{"id":395,"date":"2008-12-24T10:43:30","date_gmt":"2008-12-24T10:43:30","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/nucleus-import\/?p=395"},"modified":"2008-12-24T10:43:30","modified_gmt":"2008-12-24T10:43:30","slug":"elizabeth-alexander-obama-chooses-inaugural-poet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/elizabeth-alexander-obama-chooses-inaugural-poet\/","title":{"rendered":"Elizabeth Alexander \/Obama Chooses Inaugural Poet \/"},"content":{"rendered":"
Elizabeth Alexander<\/div>\n

\nAlexander, a 46-year-old professor of African-American studies and a finalist for the 2005 Pullitzer Prize, will deliver her poem moments after Obama is sworn in as the country’s first black president on January 20, organizers said.Obama Chooses Inaugural Poet
\n December , 2008<\/p>\n

Prize-winning poet Elizabeth Alexander<\/b> will read at the swearing in of President-elect Barack Obama next month. According to government officials, Alexander will be the fourth poet in history to read at a presidential inauguration. Robert Frost <\/b>started the tradition when he read at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961. Since then, Bill Clinton asked Maya Angelou<\/b> to read at his inauguration in 1993 and Miller Williams<\/b> to read at his second inauguration in 1997.<\/p>\n

Learn more about Elizabeth Alexander at elizabethalexander <\/a>
\nas part of a US presidential swearing-in ceremony.<\/p>\n

“My joy at being selected to compose and deliver a poem on the occasion of Obama’s presidential inaugural emanates from my deep respect for him as a person of meaningful, powerful words that move us forward,” Alexander wrote on her website (www.elizabethalexander.net).<\/p>\n

E.Alexander\/poet<\/div>\n

\n“This is a powerful moment in our history. The joy I feel is sober and profound because so much struggle and sacrifice have brought us to this day,” she said.
\n—
\nfew poems by Elizabeth Alexander
\n1. CUVIER
\nScience, science, science!
\nEverything is beautiful
\nblown up beneath my glass.
\nColors dazzle insect wings.
\nA drop of water swirls
\nlike marble. Ordinary
\ncrumbs become stalactites
\nset in perfect angles
\nof geometry I\u2019d thought
\nimpossible. Few will
\never see what I see
\nthrough this microscope.
\nCranial measurements
\ncrowd my notebook pages,
\nand I am moving closer,
\nclose to how these numbers
\nsignify aspects of
\nnational character.
\nHer genitalia
\nwill float inside a labeled
\npickling jar in the Mus\u00e9e
\nde l\u2019Homme on a shelf
\nAbove Broca\u2019s brain:
\n\u201cThe Venus Hottentot.\u201d
\nElegant facts await me.
\nSmall things in this world are mine.
\n2.
\nThere is unexpected sun today
\nin London, and the clouds that
\nmost days sift into this cage
\nwhere I am working have dispersed.
\nI am a black cutout against
\na captive blue sky, pivoting
\nnude so the paying audience
\ncan view my naked buttocks.
\nI am called \u201cVenus Hottentot.\u201d
\nI left Capetown with a promise
\nof revenue: half the profits
\nand my passage home: A boon!
\nMaster\u2019s brother proposed the trip;
\nthe magistrate granted me leave.
\nI would return to my family
\na duchess, with watered-silk
\ndresses and money to grow food,
\nrouge and powders in glass pots,
\nsilver scissors, a lorgnette,
\nvoile and tulle instead of flax,
\ncerulean blue instead
\nof indigo. My brother would
\ndevour sugar-studded nonpareils,
\npale taffy, damask plums.
\nThat was years ago. London\u2019s
\ncircuses are florid and filthy,
\nswarming with cabbage-smelling
\ncitizens who stare and query,
\n\u201cIs it muscle? bone? or fat?\u201d
\nMy neighbor to the left is
\nThe Sapient Pig, \u201cThe Only
\nScholar of His Race.\u201d He plays
\nat cards, tells time and fortunes
\nby scraping his hooves. Behind
\nme is Prince Kar-mi, who arches
\nlike a rubber tree and stares back
\nat the crowd from under the crook
\nof his knee. A professional
\nanimal trainer shouts my cues.
\nThere are singing mice here.
\n\u201cThe Ball of Duchess DuBarry\u201d:
\nIn the engraving I lurch
\ntoward the belles dames, mad-eyed, and
\nthey swoon. Men in capes and pince-nez
\nshield them. Tassels dance at my hips.
\nIn this newspaper lithograph
\nmy buttocks are shown swollen
\nand luminous as a planet.
\nMonsieur Cuvier investigates
\nbetween my legs, poking, prodding,
\nsure of his hypothesis.
\nI half expect him to pull silk
\nscarves from inside me, paper poppies,
\nthen a rabbit! He complains
\nat my scent and does not think
\nI comprehend, but I speak
\nEnglish. I speak Dutch. I speak
\na little French as well, and
\nlanguages Monsieur Cuvier
\nwill never know have names.
\nNow I am bitter and now
\nI am sick. I eat brown bread,
\ndrink rancid broth. I miss good sun,
\nmiss Mother\u2019s sadza. My stomach
\nis frequently queasy from mutton
\nchops, pale potatoes, blood sausage.
\nI was certain that this would be
\nbetter than farm life. I am
\nthe family entrepreneur!
\nBut there are hours in every day
\nTo conjur my imaginary
\ndaughters, in banana skirts
\nand ostrich-feather fans.
\nSince my own genitals are public
\nI have made other parts private.
\nIn my silence I possess
\nmouth, larynx, brain in a single
\ngesture. I rub my hair
\nwith lanolin, and pose in profile
\nlike a painted Nubian
\narcher, imagining gold leaf
\nwoven through my hair, and diamonds.
\nObserve the wordless Odalisque.
\nI have not forgotten my Xhosa
\nclicks. My flexible tongue
\nand healthy mouth bewilder
\nthis man with his rotting teeth.
\nIf he were to let me rise up
\nfrom this table, I\u2019d spirit
\nhis knives and cut out his black heart,
\nseal it with science fluid inside
\na bell jar, place it on a low
\nshelf in a white man\u2019s museum
\nso the whole world could see
\nit was shriveled and hard,
\ngeometric, deformed, unnatural.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Alexander, a 46-year-old professor of African-American studies and a finalist for the 2005 Pullitzer Prize, will deliver her poem moments after Obama is sworn in as the country’s first black president on January 20, organizers said.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":546,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[45],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/395"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/546"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=395"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/395\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=395"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=395"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=395"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}