Number 40: Stephen Crane "The Wayfarer..."

The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."

--Stephen Crane

Hap Notes: I thought this might be an appropriate selection for MLK Day seeing as how Dr. King genuinely did speak truth to power and not everyone accepted that with grace and often reacted from fear.

Stephen Crane (1871-1900) is not as well-known for his poetry as he is for his classic novels (Red Badge of Courage, Maggie Girl of the Streets) and his short stories (The Open Boat, The Blue Hotel). Everybody read at least one of his books or stories in school if they went to a school that was even remotely literate.

I've always liked his poetry best, though. His spiny, compressed, sardonic parable-like verse is thought provoking and often elicits a wry and sad smile. He uses no rhyme and the meter is informal. It's over 100 years old yet it retains its modern detachment which isn't particularly surprising since Crane was one of the originators of the modern voice in prose; realistic, impressionistic and psychological.

Crane lived a short life (29 years) yet his output was generous; five books of fiction, two of poetry, two of war stories, three of short stories and lots of reportage. His friends included Joseph Conrad, Hamlin Garland, William Dean Howells and H.G. Wells. Hemingway was an admirer of his work.

The poem above probably needs no extra information to be understood but a good question to ask is, "Do we blame the wayfarer for not wanting to get cut/hurt? Do we accept the truth when it is painful?" The truth may set us free but it is not without peril. There is no old saying that goes, "The truth will make you safe." We maybe tend to think of truth as a simple thing but Crane implies it is not, and it is, at the very least, difficult and sharp.

Here's a good Crane quote: "Personally I am aware that my work does not amount to a string of dried beans- I always calmly admit it. But I also know that I do the best that is within me, without regard to cheers or damnation."

And another: "There is a sublime egotism in talking of honesty. I, however, do not say that I am honest. I merely say that I am as nearly honest as a weak mental machinery will allow. This aim in life struck me as being the only thing worth while. A man is sure to fail at it, but there is something in the failure."

You can read more Crane here: www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/stephen_crane/poems

Number 39: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe "The Erl King"

The Erl-King

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?”
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
“Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh, come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, ’tis thy fancy deceives;
’Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.”
“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They’ll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”
“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight.”
“I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou’rt unwilling, then force I’ll employ.”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last.”
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,—
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

---Goethe

Hap Notes: Had I but world enough and time I would just sit around reading Goethe all day. He must have been made out of verses he wrote so many of them and most of them are awesome. And no, I didn't think you were stupid when I separated the speakers in colors for the poem- I just thought it would be easier to read if you didn't have to fight through the brambles of all those separate quotation marks.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), born in Frankfurt, Germany, was a true polymath. His I.Q. has been estimated at anywhere between 180-240. He's one of the most famous names and forces in literature so I'm assuming you've heard of him. His name is pronounced, for all intents and purposes, "Gerdta"- or at least that's close enough so that you won't be calling him 'Go-Eth'. He was an incredible intellect; he did early writings on evolution (pre-Darwin) and plant morphology, discovered a bone in the human jaw, wrote plays and poems, painted and drew, wrote influential works on color theory, and was interested in mineralogy and linguistics. Dig this- his poetry has been set to music or inspired works by Beethoven, Mozart, Berlioz, Gounoud, Listz, Wagner, Mahler, Schumann and Schubert, just to name a few.

Want something a little closer to home? You know that cute Mickey Mouse cartoon in Fantasia about the sorcerer's apprentice with the brooms and the buckets of water? That's based on a 14 stanza poem by Goethe, "Der Zauberlehrling " (or in English- the magic student or the sorcerer's apprentice), The music by Dukas was inspired by Goethe's poem.

Goethe wrote so much and was influential to so many that it's hard to explain his impact in Europe for the last couple hundred years. No European school child is unfamiliar with him (I interviewed a Norwegian techno-dance band in 2003 and the band guys were thrilled that I knew Goethe's work- Johann has still got some pull.) He's, at the very least, the Shakespeare of the German speaking world.

Goethe said he was inspired to write this poem after seeing a man taking his young son to a doctor in the middle of the night. The son was wrapped in a blanket and the man was hurrying along worriedly. You can project that the child in the poem was seeing things in the delirium of fever, if you want. But I like to think of the Erl-King as mystical and real.

The Erl-king, literally means the "Alder King." The alder is a tree (see picture above) and I like the idea of the Erl-King being a king of the woods. The images in the poem sort of point to an army of tree-creatures. However, many prefer to translate it as the "Elf King" and you can also think of him that way, too.

The Erl King/Elf King was originally found in Danish folk tales that Goethe had read. In the folk tales, the daughters are the ones trying to snare the humans.

Goethe wrote dozens of story poems and ballads like this one. We'll see more of him this year, too. If my German was better I'd have translated this myself but I stuck to one that rhymed. Many people have translated his work so you can find other versions of this poem, too.

Here's a wonderful Goethe quote: "Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words."

You can not only find more Goethe here, you'll find a whole book with illustrations: oll.libertyfund.org/index.php?option=com_staticxt&staticfile=show.php%3Ftitle=2110&layout=html

Number 38: Buddhadeva Bose "Frogs"

Frogs

The rains have come, and frogs are full of glee.

They sing in chorus, in loud, jubilant voices.

Nothing to fear today: no drought, no dearth of worms, 

Nor serpent's jaw, nor stones of wanton boys.

Cloud-like, the grasses thicken: in the fields the lush waters stand;

Louder leaps their hour of brief immortality.

They have no necks, but their throats are rich and swollen; 

And o, what sleek bodies, what cold gem-like eyes!

Eyes staring upward, fixed in meditation,

Ecstatic, lidless, like rishis gazing on God.

The rain has ceased, the shadows slant;

Hymn-like floats their singing, on the slow, attentive air.

Now dies the day in silence, but a sombre drone 

Perforates the twilight; the thin sky leans to listen.

Darkness and rain: and we are warm in bed: 

Yet one unwearied phrase mingles in our sleep- 

The final sloka of the mystic chanting, 

The croak, croak, croak of the last fanatic frog.

-- Buddhadeva Bose (also translated by Bose into English)

Hap Notes: Buddhadeva Bose (1908-1974) is one of the major Bengali writers of the 20th century. He was a writing machine; he wrote novels, plays, poems, short stories, travelogues, memoirs and essays. He also wrote children's books, criticism and translations (he translated Baudelaire in Bengali). He was an editor and a publisher. You know the term "human dynamo"? It could be illustrated by his picture.

Bengali literature was influenced by the extraordinary work of Noble prize-winning writer Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) and Bose, while influenced by Tagore, was really the first to break through this and find his own voice. He inspired subsequent poets and writers to do likewise. (I'm very fond of the work of Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), one of the most popular Bengali poets and a colleague of Bose. We'll find some of his work, too.)

Bose did teach in the U.S. several times. He taught at Pennsylvania College for Women, Indiana University, Brooklyn College, Colorado University, Wesleyan College, and the University of Hawaii.

Here's what you probably need to know to understand "Frogs." A Rishi is a composer of Vedic hymns and a seer of sorts. Rishis were inspired to write through a higher state of meditative consciousness. A Sloka is a powerful two line prayer which describes the divine qualities of God.

It's a really charming poem. I love the idea of the frogs as meditative seers in the rain croaking out praises.

Here's an excerpt from Bose's Book, The Land Where I Found It All: "Our room in Ratankuthi had a large window that opened to the east. We had found it closed ever since we arrived, and had left it unopened. We were hardly ever in the rooms, and had paid scant heed to it. One afternoon, I was working at the table, plenty of wind blew in through the door in the south, yet it was very warm. Suddenly Makshirani came in and threw the window open. At once, great gusts of the untamed east winds blew away my papers, and amazed, we discovered a spectacular view lay before us. Alas, all those days we had left the window shut, and, unminding, robbed ourselves of such a feast that was ours for the taking."


You really cannot find much Bose poetry online in English but there is some here: www.kaurab.com/english/bengali_poetry/buddhadev-bose.html

Number 37: John Keats " On First Looking into Chapman's Homer"

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

--John Keats

Hap Notes: First of all, the picture of Keats (1795-1821) on the right is a 'lifemask' taken from Keats while he was very much alive in 1816- it's not one of those freaky death masks like they did of Washington or John Dillinger (there are two people who rarely occupy a sentence together!)

Keats, one of the most famous of the English Romantic poets, is talking about reading a translation of Homer by George Chapman (1559-1634). Chapman paraphrased much of the difficult dactylic hexameter of the original Greek into a more earthy and understandable English iambic pentameter or hexameter. There is nothing quite like reading a translation that reaches your heart and that's what Keats is so excited about. Keats knew Latin, most English school kids did, but not Greek. Keats had read other translations of Homer before (Pope's and Dryden's certainly). The Chapman translation was a revelation to him.

Keats' friend and teacher, Charles Cowden Clarke, gave Keats the Chapman translation and they stayed up all night reading it. Keats kept stopping in the middle of the reading to exclaim with excitement over some new passage that enchanted him. That morning, Clarke found this sonnet on the breakfast table. Keats had whipped out this (arguably) most famous of all Petrarchan sonnets in a couple of hours. (This made me exclaim aloud when I read this story!) I have no idea whether they are reading the Iliad, the Odyssey or both (Chapman translated both of them- I like to think they read both of them in one fevered sitting.)

Just imagine them staying up all night by firelight and candle-light reading this work. Have you ever read by candle-light deep into the night? There's a certain magic in it. (and a certain strain- it involves close reading.)

Keats is so excited by the translation that he mixes things up a bit. It was Balboa who "discovered" the Pacific ocean and was the first European to set eyes on it. Cortez actually first saw the Valley of Mexico from a peak in Panama in the province of Darien. Keats had been reading William Robertson's History of America and mixed up the two stories. He was going from memory and excited and tired and he came up with this brilliant poem so let's cut him a bit of historical slack here. Most of us could not write anything half so wonderful with Google and all 13 volumes of the Oxford English dictionary at our command. The point is, imagine what it was like to come over a peak of a mountain and see the vast, gorgeous expanse of the Pacific ocean for the first time- how heart-breakingly awestruck you would be.

The "new planet" he's talking about is probably Uranus which was discovered by astronomer William Herschel in 1781, important in the poem because it was not known to the ancients from the Greek isles he talks about earlier in the poem. So it's another "new" world, like the Cortez reference.

The octave (first eight lines) talks about the Greek isles and Homer, describing Homer's "territory", more or less. Homer is "deep browed" because he is thought to be brilliant and also sculptors always depict him with a brow wrinkled in thought. The sestet (last six lines) are what is called a "volta", a change as the poet now talks about the new worlds of discovery. Keats says he feels like he just discovered a "new world" with Chapman's translation.

The problem with all works that are translated is that you cannot read the words in the language yourself so you are counting on someone else with knowledge of the language to do so for you. Not everyone's translations will get the "feel" of the work- we are counting on another person to interpret each word for us, they are the filter the words are going through. When Faegle's translation of the Aeneid came out in 2006, everyone was aflutter, even now with a work written in the first century! (I liked it but I'm partial to the Fitzgerald version and the Browning version. Rolfe Humphries is good too. But the bits and pieces I've read of C.S. Lewis's version made me swoon.) My point is (yeah, I have one besides showing off how many translations of the Aeneid I've read (7)- I got obssessive) is that a good translation of a familiar work is like a bolt of divine lightning striking you. That's what Keats is so keyed up about.

I suppose I'm explaining it to death, here, since Keats' last four lines are elegantly perfect in their description.

Keats, by the by, was not a well-known poet during his short life. He trained to be a doctor, gave it up after he'd been fully trained in pharmacy and devoted his life, instead, to poetry. We'll surely do more Keats in the course of this year.

Here's a good Keats quote: "If poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all."

You can find more Keats here: www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/66

Number 36: Naomi Shihab Nye: "The Traveling Onion"

The Traveling Onion

It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship – why I haven't been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe. – Better Living Cookbook

When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.

And I would never scold the onion
for causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or its traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.

— Naomi Shihab Nye

Hap Notes: Naomi Shihab Nye (born 1952), currently a resident of San Antonio, Texas, comes from a family of mixed cultures. Her mom was an American and her father, Aziz Shihab, was a Palestinian journalist whose long career included work with the BBC, the St. Louis Globe Democrat, the Jerusalem Times, the San Antonio Express News and the Dallas Morning News as well as starting the American paper The Arab Star. Nye spent time in Jerusalem when she was 14 with her family and the cultural mix certainly influenced her life and work creating a sensitive awareness of the similarities and differences of the cultures of the world. Her work often carries the colors of that theme.

Nye has written children's books and poetry anthologies as well as poetry books. She has won the Pushcart Prize a whopping four times, the Paterson poetry prize and many notable book citations from the American Library Association.

"The Traveling Onion" is a seamless blend of layers with almost as many layers as an onion has itself. Cooks know that when an onion is put into a stew, or in fact any kind of broth or water, the water content in the onion, if cooked long enough, will cause the onion to sort of melt into the liquid. It's original physical presence gets reduced to merely a wisp of translucence and a taste. It can literally disappear, too, leaving only its flavor behind.

Now, you peel the layers from this poem, which has to do with so much, starting with its origins in India and ending up in a stew in America. But there's way more than that in the words. So much richness in this poem. Savor it.

Here's a great quote from Nye: "Poetry calls us to pause. There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on its own.”

You can find more Nye here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/naomi-shihab-nye

Number 34: Elizabeth Bishop "Filling Station"

Filling Station


Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color--
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO

to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

Hap Notes: Elizabeth Bishop's (1911- 1979) early childhood was composed of shuttling from one relative to another because her father died when she was 18 months old and her mother was committed to a mental institution not long after that. (Remember what her idea of family must be as you read this poem carefully- just a suggestion.) Bishop was a shy woman and a very precise one.

Once again I am forced to take back something I said about Robert Lowell. It's true that he wrestled over every word in his poetry but he was not afraid, and in fact relished the process, of tinkering with published work. He was constantly revising and picking at a poem. Bishop, who is, I think one of America's best poets, published only 101 poems her whole life. She was a polisher and each of her poems sparkle like gems. Now, that's what I call deliberating over each word. By the way, Lowell and Bishop were very close friends.

First, let's talk about the poem, then we'll go back to Bishop. It is obvious that the speaker in the poem has stopped at this station. A cursory glance at an ESSO station as one passed would not be so detailed. (ESSO stations are the first gas stations created by Standard Oil -Ess and Oh, the phonetic pronunciation of the letters S (Standard) and O (Oil). Standard changed their name to Exxon in 1973. ESSO is still used in Canada, I think.) So this is an old Standard Oil franchise run by a family which seems to be populated by mostly men.

Those of us old enough to recall old family filling stations like this will recognize things in this poem that younger people don't see. This gas station sells no convenience items like milk or bread. It may not even have a pop machine. These gas stations were often attached to a small house. "Do they live in the station?" Maybe. America was a much dirtier (in the sense of grease, oil, dirt, litter and pollution) when this poem was written. I can smell the thick, heavy odor of the grease and oil of this place as the poet describes it.

The sons may be filling up the tank of the car with gas- there were no "self-service" pumps then, the gas station employees did that. They are "quick and saucy" and probably glad to have some business. (The smart-ass in me wants to point out that back in those days businesses often liked having customers and were happy to see them and worked to help them.) The comic books provide the only note of "certain" color because they are not dirty, hence they are probably newer and being read by somebody who sits on the wicker furniture with the comfy dog. Admittedly the reading of comic books does not imply intellectual pursuits but it does indicate a certain youthfulness of the sons.

I've attempted to show pictures of some of the elements in the poem on the pictures to the right (top is a taboret, the next is the daisy stitch and the third is a begonia, which often have furry, hairy leaves.) The design touches in the poem are feminine, the wicker, the plant, the doily, regardless of their greasy and dirty exterior.

I've gone into detail about the particulars of this poem because I keep reading analyses of this poem written by people who've never seen such a thing as a "family" filling station and often misconstrue the poem as being one of haughty distaste for the working class. The poet doesn't particularly dislike the men working there, but she does notice the dirt, like most women would, I might add. If you are young enough, you've probably never seen a place this filthy.

It's a woman who would notice the dirt and a woman who would embroider a doily. Somebody at the station organizes the oil cans in a row. Somebody waters the plant or it would be dead. There is an order here. Some of it is just the difference between what a woman would do and a man would do to TRY to make a place look good. Somebody there loved the men there enough to put out creature comforts not necessary to the running of the business. When she says "Be careful with that match" it could be the poet just making a remark about the oiliness of the place or somebody (who?) could be lighting a cigarette.

The passing cars are "high strung," racing by, but the people at the filling station do not seem to be. Whoever it is that loved the men at the filling station is fighting a losing battle versus the grease and oil of the place. Now, I'll let you do your own work on the poem. Just wanted you to see what Bishop is describing because she is a close observer of life and a close reading will yield up interesting things but it won't if you don't know what she's describing. Bishop's poetry is full to the brim with her sharp observations about the way things look.

Bishop traveled a lot. Due to an inheritance from someone she had the wherewithal to do so. She was a lesbian although she and Robert Lowell toyed with the idea of getting married. (Lowell wrote a poem about this- it's called "Water" if you want to look it up.) She was U.S. Poet Laureate 1949-1950. She won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award and had Guggenheim Fellowships etc. etc.

Okay, should I drop the other shoe? I will, a little. I know the poem is somewhat amusing but I see it as something heartfelt, too. I used to feel like I was missing something as I got to the end of the poem. Now, I suspect the poet wants us to feel this way.

When the poet asks "Why oh why?" I think it's a comment on how futile it seems to love this dirty place- the decorations seem odd in a place so laden with grease and oil. Why would anybody bother? It's good to think that there is love in even in this dirty, oily place which is so opposite of what one expects love to be like. Love isn't always clean and neat and tidy, but it tries. Don't use this analysis for a term paper. Just warning you.

Here's a good quote by Bishop: "All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for something'. "

You can find more Bishop here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/elizabeth-bishop

Number 35: Robert Hayden "Those Winter Sundays"

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

-- Robert Hayden


Hap Notes: Robert Hayden (1913-1980) studied writing poetry under W.H. Auden at the University of Michigan and you can see traces of Auden's fingerprints on Hayden's brilliant poetry. Once again, a poet so gifted that one does not immediately see the craft and intelligence and work in the ease of the verse.

Hayden's childhood was one of exile, in a way. Born in Detroit, his parents gave him up when he was born. He was raised by foster parents (and took their name) who were as good to him as they were vicious in punishment. (Read his poem "The Whipping" sometime.) Parental arguments were frequent in the Hayden household. He had severe eye problems (note the very thick glasses.) This made it impossible to play sports like the other kids (I believe Detroit may be like much of the south, Alabama and Texas et. al.- where sports are an integral part of the life of a boy.) Reading was one of his only comforts.

Hayden ran into a bit of controversy in the 60s when other black poets and readers thought he should have identified his race with more vehemence in his poetry. The 60s were a wasp's nest of problems: civil rights, Vietnam etc. Hayden was of the Baha'i faith (he converted from Baptist when he married his wife in the early 1940s) and their belief is in the spiritual unity of all people and Hayden stuck to his guns. People are people first- race is a made-up difference. This was a very brave stance to take and he may have been a weak-looking bespectacled fella but he had the heart of a lion.

It wasn't that Hayden didn't understand the civil right movement. He was acutely aware of the problems of race in America and he fought for rights in his own way. It was that he did not believe that the violence and the harsh words would solve anything. I know this sounds like common sense but there's nothing common about it, as we all should know, but, obviously, do not.

This poem, especially after reading some details about his life, needs little augmentation from me. His father is breaking up wood for the furnace or cook stove that warmed the house. His father wakes up early, even on Sunday, to do this. His father polishes his "Sunday" shoes as he sleeps. Loneliness and love are the two human conditions that need warmth. The poem may be perfect in it's execution. The "chronic angers" of the house could be arguments, punishments or just plain coldness. It's a good poem to read in January when the weather is cold and you can feel the father's cracked and achy hands, feel the cold around you.

Hayden taught at Fisk University and the University of Michigan, I think. He was poet laureate of the U.S. from 1976-1978 (most folks only do it for a year). He was the first African-American to hold the post.

Here's a good Hayden quote: “[My poetry is] a way of coming to grips with reality . . . a way of discovery and definition. It is a way of solving for the unknowns.”


You can find more Hayden here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/robert-hayden