From: pages!bwebster@uunet.uu.net (Bruce F. Webster)
Newsgroups: soc.religion.christian
Subject: Re: Maya Angelou poem
Date: 27 Jan 93 05:18:29 GMT
Reply-To: pages!bwebster@uunet.uu.net
Organization: Pages Software Inc.

In article <Jan.24.23.42.28.1993.2930@athos.rutgers.edu> ee91ajh@brunel.ac.uk  
(Funk Adelic) writes:
> I'm trying to get hold of a copy of the poem read by Maya Angelou at the
> Inauguration.  

Here it is:

Inagural Poem
by Maya Angelou

   A Rock, A River, A Tree  
   Hosts to species long since departed,  
   Marked the mastodon.  
   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 more 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 today, you may stand on me,  
   But do not hide your face.  

   Across the wall of the world,  
   A River sings a beautiful song,  
   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 stone were one.  
   Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your  
   Brow and when you yet knew you still  
   Knew nothing.  
   The River sings 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 African and Native American, the Sioux,  
   The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek  
   The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,  
   The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,  
   The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.  
   They hear. They all hear  
   The speaking of the Tree.  

   Today, the first and last of every Tree  
   Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.  
   Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.  

   Each of you, descendant of some passed  
   On traveller, has been paid for.  
   You, who gave me my first name, you  
   Pawnee, Apache and 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 Swede, the German, the Scot ...  
   You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought  
   Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare  
   Praying for a dream.  
   Here, root yourselves beside me.  
   I am the 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, and if faced  
   With courage, need not be lived again.  

   Lift up your eyes upon  
   The 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 upon me, the  
   Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.  
   No less to Midas than the mendicant.  
   No less to you now than the mastodon 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, into  
   Your brother's face, your country  
   And say simply  
   Very simply  
   With hope  
   Good morning. 
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