The lyrical Democrat

[mawilson 2,133]

This week two poems by Barack Obama, published in a student magazine when he was 19,

came to light. So did the US presidential candidate miss his true calling? Fellow poet

Ian McMillan gives his expert verdict

We all have poems hidden away somewhere that we wrote when we were 19. It's a rite

of passage, the teenage poem, like the first pint or the first kiss. And like the first pint

or the first kiss, teenage poems are often sloppy and lukewarm and not as satisfying

as they ought to be.

Two of Barack Obama's poems were found in a literary review published in spring 1982

by Occidental College, a Los Angeles seat of learning that Obama briefly attended. The

magazine was called Feast, because student literary magazines are always called things

like that. Unless they're called something like Ashes, or something like Trombone Eggs.

The first poem, Pop, is more suited to a magazine called Ashes. It's a portrait in free-to-

middling verse of his grandfather, with whom the young Obama lived in Honolulu, and

the lines roll along in a wonderfully American way. There's not a lot of formal structure

to them, but he's obviously read the Beat poets and writers like Gary Snyder and

Charles Bukowski, who knew that the simple words are the best ones, as long as you

place them carefully on the page.

Barack likes his line breaks, his enjambments: let's end a line with "broken" and start it

with "in" just because we can! Let's make the reader think the chair is a broken chair

and then surprise them! Later on, the grandfather's eyes are "dark, watery" and his

neck is "thick and oily" as the teenage Obama relishes the sound of words and begins

to feel his way around the kinds of things they can do.

In one line Barack "shinks" away from grandpa, a strange word that, according to

urbandictionary.com, means "an evasive sinking manouevre", which is clever and poetic.

It could also mean to be hit in the face with a #######, which isn't. Or it could be a

typographical error.

There's a humanity in the poem, a sense of family values and shared cultural concerns

that give us a hint of the Democrat to come; towards the end of the poem Obama sees

his face "framed within/Pop's black-framed glasses/and know he's laughing too." He sees

himself reflected in his grandfather! If those lines don't end up in a campaign speech,

then I'm a tall thin Swede.

The other poem, Underground, is more suited to a magazine called Trombone Eggs, and

in some ways it's more typical of the kind of poem a 19-year-old might write. It's obscure,

faux naif, mock profound, and it's got the words "musty" and "pelts" in the same line. It

needn't concern us further; it'll rightly end up in the dustbin of history, but I'm sure we'll

hear from Pop again before the next election.

Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken

In, sprinkled with ashes,

Pop switches channels, takes another

Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man

Who fails to consider the

Flim and flam of the world, since

Things have been easy for me;

I stare hard at his face, a stare

That deflects off his brow;

I'm sure he's unaware of his

Dark, watery eyes, that

Glance in different directions,

And his slow, unwelcome twitches,

Fail to pass.

I listen, nod,

Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,

Beige T-shirt, yelling,

Yelling in his ears, that hang

With heavy lobes, but he's still telling

His joke, so I ask why

He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .

But I don't care anymore, cause

He took too damn long, and from

Under my seat, I pull out the

Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,

Laughing loud, the blood rushing from

his face

To mine, as he grows small,

A spot in my brain, something

That may be squeezed out, like a

Watermelon seed between

Two fingers.

Pop takes another shot, neat,

Points out the same amber

Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine,

and

Makes me smell his smell, coming

From me; he switches channels, recites

an old poem

He wrote before his mother died,

Stands, shouts, and asks

For a hug, as I shink*, my

Arms barely reaching around

His thick, oily neck, and his broad back;

'cause

I see my face, framed within

Pop's black-framed glasses

And know he's laughing too. *

("Shink" may be a typo, but the poem is reproduced as published.)

Underground

Under water grottos, caverns

Filled with apes

That eat figs.

Stepping on the figs

That the apes

Eat, they crunch.

The apes howl, bare

Their fangs, dance,

Tumble in the

Rushing water,

Musty, wet pelts

Glistening in the blue.

[almaty 19]

better than my poems...i wrote on bathroom walls

[Dr_LHA 3]

I'm guessing Obama will probably be preferred being referred to as the "Lyrical Democrat" than the "Magical Negro".