From: jmk@cbnews.cb.att.com (joseph.m.knapp)
Subject: Inaugural Poem by Maya Angelou
Organization: AT&T
Date: Thu, 21 Jan 1993 19:50:03 GMT


A Rock, a River, a Tree, hosts to species long-since departed, marked
the mastadon, the dinosaur who left dry tokens of their sojourn here on
our planet floor. Any broad alarm of their hastening doom is lost in the
gloom of dust and ages, but today the Rock cries out to us clearly,
forcefully:

"Come, you may stand upon my back and face your distant destiny. But
seek no haven in my shadow; I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than the angels, have crouched too long
in the bruising darkness, have lain too long face down in ignorance,
your mouths spilling words armed for slaughter." The Rock cries out to
us today: "You may stand upon me, but do not hide your face."

Across the wall of the world, a River sings a beautiful song. It
says: "Come, rest here by my side, each of you a bordered country,
delicate and strangely made, proud, yet thrusting perpetually under
siege. Your armed struggles for profit have left collars of waste upon
my shore, currents of debris upon my breast; yet, today I call you to my
riverside -- If you will study war no more. Come, clad in peace, and I
will sing the songs the Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the
Rock were one, before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow, and
when you yet knew you still knew nothing."

The River sang and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to
the singing River and the wise Rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the
Jew, the preacher. They all hear the speaking of the Tree. They hear the
first and last of every Tree speak to humankind today:

"Come to me, here beside the River. Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed-on traveler, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name. You, Pawnee, Apache, Seneca. You,
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then, forced on bloody feet, left
me to the employment of other seekers desperate for gain, starving for
gold. You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the
Scot. You, the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Crow, bought, sold, stolen,
arriving on the nightmare, praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves
beside me. I am that Tree planted by the River which will not be moved.

"I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree, I am yours. Your passages
have been paid. Lift up your faces. You have a piercing need for this
bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain,
cannot be unlived, but if faced, with courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon this day breaking for you. Give birth again to
the dream. Women, children, men, take it into the palms of your hands,
mold it into the shape of your most private need, sculpt it into the
image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts. Each new hour holds
new chances for new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever to fear, yoked
eternally to brutishness. The horizon leans forward, offering you space
to place new steps of change.

"Here, on the pulse of this fine day, you may have the courage to
look up and out and upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your
country, no less to Midas than the mendicant, no less to you now than
the mastadon then. Here, on the pulse of this new day, you may have the
grace to look up and out and into your sister's eyes and into your
brother's face, your country, and say simply, very simply, with hope,
Good morning!"
Xref: sparky alt.politics.elections:25230 alt.politics.clinton:21438