Occasional Poetry
A poem written to
describe or comment on a particular event and often written for a public
reading. Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade” commemorates a disastrous battle in the
Crimean War. George Starbuck wrote “Of Late” after reading a newspaper account of a Vietnam War protester’s suicide.
Elizabeth Alexander’s “Praise Song for the Day” was written for the inauguration of
President Barack Obama.
“The Charge of
the Light Brigade”
I
Half a league,
half a league,
Half a league
onward,
All in the
valley of Death
Rode
the six hundred.
“Forward, the
Light Brigade!
Charge for the
guns!” he said.
Into the valley
of Death
Rode
the six hundred.
II
“Forward, the
Light Brigade!”
Was there a man
dismayed?
Not though the
soldier knew
Someone
had blundered.
Theirs
not to make reply,
Theirs
not to reason why,
Theirs
but to do and die.
Into
the valley of Death
Rode
the six hundred.
III
Cannon to right
of them,
Cannon to left
of them,
Cannon in front
of them
Volleyed
and thundered;
Stormed at with
shot and shell,
Boldly they
rode and well,
Into the jaws
of Death,
Into the mouth
of hell
Rode
the six hundred.
IV
Flashed all
their sabres bare,
Flashed as they
turned in air
Sabring the
gunners there,
Charging an
army, while
All
the world wondered.
Plunged in the
battery-smoke
Right through
the line they broke;
Cossack and
Russian
Reeled from the
sabre stroke
Shattered
and sundered.
Then they rode
back, but not
Not
the six hundred.
V
Cannon to right
of them,
Cannon to left
of them,
Cannon behind
them
Volleyed
and thundered;
Stormed at with
shot and shell,
While horse and
hero fell.
They that had
fought so well
Came through the
jaws of Death,
Back from the
mouth of hell,
All that was
left of them,
Left
of six hundred.
VI
When can their
glory fade?
O the wild
charge they made!
All
the world wondered.
Honour the
charge they made!
Honour the
Light Brigade,
Noble
six hundred!
“Praise Song for the Day”
A Poem for
Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration
Each day we go
about our business,
walking past
each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not,
about to speak or speaking.
All about us is
noise. All about us is
noise and
bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our
ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is
stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a
uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the
things in need of repair.
Someone is
trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of
wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello,
boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her
son wait for the bus.
A farmer
considers the changing sky.
A teacher says,
Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter
each other in words, words
spiny or
smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to
consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt
roads and highways that mark
the will of
some one and then others, who said
I need to see
what’s on the other side.
I know there’s
something better down the road.
We need to find
a place where we are safe.
We walk into
that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain:
that many have died for this day.
Sing the names
of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the
train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the
cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick
the glittering edifices
they would then
keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for
struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for
every hand-lettered sign,
the
figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love
thy neighbor as thyself,
others by
first do no harm or take no more
than you
need. What if the
mightiest word is love?
Love beyond
marital, filial, national,
love that casts
a widening pool of light,
love with no
need to pre-empt grievance.
In today’s
sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can
be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink,
on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for
walking forward in that light.
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