OBAMA TO AMERICA: WHERE IS YR GOD NOW?

Yr Obama-Hates-American-Jesus lede of the day:



As a professional journalist, headlines like that drive me bonkers – not just because NPR should know better than to use a question for a headline, but because they should know better than to use a silly question to which any sensible person knows the answer.

Which is: no.

Still, the article raises some interesting points about the perceptions behind the War On Religion meme – such as the tendency of Christian conservative politicians and pundits to drastically overstate the problem.

( And O Hell there he goes again ... )

You can’t always get what you want,

This is dF

WHO ARE YOU THAT DRAWS YOUR VEIL ACROSS THE STARS?

Re: This Writer’s Block Poetry Assignment:

I’m not a connoisseur of poetry by any stretch, but I did find myself spoiled for choice here. I was tempted to go for something by Bukowski or my favorite Poe poem (hint: it’s not “The Raven”), or possibly even a little Vogon poetry.

But I think I’ll go with something a little less obvious:

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Let America be America Again
by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

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

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

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

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Sheer bloody poetry,

This is dF

I’M NEITHER LEFT NOR RIGHT / I’M JUST STAYING HOME TONIGHT

Re: The previous poetry post …

This was another potential candidate – not really a poem, depending on whether you consider song lyrics to be poems, or whether you consider Leonard Cohen to be a poet or just a really good lyrics writer.

I guess it does call to mind the old debate about what counts as poetry – Shakespeare? Carl Sandberg? Jim Morrison? Bob Dylan? Helen Steiner Rice? Rod McKuen? Dianne Warren? Whatever poetry critics say it is?

I’m not that worried about it. It’s poetry if you want it to be.

Unless it’s mine, of course. In which case it’s just terrible gibberish.

But yeah, anyway, Leonard Cohen? Totally a poet.

I’m junk but I’m still holding up,

This is dF