Poets Reading Poetry: Carl Sandburg

Poetry is meant to be read aloud, but rarely is. As Oscar Wilde once said, "A poet can survive everything but a misprint."

So, cutting out the middle man, here is where we'll post famous poets reading their own poetry--the words off the page and in your ears, as they intended. And hopefully nothing is lost in the process.







A farm laborer, a bricklayer, a hotel servant, a coal heaver, a milkman--all positions once held by Carl Sandburg before his writing career began. It's the sort of life nearly impossible to achieve--to simply live--in the 21st century and still become a lauded writer. Whereas today's writers often huddle in academia, a hundred years ago there were some like Sandburg who ventured outside the hallowed halls of ivy and rote memorization and experienced all versions of humanity up close.

After some time hopscotching around careers, Sandburg became a journalist for the Chicago Daily News, which brought him across stories and people unique to each day he worked. Journalism influenced his creative writing in later years, where Sandburg's poetry often took small moments and encounters from the newspaper life and found beauty in the minutia.

At the time of Sandburg's peak popularity, Robert Frost was considered the grand marshal of America's poetry parade. Indeed, despite being nearly the same age as Frost (with both men having nearly identical shocks of white hair atop their heads), Sandburg won the Poetry Society of America's Robert Frost Medal in 1952. And while Sandburg won three Pulitzer Prizes in his lifetime (including one at the age of 73), only Robert Frost won more (four) as a poet. Always the bridesmaid, Sandburg seemingly was content to never be the bride.

While Sandburg was on television routinely in the 1950s, there are few recordings of him actually reading his own work. The video above is audio of him reading the lilting, brief poem of his titled Grass (ignore the visual part of the video, and simply listen). Sandburg added the location of Stalingrad to the poem in this recording, which doesn't appear in the original poem printed below--but it's his poem, so he can see fit to edit it on the fly if he so chooses.

Whereas most poets come across as monotone while reading their works, Sandburg inflects with a hint of rhythm in his voice, of audible peaks and valleys, most likely a result of his enjoyment playing folk music as well.

That's right. A farm laborer, a bricklayer, a hotel servant, a coal heaver, a milkman...and folk musician, too.


Grass,  by Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. 
Shovel them under and let me work— 
                                          I am the grass; I cover all. 

And pile them high at Gettysburg 
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. 
Shovel them under and let me work. 
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: 
                                          What place is this? 
                                          Where are we now? 

                                          I am the grass. 
                                          Let me work.

Famous Writers with Dogs: Robert Frost

Writers need inspiration somewhere in life, and for many that inspiration comes from their pet dogs.

This is a running series where we post pictures of famous writers with their canine companions--the cute, the cuddly, the creepy. And that's just the writers.


Today:  Robert Frost

Even the dog can't look. Avert your eyes!

Frost is lounging like a frat boy over the armchair with his pants tucked up underneath his armpits. Having pants do that breaks at least seven laws of science. Physicists are still studying how this happened.

The dog just knows it as Tuesday in the Frost household.

Are you really addicted to a specific poet? Take them to work with you.

Jonesing for a little Robert Frost or Maya Angelou during the weekdays, but find yourself going through withdrawals and the shakes while at work? Good news! You can take them to work with you.

Oh, hello, T. S. Elephant. #TakeYourPoetToWorkDay #PoetToWorkDay @tspoetry pic.twitter.com/PkZ8PmZZhG

— WC Literary House (@WCLiteraryHouse) July 20, 2016

An organization called Tweetspeak Poetry sponsors various poetry "holidays" throughout a given year, all in an effort to make poetry more approachable to today's modern sensibilities. Picture your mom gussying up cauliflower when you were a kid all in hopes you might digest more of it. Same thing.

The third Wednesday of every July is Take Your Poet to Work Day. This year that would be July 19th. As the sponsors, Tweetspeak Poetry has a downloadable coloring book of famous poets ranging from American (Dickinson, Hughes, Whitman, etc.) to international (Akhmatova, Neruda, Issa, etc.).

Happy #TakeYourPoettoWorkDay Forget yours @ home? Stop by the 2nd fl. & make a new one :) @tspoetry #poettowork pic.twitter.com/hT3xQEuqZF

— CSCC Library (@CSCC_Library) July 20, 2016

After coloring in your favorite poet, you're supposed to cut out the drawing and adhere it to a Popsicle stick and--voila!--you take them to work with you. Not only do you get to color, you have a semi-valid excuse to scarf down a half-dozen Popsicles all of a sudden.

Tweetspeak also recommends leaving coloring book sheets in the lunch room, all in hopes that lazy coworker of yours might actually show some initiative and color in their own favorite poet, too.

I snuck a #poettowork today @KCLibrary #AnnaAkhmatova pic.twitter.com/Z3fc8tj3Yz

— KaiteStover (@MarianLiberryan) July 20, 2016

Polish off another half-dozen Popsicles and tell yourself you're just doing it to be selfless and help others who need a stick.

You're so generous!!

There was no poem read at today's presidential inauguration.

John F. Kennedy, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama have all had poets read at their inaugural ceremonies, showcasing the likes of Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, and Richard Blanco.

Indeed, poets have only appeared in modern times at Democrat inaugurations, without a single Republican presidential request occurring in that period. No Nixon, no Reagan, and neither Bush, too.

The Atlantic makes note of this political disparity, and how Donald Trump continued the tradition of eschewing a poet at a Republican inauguration today. Why? Probably because he intends to kill funding for the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities. That has a way of putting a sour taste in most poets' mouths.

So, let's travel back to when poets were welcome at inaugurations.

First is an 86-year old Robert Frost at John F. Kennedy's 1961 ceremony.

Frost was to read 'Dedication,' an original poem he wrote for the festivities. The elderly poet struggled in the bright January sunshine to read the newly written words, though. The typewriter at the hotel he was staying at in Washington, DC, ran out of ink the night before, and the words were faded on the page. Richard Nixon, of all people, is the gentleman who arrives with a top hat to try and aid Frost:





After a few starts and stops, Frost recited his old classic 'The Gift Outright' from memory instead.

Footage of that moment from the inauguration is nonexistent, though, lost to time and the memory of those in attendance. As a result, here's Frost reciting the same poem years earlier:





Fast forward over thirty years, and we come to the 1993 inauguration of Bill Clinton, who asked Maya Angelou to read one of her poems. She chose 'On the Pulse of Morning'--which she told the Los Angeles Times had meaning for such an event.

"I suggest that we should herald the differences, because the differences make us interesting, and also enrich and make us stronger. The differences are minuscule compared to the similarities. That's what I mean to say,"





Presidents will come and go.

But poems will always remain.

Should they sit at the kids' table or with the adults? Seventeen famous writers as children judged.

Did you grow up eating at the kids' table during Thanksgiving? You know, when your family chose to banish you into a corner with an assortment of cousins that you rarely saw and hardly liked? The cousin who's a few oats short of a Cheerio? The other cousin who lacks personal grooming habits and doesn't know the tender touch of a facecloth? Yeah--that happened to a lot of us.

We were all kids at some point though. Some of us were debonair, and some of us were a hot mess. And so were famous writers.

Here are seventeen famous writers when they were children or teenagers--and whether they should luck out and eat with the adults or be at the kids' table for Thanksgiving:

1.) Robert Frost

Even as a baby, Frost couldn't manage a smile. And it all went downhill from here.

Kids' table!

2.) Vladimir Nabokov

The snappy tie, the tube socks channeling his wannabe inner Flashdance waiting to break free, all while rocking penny loafers.

Adults' table!

3.) Virginia Woolf

She even judges while playing cricket. You don't need her judging your homemade stuffing, too.

Kids' table!

4.) Langston Hughes

Somewhere under that giant mound of baby clothes is Hughes. Is he a wizard? He might be a wizard.

Adults' table!

5.) Roald Dahl

There's a 50% chance he just walked off the set of Downton Abbey.

Adults' table!

6.) Jorge Luis Borges

It's as if baby Spock just came back from a cruise ship adventure.

Adults' table!

7.) F. Scott Fitzgerald

A whip for the toy horse?

And we all know he's going to drink all the booze anyway...

Kids' table!

8.) Franz Kafka

Is that a goat? Ram? Sheep?

Whatever it is, it has a hat. No one can deny a hat-wearing sheep is a winning look.

Adults' table!

9.) Carl Jung

That's the face of judgment. No one needs that while eating the sweet potatoes.

Kids' table!

10.) J.R.R. Tolkien

Tolkien and his younger brother are channeling the pilgrim look. But they're missing the stylish hats with the belt buckles.

Kids' table!

11.) Aldous Huxley

The shoes say, "I came here on the Mayflower."

The sour face says, "I need a nap."

Kids' table!

12. Arthur Rimbaud

You just kind of get the vibe that after he passes you the bowl of peas, he'll politely read you a poem.

Adults' table!

13.) Alice Munro

You try wearing a bonnet and look so cute. You can't, can you?

Adults' table!

14.) Flannery O'Connor

She might be good with small talk, but the entire time she'll be plotting a short story where she makes you a creep.

Kids' table!

15.) Noam Chomsky

Don't let the coy smile fool you. That starched white collar channels a Miles Standish quality.

Kids' table!

16.) Victor Hugo

Little Lord Fauntleroy, is that you?

Adults' table!

17.) Stephen King

You usually only see 85-year old men wearing pants that high.

Adults' table!

Where Dead Writers Reside, Part Eight: Truman Capote, Dylan Thomas, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Willa Cather,

It's October, and that requires obligatory Halloween-inspired posts. And nothing is more obligatorily macabre than looking at the tombstones of those who have died.

Every year we do this. Now through Halloween we'll occasionally post collections of tombstones to see where famous writers are hanging out today.

Today: Truman Capote, James Baldwin, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Willa Cather


Truman Capote:

I actually have 1/2 of Capote's ashes, too!

Truman Capote got by in life on three things: a unique name, drug/alcohol addiction, and verbally clawing the eyes out of almost every writer that existed during his time. (Gore Vidal was a popular target. But it was Gore Vidal after all.)

Capote had a whirlwind life. Crazy parents, an early life being neighbors with Harper Lee, vagabond teen years, time working at The New Yorker, pissing off Robert Frost*, fame and notoriety, friendships with a cast of characters (like Andy Warhol), and a liver that was a beast all kept Capote going into his 50s.

Then the liver gave out. He officially died of liver cancer at the age of 59, although a coroner's report claimed there was a fantastic concoction of drugs in his system, too, which didn't help matters.

Tombstone Notes:
Capote's life was timid compared to afterlife. Shortly after dying he was cremated, with his ashes potentially split between two individuals--Jack Dunphy and Joanne Carson (the ex-wife of Johnny Carson). Except maybe not. Dunphy claimed he received all of the ashes, not half. Carson, meanwhile, said she kept her share of ashes in an urn in the room where Capote died.

When in doubt, claim you have some of the ashes.

In 1988, Carson claimed her ashes were stolen, along with $200,000 in jewels. Capote's ashes were later returned, hidden in a coiled-up hose in the backyard of Carson's home. A year later, the ashes were nearly stolen again during a dinner party. Cremated remains = hot commodity.

After Dunphy died in 1992, he was cremated as well. It took two years, but in 1994 Dunphy's ashes were taken with his own alleged stash of leftover Capote, and both scattered in various spots of water around New York.

All we really know for certain are two things: Capote bought a crypt at Westwood Village Memorial Park Cemetery in Los Angeles, where maybe no one is buried, and Dunphy had a memorial stone placed at one location where someone's ashes were tossed about.



Dylan Thomas:

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage our next literary alcoholic, Dylan Thomas!

Nothing much of note has ever really come from Wales, especially on the writing front. A Welsh person will rattle off twenty names for you, half of which sound like real names--but there's not a chance you've ever read anything by them. That is, of course, unless Dylan Thomas is mentioned.

Thomas wasn't a stellar student, and largely did nothing of note academically--yet he wrote poetry feverishly. In his teen years he gained some small popularity, and built a reputation off that. He also gained an appetite for smoking and drinking, and built a bigger reputation off those.

Writing doesn't pay terribly well, and it didn't pay much back in the 1940s and '50s. As a result, Thomas often embarked on reading tours to generate more money. It was on one of these reading tours of America that Thomas, while looking ill to everyone he encountered, went out drinking in New York City. After spending all night at the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village, Thomas went back to his hotel and loudly proclaimed, "I've had 18 straight whiskeys! I think that's the record!"

He spent the next couple days still drinking, before falling even more ill. Eventually he ended up in the hospital and died within the week. Pneumonia was the official cause of death, with pressure on the brain and a fatty liver contributing.

Note to self: Quit at 17 straight whiskeys.

Tombstone Notes:
Wales isn't known for its writers, and it isn't known for stylish looking tombstones.

Thomas is buried in the over-spill graveyard of St. Martin's Church, Laugharne, Dyfed, Wales, under a simple white cross with garish writing from someone we can only assume just started out with amateur calligraphy. Although bonus point for trying to squeeze "memory" in diagonally on the cross and putting his name off-center.



Paul Laurence Dunbar:

Good news! Dunbar eschewed the trend of trying to kill himself via addiction!

The bad news? Death gets us all in the end.

Dunbar lived a short life, but a life packed with a vast amount of publications, from poetry to novels to short stories. Born of two former slaves--including a father who joined the Massachusetts 55th Infantry Regiment (the second all-black infantry in America's history, after the 54th Regiment portrayed in the movie Glory)--Dunbar had the stereotypical childhood all writers hope to have.

Unhappily married parents? Check.

Divorced parents? Check.

Dad dying while Dunbar still a kid? Check.

Off and running with the sad story, Dunbar didn't allow it to keep his ambitions down. By the age of 16, he started publishing poems. Yet, despite initial luck in being published, he still lacked fame. That is until William Dean Howells, editor of The Atlantic Monthly and author himself, gave rave reviews to the young poet.

Throughout his 20s Dunbar gained popularity, so much so that he toured Europe to read his work. But it generally went downhill after that. By the age of 27, Dunbar was diagnosed with tuberculosis and advised by doctors to go to Colorado for the dry air, and to drink whisky to alleviate his symptoms. (Oh, no...) Dunbar and his wife started to drift apart because of his dependence on alcohol (...not again!...), and they separated.

At the age of 33, his health damaged even further from his addiction to whisky (...this wasn't supposed to be about booze!...), Dunbar died, officially, from his bout of tuberculosis (...but alcohol won again).

Tombstone Notes:
Buried in his hometown of Dayton, OH, Dunbar's tombstone includes a plaque bolted to a giant, irregular boulder. On the plaque is a verse of his poetry written in what was called "Negro dialect" of the antebellum south.

The verse is about death, just to really drive the point home.



Willa Cather:

This time, I promise, a writer who didn't find friendship at the bottom of a bottle. I swear.

In fact, compared to most, Cather's life was downright homey and lovely. Born to two stable parents, her family initially lived in Virginia. Before her 10th birthday, with a father fearing tuberculosis running rampant throughout the region (hello, Paul Laurence Dunbar!), the Cathers picked up stakes and moved to Nebraska.

It's in Nebraska that young Willa Cather became affected by the sprawling land and unique personalities. As a freshman at the University of Nebraska, she intended to go into medicine and become a physician--but a publication of an essay in the Nebraska State Journal convinced Cather she could write. She'd end up graduating with a B.A. in English.

As the years passed, success found her. Short stories, magazine articles, and novels came forth, as did awards like the Pulitzer Prize. She never married, instead living with a female friend for most of her life, especially after moving to New York City.

Nothing major afflicted Cather as she aged into her 70s, although biographies note her health faded for nondescript reasons. Death isn't nondescript though, as Cather died from a cerebral hemorrhage.

Take THAT, alcohol!

Tombstone Notes:
In a great bait-and-switch, Cather was buried in Jaffrey, NH, in a plot beside her longtime friend. Why Jaffrey? Cather was one of the few people in American history who could handle stepping foot into New Hampshire often, and traveled to Jaffrey later in life to write in silence.

The tombstone includes a passage from her novel My Antonia: "...that is happiness; to be dissolved
into something complete and great."

Dissolve. Kind of ghoulish. But I guess "ashes to ashes, dust to dust"...




*Capote vs. Frost:
Capote, while young, largely unknown, and still working at The New Yorker, went to Vermont for vacation--yet he was violently ill with flu. Frost, while old, largely famous worldwide, and still writing poetry, went to the hotel where Capote was staying to give a reading.

Knowing he was from The New Yorker, the hotel manager convinced Capote to attend Frost's reading, which he did. After a short while, and feeling sickly, Capote stood up and started to leave the room. Frost, indignant, allegedly threw a book of poetry at Capote as he exited.

The next day, Frost contacted the editors at The New Yorker and asked, "Who the hell is this Truman Capote, anyway?"

Capote, later in life, described Frost as "the meanest man who ever drew breath, an old fake dragging around with a shaggy head of hair and followed by pathetic old ladies from the Middle West."

Admittedly, Frost did have one hell of a head of hair.

The media's occasional panic that poetry is on its deathbed is happening again. And, again, poetry isn't dead.

Every handful of years the debate rages anew over poetry's worth and vital signs, and that time has seemingly arrived again. Recent weeks have seen a media upheaval questioning the value of literature's artsier cousin, from Heidi Simmons's column asking "Is poetry dead? Does anyone care?" to the New York Times holding a debate among seven writers over the question, "Does Poetry Matter?"

Online magazine The Millions has a systematic look at how fond of poetry the United States is, but notes Americans love poetry, just not poetry books. Indeed, sales of poetry books have stagnated in recent decades, leading publishers to pull back the reigns on publications, or look for new and and creative ways to reach audiences--audiences that seemingly don't exist, at least not in large numbers willing to part with their money.

Tom Brady agrees: NFL quarterbacks matter.

At the Times, it's a debate in name only--a debate where whichever of the seven writers praises poetry most wins. It's akin to asking seven NFL quarterbacks if NFL quarterbacks matter, or seven priests if religion matters.

To Heidi Simmons, poetry isn't dead, but it isn't the lively entity it should be, and sees it dying in our schools first and foremost.

But maybe one comment left on The Millions article sums up the issue for poetry today, an insight left by someone going by the moniker Germane Jackson:


"I’ll offer a simple answer to a complicated question, undoubtedly a reductive and insufficient answer, but one that hopefully will get at the point of this article.

[...] Americans like poetry, but mostly poetry not written within the last thirty or forty years, around the same point at which most poetry became an exercise in careerist academic obscurantism.

[...] I realize this comment sounds like populist demagoguery, and I don’t mean to denigrate the entire project of modern poetry [...] But I do think that poetry’s intellectual vanguard largely fails to coherently and meaningfully engage the average reader about their lives, and is more interested instead in a sort of dense opacity, a modernist aesthetic hangover from which poetry has never recovered."


Not that popular opinion equals quality, but a look at the current top-20 poems on PoemHunter.com (as voted by readers) suggests as much as Jackson states, a list including the likes of William Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, William Blake, Pablo Neruda, and Emily Dickinson--none, it should be noted, who reached their individual artistic peak in the last 40+ years. Angelou comes closest, but even scholars consider her "late period" to be post-1969.

Ella never dies.

Headlines are meant to grab attention, which explains how silly Simmons or the Times are being. Poetry is no more dead than jazz music, no more a corpse than ballet. But like all artistic realms over an extended period of time, a popular consensus develops. Humans, largely, just like what they like, and for poetry that preference seemingly exists prior to the work of 1970. Just as Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, and John Coltrane are what makes jazz jazz, so too does Dickinson and Frost and Hughes and Shakespeare make poetry poetry, no matter what new, exciting, and creative aspects modern poetry might bring.

It sounds like an over-simplification to answer "What's wrong with poetry today?" as such, I know. Deeply philosophical waxing might sound more emotionally powerful, systematic examinations of the publishing industry might appear more profound, but it doesn't seem to change the basic pattern. Americans don't buy books of poetry today because they largely don't like the poetry of today. Yes, there's an audience for modern poetry, but it's a sliver of the broader populace. I might like modern poetry, you might like modern poetry, but looking beyond our own literary myopia might suggest most Americans don't agree.

Changes in popular taste didn't kill jazz, and it won't kill poetry. Being a niche market is still a market. And you know what? That doesn't mean you're dead. It means you're okay.

Some Famous Writer Once Lived Here: Amherst, Massachusetts

Some Famous Writer Once Lived Here is where we check out cities or towns that--you guessed it--a famous writer once lived. Picture the illegitimate lovechild between the US Census report and a tourist pamphlet from a local chamber of commerce. What's it like there today? Here's where we find out.


Today:  Emily Dickinson once lived in Amherst, Massachusetts:

Outside of Boston, whenever you think of a nebbish, scholarly, cultured New England type, the stereotype you're envisioning is largely located in Amherst, MA, where academic elitists blend with barefooted hobos in a delightful human fondue of awkwardness with a quaint, small town vibe.

Sure, she never left the house much, but that doesn't stop the good folk of this western Massachusetts enclave from building its agoraphobic reputation partly around Emily Dickinson and the socially uncomfortable, depression-inducing ideals you'd come to expect from a powerhouse literary neighborhood.

Amherst College, Hampshire College, and UMass-Amherst all call the town home, placing tens of thousands of students into the cozy confines of a rural New England hamlet. It's the equivalent of having an Insane Clown Posse concert in your grandma's living room.


The basics of Amherst, Massachusetts:

Location:
Just shy of 75 miles away as the crow flies from Boston, but nearly 100 miles on surface roads, Amherst is directly closer to Albany, NY, and Hartford, CT. But you should never want to visit Albany or Hartford under any circumstances, so 100 miles to Boston it is.

2010 Census:
Population: 37,819, up nearly 3,000 since 2000. Some college graduates just won't leave.

Racial Makeup: 76.9% white, 5.4% African American, 0.2% Native American, 10.9% Asian. Out of the 37,819 people in Amherst, only 13 defined themselves as a Pacific Islander, verifying once and for all that Amherst is nowhere near a Pacific island.

Good news for single men: 51.1% of the population is female, and only 99.98% of that population wants you to wear shoes.

10.6% of Amherst residents live below the poverty line, while 56% of the work force works in education. Sounds like those three colleges need to start paying their employees more coin.


What to see, what to do in Amherst:

Ravenous hungry caterpillars wear shoes.

Do you enjoy Emily Dickinson, but find looking at words to be too much of a hassle with the reading experience? Good news! The Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art is located in Amherst. Is there a monument to The Very Hungry Caterpillar? There is if they know what's good for them.

After you're done examining the artistic complexity of Brown Bear, Brown Bear, head on down to the National Yiddish Book Center. As one One Yelp reviewer describes it, it's "worth a trip for the whole micschpokhe."

And when you're looking to take the edge off, there's the Amherst Farm Winery, where an old dairy barn has been converted into a modern, cozy, den of boozy deliciousness. $5 gets you a logo glass, a taste of five wines, and a brief buzz.

Of course, there's the Emily Dickinson Museum, a National Historic Landmark, and what used to be the poet's home during her secluded life. Remember, folks, agoraphobia is less depressing when you see it on a guided tour!


Where to eat in Amherst:

For intriguing menu item names alone, The Black Sheep Deli wins for sandwiches called the Purple People Eater (eggplant), Fowl Play (chicken), and the Humongous Fungus (grilled portobellos). It sounds creepier when you say "grilled fungus on a roll" though.

Bistro 63 at the Monkey Bar and Grille is a mouthful to say, as is their description of their Oyster Rockefeller, which includes "lemon butter parnod besciamella sauce." At least three of those are real words. That said, everything tastes more delicious when it sounds deceptively French and/or Italian.

Looking for a Denny's experience but with 99% less shame than a Denny's experience? Head over to the breakfasts of The Lone Wolf, which straddles the bitter culinary breakfast divide between Israel (Challah French Toast) and Mexico (Chilli Relenos).


Didn't Robert Frost once live in Amherst?

Gypsy.

Indeed, but he lived everywhere in New England, so it hardly counts. Robert Frost was like a Johnny Cash song come to life.













Emily Dickinson's thoughts on her hometown:

"[C]ould it please your convenience to come so far as Amherst, I should be very glad, but I do not cross my father's ground to any house or town."

Robert Frost and the poem never recited at John F. Kennedy's inauguration.

Time is gentlest on our memories. On the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy's death, we remember everything that occurred that day in Dallas. We know the story of the man from a privileged family who would become president, we know his skills, his flaws, the potential, and the idealism we like to imagine would have come forth if history changed. 

But instead of focusing on the the man's end, let us focus on the presidential beginning.

By the time Robert Frost was nearing his 85th birthday, he was long cemented an elder statesmen of American culture and entrenched as New England's poet. On March 26th, 1959, at a gala to celebrate his 85th birthday, Frost was part of a news conference at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City, according to Poets.org. At one point, a journalist asked if New England's influence on America was declining. Frost's reply?

"The next president of the United States will be from Boston. Does that sound as if New England is decaying?"

When pressed, Frost suggested the junior senator from Massachusetts, John Kennedy, would be that president. From that point, the two men with ties to New England were intertwined, praising one another at every turn. Frost routinely mentioned Kennedy's candidacy whenever he gave lectures or spoke, and Kennedy often quoted Frost's poem 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' during campaign speeches.

After Kennedy's election, Frost was asked by the incoming president if he might offer a dedicatory poem at the inauguration. Frost cabled back a reply:

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 TO 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.

Kennedy left it open to Frost to decide if it would be an entirely new poem or an old classic from his canon (the president-elect favored 'The Gift Outright'). Frost, possibly inspired by the events and rarity of such a scenario--being the first poet asked to read at a presidential inauguration--chose to write a brand new poem, entitled 'Dedication.'

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 TO 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. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20540#sthash.hfok8VI4.dpuf

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 TO 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. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20540#sthash.hfok8VI4.dpuf

Inauguration day couldn't have had worse conditions for the then 86-year old poet, who was of failing sight. A heavy blanket of snow covered Washington, D.C. the night before, leaving the morning with a high pressure system that ushered in crystal blue skies, bright sunshine, and biting wind. Frost's poem was typed out in faint ink on a hotel typewriter the night before--and Frost feared the combination of glare from sunlight and snow mixed with faint ink would make it impossible for him to read.

And it did, as this video snippet below shows. Frost struggles with the start of 'Dedication,' before Richard Nixon offers his top hat to create a shadow, and Lyndon Johnson and others tries to lend a hand. But, much as Kennedy predicted months before when he told an aide "Oh, no. You know that Robert Frost always steals any show he is a part of," Frost casually takes the top hat, creating a good laugh for all.

But Frost would give up after struggling to read in the glare and wind. Thinking quickly in a moment--and apparently well-versed in remembering his poetry of days gone by--the old poet immediately recited 'The Gift Outright' from memory.

The four minute video snippet of Frost on inauguration day:

The original poem, 'Dedication,' was long forgotten. History remembered Frost reciting 'The Gift Outright,' and time moved on.

Forty-five years later, at the JFK Presidential Library in Boston, a package arrived in the mail unexpectedly. Inside was a copy of 'Dedication,' handwritten by Frost. As Deborah Leff, Director at the library, told NBC News, "We didn't even know that this was something that we didn't have. We didn't even know this existed."

The archivist at the library noticed some faded, penciled words written on the back of the paper. The message was from Jacqueline Kennedy to her husband. The message: "For Jack, First thing I had framed to put in your office — first thing to be hung there."

John F. Kennedy's inauguration somewhat started a tradition. In total, five poets have read at presidential swearing-ins, starting with Frost, then Maya Angelou, Miller Williams, Elizabeth Alexander, and Richard Blanco. For what it's worth, only Democratic presidents have asked poets to recite (Kennedy, Clinton, and Obama). No one has ever deciphered why Republican presidents haven't joined in the tradition--and we won't tackle that here.

As for Frost's original poem from that day in 1961, the poem shielded from glare and lost to time, it is as follows:

Dedication

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.
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.
Colonial had been the thing to be
As long as the great issue was to see
What country'd be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.
Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)
God nodded his approval of as good.
So much those heroes knew and understood,
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.
And this is no aristocratic joke
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.
"New order of the ages" did they say?
If it looks none too orderly today,
'Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.
Everyone knows the glory of the twain
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom's story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.
Come fresh from an election like the last,
The greatest vote a people ever cast,
So close yet sure to be abided by,
It is no miracle our mood is high.
Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs
Better than all the stalemate an's and ifs.
There was the book of profile tales declaring
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right devine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.
It makes the prophet in us all presage
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young ambition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.

The Friday Poem: A Question, by Robert Frost

Occasionally on Fridays we'll have The Friday Poem. (A capitalized title--and italicized!--so you know it's official and whatnot.) Famous poets, obscure poets, amateur poets, whatever poets--just a poem to end the week.

Like this one:


A Question, by Robert Frost

A Voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

Where Dead Writers Reside: Part Two

It's October, and that requires obligatory Halloween-inspired posts. And nothing is more obligatorily macabre than looking at the tombstones of those who have died.

Now through Halloween we'll post collections of tombstones to see where famous writers are hanging out today.

Today: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sylvia Plath, Charles Dickens, Robert Frost

 F. Scott Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald was a notorious alcoholic for decades, and often claimed he had contracted a mild form of tuberculosis. Nonetheless, he spent his final decade in decline, his body withering.

Weakened by previous heart attacks, Fitzgerald was struck dead after a final, massive coronary arrest in 1940 while (according to his lover) he was eating a candy bar.

Remember that on Halloween when you grab that extra Snickers.

Labeled a non-practicing Catholic, Fitzgerald wasn't allowed burial in a Catholic cemetery, leading to his original internment in Rockville Union Cemetery in Rockville, MD. Later, after Zelda's death, the Fitzgerald's daughter, Frances, worked to have the Catholic church overturn their ruling on the burial banishment. She succeeded, leading to her parents' current residence at Saint Mary's Cemetery across town in Rockville.

Tombstone Notes:
Including a passage from one's own book is one last final indulgence. It's like a literary gin and tonic.

Sylvia Plath

Plath, who battled with depression for many years, attempted suicide multiple times during her short life.

In 1963, her marriage to fellow poet Ted Hughes deteriorating (he was busy with other women) and in the throws of depression once again, Plath sealed off the kitchen with wet towels, placed her head in the oven, and turned on the gas.

So, yeah. That's a downer.

Buried in St. Thomas' Churchyard, Heptonstall, West Yorkshire, England, Plath's fans have continually tried to chisel off Hughes from the tombstone. While Ted Hughes was alive, he regularly had the tombstone removed, fixed, and placed back in its original location.

Tombstone Notes:
Ted Hughes included the epitaph on his wife's marker, potentially from a 16th century Chinese poet Wu Ch'Eng-En--but some disagree as to its origins. Because when you want to go with obscure sources, go big, my man.

Charles Dickens

Dickens spent the last few years of life in declining health, starting with bouts of paralysis (mild strokes) in 1868 incurred from a heavy itinerary of public readings.

By 1870, gravely ill, Dickens suffered a severe stroke at his home, and spent a day unconscious before dying.

Planning for death well in advance, Dickens desired a burial at Rochester Cathedral, near his home at Gad's Hill, "in an inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly private manner."

Showing that the dead can't file a complaint, Dickens was instead buried in Poets' Corner at Westminster Abbey. While the official funeral ceremony was relatively private (only twelve mourners were in attendance), the grave was left open so thousands of people could walk past and pay their respects.

Expensive? Check.
Ostentatious? Check.
Public memorial? Check.

Sorry, Chuck. You rambled on so long with your books that no one could pay attention when you died.

Tombstone Notes:
Fun fact time! Dickens' plot is surrounded by a who's-who of famous dead Brits, including Rudyard Kipling, George Fredrick Handel, and Thomas Hardy. It'd be a great guest list for a dinner party if you really wanted to be bored.

Robert Frost

While living to quite a ripe age of 88, Frost was slowed down in his later years. In late December 1962, Frost went to the hospital for a needed prostate surgery. Not the best of ideas for the severely elderly, complications were had, most notably a heart attack. A month later, Frost died.

When he was sixty-six years old, Frost purchased a burial plot for his entire family at the Old Bennington Cemetery in Bennington, VT, where the entire roster of dead Frosts currently resides.

Anyone who wagered money that Bennington, of all places, is where the notoriously hopscotching Frost would end up must've made a fortune.

Tombstone Notes:
Frost quotes himself from his poem 'The Lesson for Today.'

"I had a lover's quarrel with the world," says Frost's marker--painting an image no one in the world ever associates with Frost.

Know Your State College English Departments Simply Based on Their Website, Part Five: Bridgewater State College

State schools are plucky. Massachusetts state colleges are pluckier than most. When you're the (sort of) next door neighbor to the Harvards and M.I.T.s of the world, you need to put your best foot forward to get recognized. It's all in the presentation. So, in an attempt to learn more about our Massachusetts state college brethren, it's time to examine the English department websites of all state colleges and see what they put out there to the general public for all to learn about them.





Next Up: Bridgewater State College

Sometimes becoming an English major can seem like a daunting task. Maybe grammar isn't your strong suit, writing might be a weak point, and maybe spelling polysyllabic words befuddle you because you can't even spell or say the word "polysyllabic" to begin with.

Good news then! The Chair of the Bridgewater State College English Department wants you to know, eh, the rules of grammar can trip him up, too, especially in his welcome letter. Such as when he uses a hyphen when he should use an (e)m-dash, or when he randomly indents a paragraph late in his welcome for no discernible reason other than to see if you're paying attention. If you're an English major with Bridgewater State College, does pointing these errors out to him guarantee you'll graduate Summa Cum Laude? Yeah, sure, why not?

The Department also offers its own version of an English honors program. According to their website (my comments in parentheses):

By pursuing Honors, inspired students (all others--little lackluster, to be blunt) can reach their highest potential (Isn't potential like love or joy or annoyance? Can it actually be measured?) through critical thinking, scholarship, and inquiry. Close student-faculty relations (who's buying dinner?) and intensive research provide for the vigorous and thorough exchange of ideas (Team Edward or Team Jacob??), and offer students an opportunity to broaden their knowledge and experience (as would working as a janitor--or a mechanic--or a greeting card employee--or a maid).

If working hard for an Honors program isn't your idea of a good time, there's The Bridge--BSC's literary journal showcasing...ummm...give me a second here...((((looks))))...yeah, I got nothing. I'm guessing you can write anything. I'll go with haikus. Everyone loves a haiku. Oh, but there is a mission statement!

Mission statement (my charm in parentheses):
The Bridge is managed entirely by students. Our charge is to serve (sounds very politician-y), as we are dedicated to showcasing the artistic talents of the student body (fingers crossed on the haikus...) while providing internships in editing and in graphic design. Our goal is to excel (cue: politician closed-fist thumb thrust into the camera), as we wish to pay a debt to our alumni (just stop borrowing their money), keep a promise to ourselves (annnnd that would be--?), and set an example for our successors (...on how to take yourselves too seriously).

According to the "About" tab, eighteen people worked on the staff of The Bridge for their latest installment--fourteen students, two alumni, and two faculty. I'm guessing that means each person was in charge of reading half a haiku?

Confession time: I worked as an editor for FSC's literary journal, Route 2, this past year. I'm biased. In that sweet sort of bias though, like mothers to their children and grandmothers to brands of mayonnaise. We had a staff of four at Route 2. Usually only three worked at a time. It can be a mildly hectic job for three/four, but more than doable. But where is BSC getting 18 editors?? When did they become the New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly? Is it so they could all self-edit their own self-submissions? Are some editors only editing coffee orders? Who's in charge of foot rubs? How does this work? Who will answer me?

Most importantly, what was this "promise" they had to keep? It sounds like they've plagiarized Robert Frost. They're being secretive--and no one likes secrets. That's so high school, minus the whole getting-stuffed-in-lockers type thing.

Little known fact: Robert Frost once wrote a poem prophesying Tom Brady.

The poet laureate of the United Kingdom, Carol Ann Duffy, wrote a poem about David Beckham. For those ignorant Americans who don't keep up to date on such things, David Beckham still plays football (or soccer, what have you)(with uber-stylish hair--always). And football is still monumental to most British folks. Beckham blew out his Achilles the other day and might miss the World Cup in a few months. This is tragic, if only because sightings of Victoria Beckham will immediately decrease by half with his absence.

Duffy's receiving a good deal of flack for writing such a poem, but I congratulate her. Or at least applaud her. Or possibly just shrug my shoulders and offer a "eh, doesn't hurt" vibe. Poetry needs a kick start. Gone are the days when poets were famous among common folk. Stop 500 people on a street in Fitchburg or Boston, and only one person might know who the current poet laureate of the United States is--and odds are that one person is the cousin/mechanic/paper boy of the poet laureate of the United States.

So, here's Duffy's poem to Beckham in its entirety, which alludes to the Achilles myth from history:

Myth's river- where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden 
boyflowed on, his name on its lips. Without him, it was prophesised,
they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls' sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, 
silver songs...
but when Odysseus came,

with an athlete's build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, 
the crowd's roar,
and it was sport, not war,

his charmed foot on the ball...

but then his heel, his heel, his heel...

It looks to me like Duffy is trying to single-handedly bring back the popularity of the ellipsis. I haven't seen so many dramatic pauses since I stopped watching Days of Our Lives a few years back.

Hey, I'll take it. How many sports-centric guys will actually read a poem--albeit just one, ellipsis-mad poem--for the first time in decades as a result of this? Today, poems to David Beckham. Tomorrow, haikus to Kobe Bryant.

The state of Vermont: Sponsored by Subaru.

I recently spent four days crossing northern Vermont during leaf-peeping season. (Nothing is easier on the wallet for a poor English major than just driving aimlessly. That is until gas prices shoot up again.) While the scenery was inspiring to write, I was too busy making mental notes about the people. The foundation for writing is often just the ability to observe. Though stereotypes are fun and work in a pinch, too.

First off, Vermont is made up of two types of people, and only two types of people. (Stereotyping, you say? Not so, if you've been to Vermont more than a few times in your life.) One type is the born-and-bred out in the countryside. They live in rusted double-wides with a Chevy/Ford pickup truck with 250,000 miles on it as their mode of transportation. They tend to have a thick and hefty beard, wear lots of random camo, have some scruffy dog that looks like it smokes two packs a day, and are the classic taciturn New Englander. If you chat them up, expect one word answers. Two word answers are reserved only if you marry them or buy dinner.

The other Vermonter is someone who moved in from elsewhere. They might have been born in Vermont, moved away, only to come back...or was born elsewhere, but felt the Kashi cereal magnetism that emanates from Vermont and felt drawn to its mountains of green. These people live in ornate Victorian homes that look like it was plucked from a Bronte sister book, run galleries for local artists, and grow their own manure pile in the backyard. They don't eat granola unless they've added a little extra tree bark for fiber. They drive Subarus. This is a fact. You will not drive in Vermont for more than 1/10th of a mile without seeing a half dozen Subarus fly past you. In fact, Vermont recently passed legislation that said the entire state is now just one giant Subaru dealership.

What is also clear about traveling throughout Vermont is that Robert Frost got around. Yes, Robert Frost was "New England's Poet." Apparently being New England's Poet meant he single-handedly kept the real estate market afloat in the early 20th century. This man seemingly owned homes, vacation spots, farms, dance clubs, yoga studios, and Chinese food restaurants. I've been to most every corner of New England over the years. At this point, it's clear Frost slept in more beds than Richard Gere in "American Gigolo." You drive for a half hour anywhere in northern New England and you're apt to see some Robert Frost real estate. (That includes one final piece of real estate: his burial plot in Bennington, VT.)

That's what makes Emily Dickinson easier to seek out. You might say she was a recluse or had some social anxiety disorder. I just say she was being kind and making things easier on a day tripper like myself. If Travelocity or Expedia want to hype a famous writer for tourists, they need to jump on the Emily Dickinson bandwagon. She's the anti-Frost, and especially the anti-Hemingway. (That's another blog for another day.) Birthplace? Home where she lived? Burial plot? Are you capable of walking 50ft without getting winded and needing a hit off an oxygen tank? If so, Emily is the woman for you! How helpful!

And best of all, you don't need to buy a Subaru to see it all.