" Ballad of Birmingham," by Dudley Randall

"Ballad of Birmingham," by Dudley Randall

Dudley Randall was born in 1914, in Washington D.C, and moved to Detroit in 1920. He published his first poem in the Detroit Free Press when he was just thirteen years old. He earned degrees in English and library science, and worked as a librarian until he retired in 1974. In 1965, he started Broadside Press, an important publisher of African-American poets and political writers. Randall was also known for translating Russian works and his experimental style of poetry. (information from the Poetry Foundation).

(On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)

“Mother dear, may I go downtown

Instead of out to play,

And march the streets of Birmingham

In a Freedom March today?”

“No, baby, no, you may not go,

For the dogs are fierce and wild,

And clubs and hoses, guns and jails

Aren’t good for a little child.”

“But, mother, I won’t be alone.

Other children will go with me,

And march the streets of Birmingham

To make our country free.”

“No, baby, no, you may not go,

For I fear those guns will fire.

But you may go to church instead

And sing in the children’s choir.”

She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,

And bathed rose petal sweet,

And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,

And white shoes on her feet.

The mother smiled to know her child

Was in the sacred place,

But that smile was the last smile

To come upon her face.

For when she heard the explosion,

Her eyes grew wet and wild.

She raced through the streets of Birmingham

Calling for her child.

She clawed through bits of glass and brick,

Then lifted out a shoe.

“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,

But, baby, where are you?”

Sunday, September 15, 1963; four young girls were killed and twenty-two others were injured in the bombing of a Church in Birmingham, Alabama. In, “Ballad of Birmingham,” the author reflects on this horrific and heartbreaking event through an unconventionally simple structure and rhyme scheme. 

 The poem begins with a conversation between a mother and her child. The rhythm is fast-paced, excited yet frantic, in order to display both the child’s longing to participate in the March and the mother’s desire to protect her child.  Innocence is contrasted with the violence in the streets; the danger of police dogs, fire-hoses, guns, and clubs. We see one last image of child, “bathed rose-petal sweet,” with her “white gloves on her small brown hands,” and her white shoes,” before the excited tone fades away with the beginning of the seventh quatrain.  No longer smiling after the sound of an explosion, the mother must claw through “bits of glass and brick” with her eyes “wet and wild” after the death of her child. Despite this devastating and serious topic, Randall uses a basic structure of eight quatrains with a simple ABCB rhyme scheme to mimic the sing-song nature of a nursery rhyme.   Having such a dark topic presented in a light-hearted manner further explains the message that nothing, not even a mother’s love can shield the world from racism.  It is structured in a way that is easy to remember, yet hard to forget; just like tragedy in Birmingham. Randall’s purpose is clear, hoping that with the poem’s directness and simplicity, we are able to remember events such as these in order to prevent them in the future.

"At the Hospital," by David Ferry

"At the Hospital," by David Ferry

David Ferry was born in 1924 in Orange, New Jersey. After his freshmen year attending Amherst College, he entered the Air Force, only to later complete his degree in 1948. He went on to earn a graduate degree at Harvard University, where he began writing poetry. His translations of texts, such as The Odes of Horace, and both The Eclogues and Georgics of Virgil, are known for their fluency and grace. Additionally, he has earned many awards for his poetry,  and in 1998 he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.  (information from the Poetry Foundation)

She was the sentence the cancer spoke at last,

Its blurred grammar finally clarified.

Life can end at an instant. In “At the Hospital,” Ferry emphasizes the transience of life and reminds us of our own mortality. The poem is short, in total only amounting to two lines comprised of a single sentence. However, it is this abruptness and brevity that the meaning and effectiveness of the poem relies on.  With the title, we expect to hear a story of healing occurring at the present moment. Instead, we are presented with the clinical reflection of a woman who has died of cancer. The poem begins with a generic, “she.” This both allows the readers to feel detached to the unknown character and connected by its universal application to our own lives. The briefness of the poem gives the single metaphor within it even more power. The “she” in the poem is said to be the “sentence the cancer spoke.” This precise wording gives the cancer power over the woman; it has been personified, becoming more than just a disease. This gives the readers a glimpse into how an illness can completely change or take over a person’s life. Despite the emphasized brevity however, the first line ends with the words, “at last,” implying that the road to the end of the sentence was a long journey of suffering. The metaphor continues into the second line, stating “Its blurred grammar finally clarified;” the “blurred grammar” representing the uncertainty of her future condition, and “finally clarified “representing the ultimate end of her life. The way in which this tragic end is discussed, while strangely cold and uncaring, provokes strong emotions and a feeling of sadness within the readers. We recognize that our own lives are just sentences, and that we should value each word we have the privilege to write.

"At the San Francisco Airport," by Yvor Winters

"At the San Francisco Airport," by Yvor Winters

Arthur Yvor Winters was born in Chicago in 1900, but grew up in Eagle Rock, California, near Pasadena. From 1917 to 1918 he attended the University of Chicago, however, at the end of his fall quarter in 1918 he was forced to stay at a sanatorium in New Mexico after discovering he had tuberculosis. Due to his forced isolation and bed-rest, he was able to immerse himself in contemporary poetry by reading little magazines and books of poetry. He later participated in the major poetic and critical movements of the 20th century, for example imagism, the expatriate transition scene, and new criticism. Winters became well known in the 1920s for his poetry, as a strong moralistic critic in the 1930s, and after being a professor of English at Stanford University, as an advocate for neglected poets. (information from the Poetry Foundation)

To my daughter, 1954

This is the terminal: the light

Gives perfect vision, false and hard;

The metal glitters, deep and bright.

Great planes are waiting in the yard—

They are already in the night.

And you are here beside me, small,

Contained and fragile, and intent

On things that I but half recall—

Yet going whither you are bent.

I am the past, and that is all.

But you and I in part are one:

The frightened brain, the nervous will,

The knowledge of what must be done,

The passion to acquire the skill

To face that which you dare not shun.

The rain of matter upon sense

Destroys me momently. The score:

There comes what will come. The expense

Is what one thought, and something more—

One’s being and intelligence.

This is the terminal, the break.

Beyond this point, on lines of air,

You take the way that you must take;

And I remain in light and stare—

In light, and nothing else, awake.

We commonly associate airports with two things: coming home or leaving for a journey. “At the San Francisco Airport” discusses the painful separation between a father (possibly Winters himself) and a daughter as she prepares to leave home. In the first line of this poem Winters provides us with the words, “This is the terminal.” The ambiguity of this phrase provides us with various meanings; not only does it denote the area in which she will be boarding the plane, but it also implies an ending to their time together. The father describes his daughter next to him as “small /Contained and fragile.” Although she is independent and ready to leave, he still sees her (as many fathers do) as his innocent little girl in need of constant protection. The sadness or the emptiness we feel when we lose someone we’re close to is expressed through the father’s dejected statement, “I am in the past and that is all.” However, he is comforted in the fact that the two of them “are in part one;”  “frightened” and “nervous” of the future, yet having “knowledge of what must be done, [and] the passion to acquire the skill.” 

  Instead of a simple “goodbye” or “see you soon,” Winters repeats, “This is the terminal, the break.” These words imply that this separation is permanent, that their relationship will never be what it once was. By analyzing the connotations of words such as “terminal,” “the break,” and “beyond,” the poem can take a more melancholy turn. The father could possibly be at the end of his life, afraid to leave his daughter alone as he “remain[s] in the light and stare[s].” 

"Morning," by Billy Collins

"Morning," by Billy Collins

Billy Collins was born in 1941 in New York City. He earned his BA from the College of the Holy Cross, and an MA and PhD. from the University of California. Collins has been called the "most popular poet in America" by the New York Times. His poetry is famous for its conversational, and witty style (his poetry often appearing quirky on the surface, but have profound observations on everyday subjects). People also say that Collins has a remarkably American voice, and he views his own poetry as unashamedly suburban and domestic. From 2001 to 2003, he served two terms as the US Poet Laureate.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon,

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,

his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—

throwing off the light covers,

feet on the cold floor,

and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,

a palmful of vitamins—

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

in the early morning.

Morning is the sign of a new start, new opportunities, and a new day.  Why then would we ever want to “bother with the rest of the day?”  Within the poem, “Morning,” the author uses a carefree tone and a relatable setting in order to express how much he enjoys his simple morning routine. 

Collins begins his poem with the stark contrast between the images of the refreshing calm of the early morning and the dull darkness of the night. To help his audience visualize the setting, he uses vibrant action verbs such as buzzing, throwing, splash, etc.; words that make us feel energized as he begins his daily routine.  When Collins discusses the “swale of the afternoon,” the “sudden dip of the evening,” and the notorious night with its many “pointed stars,” his diction is much more harsh and passive, and he loses his light-hearted tone.

Common with many of Collins’ other poems, he uses situations that everyone can relate to; the domestic or suburban life of the average American. We have all experienced the feeling of throwing off our covers in the morning, the feeling our feet on cold wooden floors, or the shock of caffeine from coffee or espresso.  He writes about a “dictionary and atlas on the open rug,” a typewriter waiting to be used, and a literal window into the outside world of possibilities. These everyday objects illustrate the idea of a fresh-start, the opportunity to begin again, and the joys of having a peaceful morning.

[I celebrate myself, and sing myself] from "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman

[I celebrate myself, and sing myself] by Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman is considered to be one of America's most significant nineteenth century poets. He was born on Long Island, and grew up in Brooklyn, receiving a limited education. During the span of his life, Whitman held jobs as a printer, a schoolteacher, a reporter, and an editor.He received little critical acclaim during his life for his "openness regarding sex, his self-presentation as a rough-working man, and his stylistic innovations" according to The Longman Anthology of Poetry. Whitman also worked as a clerk in Washington D.C. during the Civil War; his experiences visiting soldiers and dressing wounds inspiring new works of poetry. (information from The Poetry Foundation)

1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

In section one of Walt Whitman’s, “Song of Myself” the speaker, presumably Whitman himself, is praising and rejoicing in his life and the beauty that surrounds him.  Whitman begins the poem with, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,” giving the audience an initial impression that the poem will be an ode to individualism. Instead, Whitman places importance on recognizing the union of his individual self and universal self, stating, “And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”  He explains that we are all made from the same basic parts, “form’d from this soil, this air, Born here of parents of parents the same, and their parents the same.” 
Whitman further shares with his audience that at “thirty-seven years old” his perfect health and new beginnings have only just begun. In the lines following, he discusses “Creeds and schools and abeyance.” These represent old schools of thought; structured styles of writing that are “never forgotten,” but ones we must abandon in order to fully express the beauty of human thought and originality. This belief in “retiring back” from the old ways is expressed through the use of free verse and the often unashamed explorations of democratic ideals present in Whitman’s writing. He further explains that he wants to rejoice in all aspects of life, both good and bad experiences, because each hold a beauty and energy all their own. He will “permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.”

"Eden," by Emily Grosholz

"Eden," by Emily Grosholz

Emily Grosholz, famous poet, literary critic, and philosopher, was born and raised in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She attended the Univerisity of Chicago, were she received her B.A. in 1972, and she also attended Yale University where she received her Ph.D. in philosophy in 1978. Grosholz was also a world traveler, widely exploring Italy and Greece and living in France, Germany, and England. She is the professor of Philosophy and African American Studies and Fellow of the Institute for the Arts and Humanistic Studies at the Pennsylvania State University, and Life Member of Clare Hall, University of Cambridge. She is married to medievalist, Robert R. Edwards, and together they have four children. Grosholz has published four books of poetry and has received grants for her poetry from the Guggenheim and the Ingram Merrill Foundations.

In lurid cartoon colors, the big baby
Dinosaur steps backwards under the shadow
Of an approaching tyrannosaurus rex.
“His mommy going to fix it,” you remark,
Serenely anxious, hoping for the best.

After the big explosion, after the lights
Go down inside the house and up the street,
We rush outdoors to find a squirrel stopped
In straws of half-gnawed cable. I explain,
Trying to fit the facts, “The squirrel is dead.”

No, you explain it otherwise to me.
“He’s sleeping. And his mommy going to come.”
Later, when the squirrel has been removed,
“His mommy fix him,” you assert, insisting
On the right to know what you believe.

The world is truly full of fabulous
Great and curious small inhabitants,
And you’re the freshly minted, unashamed
Adam in this garden. You preside,
Appreciate, and judge our proper names.

Like God, I brought you here.
Like God, I seem to be omnipotent,
Mostly helpful, sometimes angry as hell.
I fix whatever minor faults arise
With band-aids, batteries, masking tape, and pills.

But I am powerless, as you must know,
To chase the serpent sliding in the grass,
Or the tall angel with the flaming sword
Who scares you when he rises suddenly
Behind the gates of sunset.

All parents worry for the safety of their child.  In Emily Grosholz’s narrative poem, “Eden,” she explores the theme of wanting to preserve the innocent and naïve nature of children.  The beginning of the poem has an almost whimsical feel to it. It has a light-hearted tone, discussing “lurid cartoon colors” and “big baby dinosaur[s],” elements that seem to come from the ever-active imagination of a child.  The theme of preserving innocence is further explored after the child finds “a squirrel stopped in straws of half-gnawed cables. “ In the midst of death, the ignorant optimism of the child convinces him that the squirrel is merely sleeping, and that “mommy will fix him.” We are placed inside the mind of a child, the mask of “mommy will fix it’’ protecting us from real life.

                The tone of the poem begins to shift with the third stanza. Instead of the light-hearted tone that reflects the mind of the child, it becomes profound as we look into worried the mind of the mother. The mother alludes to the Garden of Eden; comparing her child to the “freshly minted, unashamed Adam” and herself to God. Like God, she is an omnipotent creator, always there to fix “whatever minor faults arise with bandaids, batteries, masking tape, and pills.” The tone is instructive, yet mournful, as the mother still longs to protect her child, teaching them how to see the cartoon colors in a world full of squirrels in half-gnawed cables.  However, she knows she is “powerless”  to the evil, pain, and destruction in the world; the “serpent sliding in the grass.”

"Museum Piece," by Richard Wilbur

"Museum Piece," by Richard Wilbur

Richard Wilbur was born in New York City in March, 1921. Because his grandfather and great-grandfather were editors, Wilbur showed an early interest for journalism. He became a student at Amherst College in the early 1940's, writing stories, editorials, and poems for his college newspaper, and attended Harvard University later in life. His writing is strongly influenced by his experience of serving in World War II; his poems formal, traditional, and reflective in order to "organize oneself and the world."  Wilbur succeeded Robert Penn Warren as the second poet laureate of the United States in 1987, has won two Pulitzer Prizes, a National Book Award, and many other honors. He was is famous for his translations of French verse.

The good gray guardians of art
Patrol the halls on spongy shoes,
Impartially protective, though
Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse.

Here dozes one against the wall,
Disposed upon a funeral chair.
A Degas dancer pirouettes
Upon the parting of his hair.

See how she spins! The grace is there,
But strain as well is plain to see.
Degas loved the two together:
Beauty joined to energy.

Edgar Degas purchased once
A fine El Greco, which he kept
Against the wall beside his bed
To hang his pants on while he slept. 

We read poems without giving them a second thought. Paintings are passed by in museum halls without a second glance. Works of art that have been toiled on for days, months, even years on end, are set aside with blatant disregard. “Museum Piece,” by Richard Wilbur discusses this lack of appreciation for all artwork, despite the individual beauty each piece possesses.

            Common to other works by Richard Wilbur, “Museum Piece,” is a standard and traditional poem, with four stanzas that use simple language. The first stanza begins with security guards, “good gray guardians of art,” patrolling the halls of a museum. However, instead of carefully “guarding” the artwork, they are asleep upon a “funeral chair, " while "A Degas dancer pirouettes upon the parting of his hair.” Whether it is a dislike of the art, or simply indifference, Wilbur uses this imagery to comment on the public’s general lack of appreciation. Through his description of the painting in the third stanza, we are made aware of the strain and care put into each work of art, or each piece of poetry. With the grace and beauty of each, comes a small piece of the artist or poet; the emotions they want to express, their voice, and a glimpse into their character.

            Wilbur uses this poem as a metaphor for being a poet. He must be the artist, taking a risk to hang up his work for the world. However, no matter how much of himself he pours into a poem; there will always be someone that will “hang his pants” on it at the end of the day.