I have been wrestling lately with questions of what it means to be patriotic. These three poems have been part of the struggle. I distributed some of these earlier, but the first poem is new.
Becoming America
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.q
—Langston Hughes
America’s always becoming.
America is a becoming,
inhabited by us—all of us—
who are becomings,
always on the move to
becoming something
different, perhaps greater,
than we are today.
America is not a was,
because its was
was not good enough.
It did not respect,
did not encourage
everyone’s becoming.
and that’s not
good enough.
The American natives
were becomings, too,
but the future they could
become was blocked,
slaughtered—an entire race,
of becoming, a future that
could happen—by intruders
who could imagine
no future but their own.
The black man’s becoming
was twisted to conform
to the white man’s future.
The black becoming
served well and cheap
the future the whites
were becoming.
Enslaving enabled the future
of one, emasculated
the future of another.
Women served well, too.
Men’s becoming rested nicely
in the bosom of labors
provided by a more
pliant sex.
Was is a pleasant house
for those who are
anesthetized by
stories of the past,
but intolerable
for those who face
forward.
The present is a way station.
a pause on the path l
a foretaste of
America’s becoming.
We are the way station:
America’s becoming
will pass through us
on its way to the future.
You can’t teach an old dog
An ode to one-half of America
You can’t teach an old dog
new tricks—
not because the old dog
can’t learn
the dog has no desire
to learn something new
the memory of past
comforts is so sweet
it ought not be disturbed
pulsates still, warms the blood
hating old enemies
and fighting old wars
is most satisfying
just as gnawing on an old
bone best excites the taste buds
on the superannuated palate
the best companions
eschew as well the novel ways
let’s rally them to join in
sailing the waters of nostalgia
They set their sights so low
“My name, my personal brand,
is worth millions, I can’t let it
be cheapened!”
He spoke earnestly to the interviewer.
They set their sights so low—
When your name’s on a tombstone,
what is its worth?
Fame and celebrity
seem to count for a lot,
even seem to rub off
on those who touch
the sleeve of fame.
So many arse lickers
(as some would say)—
more than one imagines.
They set their sights so low—
Fame is like
yesterday’s newspaper—
a handy wrapper for today’s trash.
As If
A Prose Poem
Lives of denial carry on—
As if it isn’t of highest priority that our nation work to repair an imperfect union of many cultures and persons.
As if it is naive to believe the paths of power and truth should coincide.
As if it is of no consequence that all people are created equal.
As if it makes no difference that at our best we go forward two steps and backwards one.
As if it is not worthy of rational thinkers to hold that the profoundest law of nature, the basis of all things, is the Reality of Love.
As if it is a trivial question whether we are part of a world that is proceeding toward completion and fulfillment.
As if it is irrelevant that we are created in the image of God.
The engaged life is a wager that As If is a signal of the real world.
(c) Phil Hefner 7/7/2021
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