about the September 11, 2001, occasion, and that
expectation seeps through their poems‘ content. While Pinsky attends to aspects of the
American image, Collins writes a memorial for the victims. Collins‘ notion that ―poetry
moves us inward not outward‖ prompted my reference to Terry Eagleton‘s argument about
liberal humanism, which opposes Collins‘ statement by promoting social movement. After
discussing the two laureates, I referred to W. H. Auden‘s highly-circulated poem,
―September 1, 1939,‖ arguing that Auden‘s poem, though originally written in response to
World War II, fulfilled society‘s need for poetic understanding while new poems were being
written in response to the trauma. This is problematic because World War II and 9/11 are two
non-comparable events. As a result, I focused on the difference between poetry written for
the current moment and long-lasting poems: There was an immediate need for literary
responses to 9/11, some of which were too rushed. I contended that society expects up-todate literature addressing the trauma society experiences. The ability to submit poems online
resulted in too many rushed responses that are relegated to an ephemeral existence. I
highlighted several submissions to the Australian e-journal Masthead because they exemplify
such rushed responses. Masthead’s poems demonstrate how poets from all over the world
interacted with the attacks through their writing. I argued that the many responses were both
62
helpful and problematic: helpful because they contribute to the public discourse on the
subject, and problematic because they alter the role of poetry by suggesting that poetry can
be written on-demand.
In order to discuss other spaces created for poetry, I alluded to the popular anthology,
September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond, from which I discussed two poems that
complicate the notion of the witness. Day and Vigier view the victims‘ lifeless bodies in
different lights: Day fantasizes them as being alive and Vigier visualizes them as nothing
more than ash. Although the role of the witness is not my main argument, I include their
differing perspectives to highlight the effect each perspective has on the reader. The
contrasting perspectives between the two poems illustrate binary opposites: Day‘s poem
fantasizes about the victims being alive and Vigier views them in their current, lifeless state.
I concluded the chapter with reference to two poems in the anthology, An Eye for an Eye
Makes the Whole World Blind, by discussing two poems that possess an underlying tone of
revenge. These poems transition into my final chapter. Vinograd foregrounds the individual
pain in her poem, ―World Trade Center,‖ and Samson places emphasis on the reality of the
attacks in, ―Nothing is the Same the Day After.‖ These poems exemplify a drastic change in
response: one that is transparent, raw, and differs from the ―normative responses.‖ When
paralleled with the laureates at the beginning of the chapter, Vinograd and Samson‘s
accounts include vivid imagery and strong messages that encourage change.
The second portion of my 9/11 analysis, Chapter 4, focuses on non-traditional,
provocative responses to 9/11 in which I suggest that such responses are more fruitful
because they pose important questions about society‘s general understanding of poetry. I
emphasize that poetry should not attempt to answer questions; it should provoke thought and
social change. For example, I discussed two David Lehman poems: The first one was written
in response to the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center in which he honestly describes
the towers as ugly monoliths that gained beauty as a result of the threat, and the second one
represents a direct response to the 9/11 attacks that situates the attacks as a calculated plan
rather than an accident. Similarly, I discussed Monk and Kozaitis in tandem because both of
their poems portray the shape of the towers. Monk depicts the daily lives of the workers as
abject (by emphasizing the buildings inner-workings), and he does not reference the attacks. I
suggested that the shape of Monk‘s poem is provocative as it gives form to what is gone, and
63
Monk took a non-traditional approach as he expressed hesitation when he read it before an
audience in New York. Since he does not reference the attacks, he resists the dominant
ideology that poetry must overtly address the subject that it addresses.
I responded to the active change in the writing process after 9/11 when I analyzed
Moustaki‘s ―How to Write a Poem After September 11th.‖ I focused on Moustaki‘s writing
process because she challenges the cliché language that most 9/11 poems followed, which
serves as an example of how poetry about trauma can continue to be composed. Similarly,
Louise Gluck‘s ―October‖ is non-traditional because it removes any reference to September
from the title, and it emphasizes the fear society felt in the aftermath of September. In my
final analysis, I examined Kenneth Goldsmith‘s poem ―Day,‖ which is a verbatim
transcription of the September 11, 2001, newspaper before the attacks occurred. I included
―Day‖ to preface Goldsmith‘s subsequent poem ―World Trade Center‖ in the collection
Seven American Deaths and Disasters. In ―World Trade Center,‖ Goldsmith transcribed the
radio newscasters‘ account of the attacks and formed a poem. I end with the analysis of
Goldsmith because his postmodern approach is unique and opens the conversation about
poetry rather than closing it down. He does not attempt to give answers; rather, he poses
questions about poetry‘s role. Goldsmith challenges the genre and alters the public‘s
discourse.
One difficulty, but also advantage in writing my thesis, was the lack of research
completed on the topic of poetry after 9/11. Ann Keniston‘s article was fruitful in my
discussion of the poets laureate. Similarly, Moberley Luger‘s dissertation, ―Poetry After
9/11: Constructing the Memory of Crisis‖ was generative. While I referenced her in my
discussion of Day‘s ―Strangers,‖ I believe I also extended her research regarding Goldsmith.
She ended her dissertation with Goldsmith‘s ―Day,‖ but she published her project before
―World Trade Center‖ was released, as Luger examines:
‗The Day‘ reveals the affinities between poetry and newspaper forms. However, it
also shows the differences between them. By transposing the newspaper into a
poem, Goldsmith demonstrates how the two poems work differently; readers
bring different expectations to a poem than they do a newspaper; they react to the
two forms and consume them differently. (203)
64
A similar conclusion can be made about ―World Trade Center.‖ Some audiences may find
more credibility in radio broadcasts than they do poetry, but when the broadcast becomes
poetry then it invites more readers and listeners in.
Keep in mind Charles Bernstein‘s ―official verse culture‖ as it applies to poets
representing the nation. The poems that make it through Bernstein‘s ―official verse culture,‖
such as ones written by poets laureate, signify a certain ideological position because they
portray the U.S. as good and enemies as bad. This signification is problematic because
hailing the U.S. as completely good reveals an ignorance of history, and that does not
promote social change. I hope that more scholarly work will flourish from my research on the
topic of poetry in response to national trauma. As more poets are asked to recite their poems
at inaugurations, scholars should document how the roles change. Poetic spaces will continue
to evolve, and reviewing the kind of language that is forbidden offers more truth about the
direction of America‘s values.
My study not only explores the inaugural poets and the 9/11 attacks, but it prompts a
general discussion about poets writing about public or political events. My research
attempted to show that public poetry serves as one medium that can raise the national
consciousness of the people. However, in order to promote social change, freedom of speech
needs to be reevaluated. General society should not be limited to hearing the poems read
before a governmental audience. If the poetry is offensive, that indicates that there is room
for change. When society undergoes collective trauma, poetry changes in response to those
traumas, but as I have argued, the responses are divided into two categories: traditional and
non-traditional. Consider these responses and their impact on culture as further traumas
unfold. As Baraka once stated:
The artist‘s role is to raise the consciousness of the people. To make them
understand life, the world, and themselves more completely. That‘s how I see it.
Otherwise, I don‘t know why you do it… If you practice poetry the way I think it
needs to be done, you are going to put yourself in jeopardy. (qtd. in Campbell
137)
I will end my project on this note, but I encourage future research on the topic. If poetry is
not raising society‘s consciousness, then it is not promoting social change. Poetry does not
need to be regarded as simplistic; it should question the status quo.
65
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