by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
Tonight, in something akin to a television reality show, Donald Trump will unveil his Supreme Court pick - the second of his presidency. Trump released (as a campaign gambit) a list of people from which he would select Supreme Court appointees shortly before the 2016 general election - a list that was created by a couple of extreme conservative organizations and designed to keep his sheeple in a tight flock.
The "winner" of tonight's show will be bad news for America, a person who could negatively effect life and culture in the United States for four decades or more. The only question left to be answered at this point is just how awful will Trump's nominee be. How badly we are screwed will be a matter of degree.
With the subject of justice weighing heavily on my mind, I hit the internet this morning searching for a poem to illuminate that topic. My "winner" is a reflective verse about social justice by Chicago poet Eve L. Ewing. It is entitled "I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store" - and its focus is Emmett Till, the Chicago fourteen-year-old who was beaten and lynched by a group of vigilantes while he was visiting relatives in rural Mississippi back in 1955. Till was accused by a white, 21-year-old grocery store owner of flirting with her. Many years later the woman admitted that her testimony about Emmett Till had been false.
This is a beautiful poem in which the poet compares the murdered teen to the to the sweetness and delicacy of the plums that she imagines him buying. It reminds us of a bleak and mean era of American history, one which Donald Trump and his judicial "winners" seem to hold in a nostalgic respect.
If America is to grow better, our historical outrages - like the story of Emmett Till - must not be forgotten. Eve L. Ewing reminds us of our regrettable and shameful past, and she does it in a most eloquent manner.
I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store
by Eve L. Ewing
looking over the plums, one by one
lifting each to his eyes and
turning it slowly, a little earth,
checking the smooth skin for pockmarks
and rot, or signs of unkind days or people,
then sliding them gently into the plastic.
whistling softly, reaching with a slim, woolen arm
into the cart, he first balanced them over the wire
before realizing the danger of bruising
and lifting them back out, cradling them
in the crook of his elbow until
something harder could take that bottom space.
I knew him from his hat, one of those
fine porkpie numbers they used to sell
on Roosevelt Road. it had lost its feather but
he had carefully folded a dollar bill
and slid it between the ribbon and the felt
and it stood at attention. he wore his money.
upright and strong, he was already to the checkout
by the time I caught up with him. I called out his name
and he spun like a dancer, candy bar in hand,
looked at me quizzically for a moment before
remembering my face. he smiled. well
hello young lady
hello, so chilly today
should have worn my warm coat like you
yes so cool for August in Chicago
how are things going for you
oh he sighed and put the candy on the belt
it goes, it goes.
Poetry Appreciator
Tonight, in something akin to a television reality show, Donald Trump will unveil his Supreme Court pick - the second of his presidency. Trump released (as a campaign gambit) a list of people from which he would select Supreme Court appointees shortly before the 2016 general election - a list that was created by a couple of extreme conservative organizations and designed to keep his sheeple in a tight flock.
The "winner" of tonight's show will be bad news for America, a person who could negatively effect life and culture in the United States for four decades or more. The only question left to be answered at this point is just how awful will Trump's nominee be. How badly we are screwed will be a matter of degree.
With the subject of justice weighing heavily on my mind, I hit the internet this morning searching for a poem to illuminate that topic. My "winner" is a reflective verse about social justice by Chicago poet Eve L. Ewing. It is entitled "I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store" - and its focus is Emmett Till, the Chicago fourteen-year-old who was beaten and lynched by a group of vigilantes while he was visiting relatives in rural Mississippi back in 1955. Till was accused by a white, 21-year-old grocery store owner of flirting with her. Many years later the woman admitted that her testimony about Emmett Till had been false.
This is a beautiful poem in which the poet compares the murdered teen to the to the sweetness and delicacy of the plums that she imagines him buying. It reminds us of a bleak and mean era of American history, one which Donald Trump and his judicial "winners" seem to hold in a nostalgic respect.
If America is to grow better, our historical outrages - like the story of Emmett Till - must not be forgotten. Eve L. Ewing reminds us of our regrettable and shameful past, and she does it in a most eloquent manner.
I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store
by Eve L. Ewing
looking over the plums, one by one
lifting each to his eyes and
turning it slowly, a little earth,
checking the smooth skin for pockmarks
and rot, or signs of unkind days or people,
then sliding them gently into the plastic.
whistling softly, reaching with a slim, woolen arm
into the cart, he first balanced them over the wire
before realizing the danger of bruising
and lifting them back out, cradling them
in the crook of his elbow until
something harder could take that bottom space.
I knew him from his hat, one of those
fine porkpie numbers they used to sell
on Roosevelt Road. it had lost its feather but
he had carefully folded a dollar bill
and slid it between the ribbon and the felt
and it stood at attention. he wore his money.
upright and strong, he was already to the checkout
by the time I caught up with him. I called out his name
and he spun like a dancer, candy bar in hand,
looked at me quizzically for a moment before
remembering my face. he smiled. well
hello young lady
hello, so chilly today
should have worn my warm coat like you
yes so cool for August in Chicago
how are things going for you
oh he sighed and put the candy on the belt
it goes, it goes.
No comments:
Post a Comment