Again another eclectic evening with Bill Moyers, one that had me laughing while I cried. That is the most effective way to teach harsh subjects ~the ones that would either crush our spirit or we turn away from in horror.
First up is the Yes Men. These gentlemen take the insult ,which is something I decry in the hands of amateurs ,and raise it to the level of art .The link will take you to the whole segment ,it is a terrifying yet hilarious insight on our god, money and those who make it.
The immigration issue, it’s racial overtones have been~ I think discussed is a generous way to describe what has passed over these web pages the last few days.(At bakersfield.com). Here is a window into the life and soul of a second generation American ,son of immigrants, second segment is also found at the link, but there are those who do not click a link. What follows is an example of poetry as a tool to fight the fear of the other.The other is a reflection on war.
MARTÍN ESPADA: (reading poem) This is called “Return.”
245 Whitman Avenue, east New York, Brooklyn. Forty years ago, I bled in this hallway. Half-light dimmed the brick like the angel of public housing. That night, I called and listened at every door: In 1966, there was a war on television.
Blood leaked on the floor like oil from the engine of me. Blood rushed through a crack in my scalp; blood foamed in both hands; blood ruined my shoes. The boy who fired the can off my head in the street pumped what blood he could into his fleeing legs. I banged on every door for help, spreading a plague of bloody fingerprints all the way home to Apartment 14F.
Forty years later, I stand in the hallway. The dim angel of public housing is too exhausted to welcome me. My hand presses against the door at Apartment 14F like an octopus stuck to aquarium glass; blood drums behind my ears. Listen to every door. There is a war on television.
MARTÍN ESPADA: (reading poem) “Between the Rockets and the Songs” New Year’s Eve 2003.
The fireworks began at midnight, golden sparks and rockets hissing through the confusion of trees above our house. I would prove to my son, now twelve, that there was no war in the sky. Not here. so we walked down the road to find the place where the fireworks began. We swatted branches from our eyes, peering at a house where the golden blaze dissolved in smoke. There was silence, a world of ice, then voices rose up with the last of the sparks, singing, and when the song showered down on us through the leaves we leaned closer, like trees. Rockets and singing from the same house, said my son. We turned back down the road, at the end of the year, at the beginning of the year, somewhere between the rockets and the songs.
BILL MOYERS: What inspired that?
MARTÍN ESPADA: Again, this was an actual incident. It was New Year’s Eve. There was this great noise outside. There was this brilliant light. My son became very nervous.
BILL MOYERS: How old was he?
MARTÍN ESPADA: At that time, he was 12 years old. He’s now 15 and a half. And I knew that he was making these connections. He expressed this to me. He believed that we were being bombed. He believed that the war was happening on our street, the war he had been seeing on television, the war we had been protesting, the war we had all been talking about. And so I decided to show him that on one level, anyway, there was nothing to be afraid of.
And we took a walk until we found the source of the light and the source of the noise. And remarkably, it stopped and then the singing began. And to me, that moment felt like the choice that we’re now all confronted with as a society. Are we gonna choose rockets? Or are we gonna choose songs? Are we gonna choose war? Or are we gonna choose peace? Are we gonna choose violence or are we gonna choose poetry? And we are at that crossroads, not only my generation, but my son’s generation and the generation that we saw at that school in the Bronx, where those teachers are showing those kids, taking them by the hand and saying, “Here are the rockets and here are the songs. Choose the songs.” That’s why I was there
He is also working with students, giving them voices .One student says poetry is about ideas,” That’s what poets do, they help spread ideas”.The traveling troubadours, the bards, that great tradition in and of all cultures is continuing through her. She has a excellent short poem on the clip, and segments of a moving one about her father called “Poppy’s shoes”. Espada is certainly an interesting poet with a unique eye. His works will not solve great problems ,perhaps not even move any hearts .But ,for me at least ,being able to view life through someone else allows me greater vision~ a viewpoint beyond my limited experience.
Again Bill Moyers~ who is my secret crush ,with that voice, his laugh` delivers an excellent hour of American life. Friday nights PBS.I recommend a weekly date. Here is the link to his PBS website where you can watch this show and past shows, read Bill’s blog and a host of other resources.
6 Comments
I love his hour and never miss it, for me its much too short. I tape it just to make sure I don’t fall asleep and miss it. Thank you for writing about this..I think his show should be required watching for everyone in America, not just progressives.
That poem was perfection…very thought provoking. Thanks Sage…I missed the show.
i don’t exactly have a crush on bill- but he is the truthiest american i know. he has been at the forefront of a small movement to force the press to do its job. he continues to be a journalist with integrity and honor- and honesty. for that- i have the utmost respect.
Bill Moyers has been around for a long time, and has kept his integrity over the years. That is an excellent poem. I think poetry is not only “about ideas” as the student said, but ideas fueled with emotion. The power of the emotion behind it is what drives the idea(s) in a good poem.
It’s a shame Moyers is stuck on PBS where the viewership is low. He always has great topics, snd he is one of the few left who feature stories about working America.
I, too, have a crush on Bill Moyers, & especially that broad Southern drawl–so deliberate (in the best sense of the word).
However, I’m completely in love with that Martin Espada’s poetry ~ “the dim angel of public housing too exhausted to welcome me!” Brilliant!