(Photo: Twitter) Richard Blanco Greets President Barack Obama during Inauguration 2013.
Richard Blanco, the inaugural poet for President Barack Obama's second-term swearing-in, is the youngest inaugural poet ever at age 44.
Richard Blanco is an American poet who, as he puts it in his bio on his website, “was made in Cuba, assembled in Spain, and imported to the United States — meaning his mother, seven months pregnant, and the rest of the family arrived as exiles from Cuba to Madrid, where he was born.” From Madrid, Blanco soon emigrated to America and his family settled in Miami, where he was raised and educated, attending Florida International University. Blanco’s poetry has focused on identity, culture and the concept of home.
Blanco has published three books of poetry, “City of a Hundred Fires,” “Directions to the Beach of the Dead” and “Looking for the Gulf Motel.” Blanco he joins only four other poets to have presented their work during a president’s inauguration: Robert Frost, who read a poem during President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration, Maya Angelou, Miller Warren and Erin Moriarty, according to CBS News.
Blanco is the first Latino, immigrant, openly gay and the youngest inaugural poet, reports BBC. On Monday, which is not only Obama’s inauguration day but also Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Blanco read his inaugural poem, “One Today.” Blanco’s inaugural poem invokes American imagery, including the Great Lakes and the Rocky Mountains, as well as the aspirations of millions built on the efforts of their parents. Blanco also references King’s 1963 "I have a dream" speech and echoed Obama’s hope and optimism for the future. Blanco focuses on America but goes beyond the country he calls home, looking upward at the stars and the possibilities of what the future holds.
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors, each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper -- bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives -- to teach geometry, or ring up groceries as my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through, the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light breathing color into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains mingled by one wind -- our breath. Breathe. Hear it through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling, or whispers across cafe tables, Hear: the doors we open for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom, buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días in the language my mother taught me -- in every language spoken into one wind carrying our lives without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands: weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report for the boss on time, stitching another wound or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait, or the last floor on the Freedom Tower jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work: some days guessing at the weather of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother who knew how to give, or forgiving a father who couldn’t give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always -- home, always under one sky, our sky. 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
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