Donald J. Trump, Will You Please Go Now!

Wednesday

In July, 1974 (according to Wikipedia), Dr. Seuss went through a copy of Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!, scratching out the name of the eponymous protagonist each time is appeared and writing in “Richard M. Nixon.” Two months later Nixon resigned.

Seuss’s amendments seemed so natural that, for the longest time, I thought the author had written the book with Nixon in mind. It’s certainly possible since the book was published in 1972, when Nixon was running for reelection, but my theory is probably far-fetched. Marvin resembles more the bratty kid next door who won’t ever leave, a Denice the Menace sort.

With that being acknowledged, however, the text will speak to millions if read in light of our just concluded election. Just go, Go, GO, Mr. Trump!

Incidentally, the book has a happy ending. “The time had come. So…Marvin went.” The national and the world breathlessly await the moment.

The time has come.

The time has come.
The time is now.
Just go. Go. GO!
I don't care how.

You can go by foot.
You can go by cow.
Marvin K. Mooney,
Will you please go now!

You can go on skates.
You can go on skis.
You can go in a hat.
But please go. Please!

I don't care.
You can go by bike.
You can go on a Zike-Bike
if you like.

If you like you can go
in an old blue shoe.
Just go, go, GO!
Please do, do, DO! 

Marvin K. Mooney,
I don't care how.
Marvin K. Mooney,
will you please GO NOW!

You can go on stilts.
You can go by fish.
You can go in a Crunk-Car
if you wish.

If you wish you may go
by lion's tail.
Or stamp yourself and go by mail.

Marvin K. Mooney!
Don't you know
the time has come
to go, Go, GO!

Get on your way!
Please, Marvin K.!
You might like going
in a Zumble-Zay.

You can go by balloon
or broomstick.
OR
You can go by camel
in a bureau drawer.

You can go by Bumble-Boat
or jet.
I don't care how you go.
Just get!

Get yourself a Ga-Zoom.
You can go with BOOM!
Marvin, Marvin, Marvin!
Will you leave this room!

Marvin K. Mooney!
I don't care HOW.
Marvin K. Mooney!
Will you please GO NOW!

I said GO and GO
I meant

The time had come.
SO...
Marvin WENT.
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Lear Also Doesn’t Step Down Gracefully

James Pittendrigh McGillivray, “King Lear”

Tuesday

Those familiar with Shakespeare knew that a narcissist like Trump would not relinquish power and privilege quietly if he lost the election. That’s because we’ve read King Lear.

I’ve compared Trump to King Lear numerous times (for instance, here and here), but this is the first time the comparison involves how the two handle failure. Both throw a hissy fit when they no longer command everyone’s full obeisance. Trump’s accusations of voter fraud are par for the course.

Their situations differ in that Lear willingly gives up his leadership position—he is not booted from office—but Trump is like Lear in that he didn’t care about leading. Being president for him was chiefly about having his ego stroked, which is what Lear wants as well. Narcissist that he is, Lear thinks people will keep stroking after he steps down.

Act II is about his rude awakening.

Lear’s elder daughters provide the shock. While their father is in power and has goodies to dispense, Goneril and Regan prove the equal of any Trump sycophant with their assurances of love. Here’s Goneril:

Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e’er loved, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Once her father has stepped down and his retinue is partying in her castle, however, Goneril sings a different tune. The way she and her sister systematically strip their father of his dignity is a case study in sadistic humiliation.

The situation is as follows: Lear’s 100 knights help him maintain his illusion of primacy. Goneril, however, demands that he cut the number in half and Regan in half again. In his panicked response, Lear lashes out with words designed to cut as deep as possible:

Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful!
Into her womb convey sterility!
Dry up in her the organs of increase;
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honor her! 

Then, when Regan proves just as obdurate, he is reduced to groveling:

LEAR (to Goneril): I’ll go with thee:
Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty,
And thou art twice her love.

The daughters respond by making Lear feel as small as possible:

Goneril: Hear me, my lord;
What need you five and twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?
Regan:What need one?

Lear responds with threats reminiscent of a four-year-old:

I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall–I will do such things,–
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep
No, I’ll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I’ll weep.

The rage continues as Lear goes mad. In the famous storm passage, he sees the rain and thunder as extensions of himself and fantasizes that their power is wrecking the world:

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, an germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!

That most people experiencing the storm will not be thinking of Lear is something he cannot imagine.

Later, Lear stages a mock play where he imagines justice—or vengeance—being meted out to his daughters. The part of Goneril is played by a joint-stool

Lear: Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honorable assembly, she kicked the poor king her father.
Fool: Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?
Lear: She cannot deny it.
Fool: Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.
Lear: And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim
What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!
Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place!
False justicer, why hast thou let her ‘scape?

By Act IV, the cognitive dissonance has turned Lear entirely mad he as he wanders about the heath. In short, he first lashes out, then grovels, then lashes out again, then indulges in power and revenge fantasies, and finally loses it altogether. Trump appears to be going through a number of these stages.

In his madness, however, Lear arrives as some insights that I suspect may elude Trump, although we’ll see. The mad king comes to see through his sycophantic advisors:

They flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to every thing that I said!–‘Ay’ and ‘no’ too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.

It also remains to be seen whether Trump, like Lear, will discover that a force exists, love, that is greater than self. Lear must reach rock bottom to realize this, but it is the play’s silver lining. In Dante terms, this would get Lear to Purgatory and ultimately to Paradise to reunited with his daughter. Put another way, for a few hours he experiences divine love. Inferno is a symbol for those who remain forever trapped in ego.

We’re hearing that certain of Trump’s allies, to soften the blow, are talking to him of his great legacy. This, however, is just a continuation of the enabling that has kept him trapped in the hell of self. A narcissist who loses the spotlight comes to see himself as nobody, which is what he has feared and secretly believed all along. That he is only the fourth president in the past one hundred years to be defeated while running for reelection can’t help.

Lear changes after he loses everything except for Cordelia’s love. Trump would have to fall much further before reaching that point.

And speaking of those charging voter fraud

Someone tweeted a Yeats line in response to one of the funnier things to happen in 2020. Apparently Trump lawyer Rudy Giuliani, in setting up a press conference on Democratic voter fraud, made a venue mistake. Thinking he was booking a Philadelphia hotel, he instead rented the landscaping firm Four Seasons Total Landscaping, situated in an outlying strip mall between an adult bookstore and a cremation center. Tweeter @SlactivistFred pulled from Yeats’s “Crazy Janes Talks with the Bishop”:

Giuliani chose the venue, a nursery and fertilizer supplier betwixt a sex shop and a crematorium, as a deliberate and profound meditation on the human condition. As Yeats wrote, ‘Love hath pitched his mansion in/ The place of excrement.”

In actuality, however, the poem doesn’t fit that well. Crazy Jane is making the point that “fair and foul are near of kin/ And fair needs foul.” In the case of the Trump administration, however, we have not seen a dynamic tension of opposites. It’s all been foul.

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Seamus Heaney’s Healing Vision

Monday

Last week I shared one of president-elect Joe Biden’s favorite poems, which appears in Seamus Heaney’s verse translation of Sophocles’s Philoctetes, retitled The Cure at Troy. In the play, Heaney has the chorus imagining a time when “the longed for tidal wave/ Of justice [will] rise up/ And hope and history rhyme.”

If we merge that sentiment with former New York Governor Mario Cuomo’s observation that politicians “campaign in poetry but govern in prose,” we must now hope that Biden can rise to this hope-rhyming historical moment and provide prosaic but effective governance. Devising a comprehensive plan to address Covid and its economic ramifications will be a good start.

Governing will be difficult, however, and not only because Donald Trump leaves such a mess behind him. As president, Trump has inculcated a belief amongst many GOP politicians that they face little accountability for lying and mismanagement, and Majority Leader Mitch McConnell may well dedicate himself to destroying Biden’s presidency, just as he did Barack Obama’s.

Not all Republicans are so callously cynical, however. Even some who worked in the Trump administration came to recognize the damage he was doing to the country and got out. The drama at the center of Cure at Troy is of a young man who rediscovers his principles and stands up for what is right.

Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, is on a mission with Odysseus to persuade the archer Philoctetes to return to the Greeks since the Trojan War cannot be won (so they have learned) without the famed archer’s legendary bow. This after the Greeks have marooned Philoctetes on an island because his repulsive injury and incessant moans are driving everyone crazy. The crafty Odysseus, knowing that the embittered Philoctetes will never listen to him, figures that he may come to trust the young and innocent Neoptolemus. To that end, he persuades Achilles’s son to pretend he too has been shunned by the Greeks, thereby winning Philoctetes’s sympathy.

Because Neoptolemus considers such subterfuge a violation of his integrity, he balks at first but then reluctantly goes along. After all, what are one’s moral qualms when the fate of the Greeks is at stake? The ploy works, Neoptolemus gets hold of Philoctetes’s famed bow, and the transactional Odysseus regards the mission as accomplished. He has gotten what he wanted and now feels free to jettison the archer.

Neoptolemus, however, has second thoughts and returns the bow to Philoctetes. Odysseus is furious:

Odys: What has you so worked up? Why can we not
Just rise and go? What’s on your mind?
Neop: I did a wrong thing and I have to right it.
Odys: What was that?
Neop: I did this whole thing your way.
Odys: We were Greeks with a job to do, and we did it.
Neop: I behaved like a born liar.
Odys: But it worked!
It worked, so what about it?
Neop: Not for me.
And I’m not leaving til the thing’s put right.
Odys: It’s the bow. You’re having second thoughts.
Neop: What else?
Odys: You mean you’re going to just give it back?
Neop: The scales will even out when the bow’s restored.

Odysseus threatens dire repercussions but Neoptolemus remains firm.

Having reestablished trust with Philoctetes, Neoptolemus then attempts to persuade him to return to the Trojan war. The archer is understandably suspicious—is this just a new trick?—but Neoptolemus is now speaking to him as a friend. The young man tells Philoctetes that, having been so damaged by Greek rejection, so filled with resentment, he no longer can see his higher destiny:

Your courage has gone wild, you’re like a brute
That can only foam at the mouth. You aren’t
Bearing up, you are bearing down. Anybody
that ever tries to help you just gets savaged.
You’re a wounded man in terrible need of healing
But when your friends try, all you do is snarl
Like some animal protecting cubs.

Philoctetes isn’t buying, however, and insists on Neoptolemus keeping his promise to take him home. Neopotolemus  says he will be true to his word, and the Greek cause appears to be doomed.

At this point in Sophocles’s play, we have a divine intervention from Hercules, a deus ex machina, who tells Philoctetes that he must return to Troy. While Heaney has been tracking the Sophocles play fairly closely to this point, he departs and has has the chorus deliver Biden’s beloved poem. Internal miracles and sea change are indeed possible, they inform the archer. Channeling Hercules, they speak of new life:

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.

Hercules doesn’t literally speak from the sky in Heaney’s version. Rather, his words represent Philoctetes’s internal breakthrough:

Philoctete (crying out): Hercules:
              I saw him in the fire
Hercules
                was shining in the air
I heard the voice of Hercules in my head.

Hercules is thematically important as a man who has achieved divinity. Referring to his fabled labors, Hercules explains to Philoctetes (through the chorus),

I have opened the closed road
Between the living and the dead
To make the right road clear to you.
This is the voice of Hercules now.

Here on earth my labors were
The stepping stones to upper air:
Lives that suffer and come right
Are backlit by immortal light.

As I read these lines, I think both of recovering Trumpists and of all those Americans who feel that they are emerging from four years of an abusive relationship. Having rationalized or been in a defensive posture for so long, they can begin to dream again. Hercules (through the chorus) tells Philoctetes that he must think higher than simply returning home to safe and sound Scyros:

So let my mind light up your mind
You must see straight and turn around.
You must complete your oath-bound course
You cannot yet return to Scyros.

Go, Philoctetes, with this boy,
Go and be cured and capture Troy.
Asclepius will make you whole,
Relieve your body and your soul.

Go, with your bow. Conclude the score
And cruel stalemate of our war.

With our intense polarization, we have our own stalemate, as did the two countries on Heaney’s mind when he wrote the play in 1990: apartheid South Africa and fractious Northern Ireland. Both were on the cusp of miraculous breakthroughs, which is one reason why Heaney–again departing from Sophocles’s script–warns against reprisal killings and shrine violations from the forces of liberation. Continuing with his instructions to Philoctetes, Hercules says,

            But know to shun
Reprisal killings when that’s done.

Then take just spoils and sail at last
Out of the bad dream of your past.
Make sacrifice. Burn spoils to me.
Shoot arrows in my memory.

And, Neoptolemus, you must be
His twin in arms and archery.
Marauding lions on that shore,
Troy’s nemesis and last nightmare.

But when the city’s being sacked
Preserve the shrines. Show gods respect.
Reverence for the gods survives
Our individual mortal lives.

In South Africa there would be the Truth and Reconciliation process, which sought for forgiveness and healing, even as it insisted also on accountability and justice. Something comparable should occur now as the Biden-Harris administration looks back at the most corrupt and self-dealing administration in U.S. history.

When Philoctetes hears Hercules’s words, he feels like a new person. Suddenly love of country supersedes his resentments:

Philoctetes: Something told me this was going to happen.
Something told me the channels were going to open.
It’s as if a thing I knew and had forgotten
Came back completely clear. I can see
The cure at Troy. All that you say
Is like a dream to me and I obey
Neoptolemus: And so will I.
Hercules (through chorus): Then go, immediately.
The winds are blowing and the tides are high.

And in the chorus’s final words:

Now it’s high watermark
And floodtide in the heart
And time to go.
The sea nymphs in the spray
Will be the chorus now.
What’s left to say?

Suspect too much sweet talk
But never close your mind.
It was a fortunate wind
That blew me here. I leave
Half-ready to believe
That a crippled trust might walk

And the half-true rhyme is love.

Carry the hope with you into 2021 that a crippled trust might walk again.

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The Stars Weep with Happiness

Vincent van Gogh, Starry Night

Spiritual Sunday

My dear friend Sue Schmidt sent me the following Tom Hennen poem, which seems a perfect poem following America’s bitter election. Love must be key, and love is easier if we acknowledge God’s gifts I imagine “America the Beautiful” playing in the background as I read “From a Country Overlooked”:

From a Country Overlooked

There are no creatures you cannot love.
A frog calling at God
From the moon-filled ditch
As you stand on the country road in the June night.
The sound is enough to make the stars weep
With happiness.
In the morning the landscape green
Is lifted off the ground by the scent of grass.
The day is carried across its hours
Without any effort by the shining insects
That are living their secret lives.
The space between the prairie horizons
Makes us ache with its beauty.
Cottonwood leaves click in an ancient tongue
To the farthest cold dark in the universe.
The cottonwood also talks to you
Of breeze and speckled sunlight.
You are at home in these
great empty places
along with red-wing blackbirds and sloughs.
You are comfortable in this spot
so full of grace and being
that it sparkles like jewels
spilled on water.

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Our New President Understands Suffering

Biden hugs autistic son of a Parkland shooting victim

Saturday

In a time of suffering—one million Covid cases, a quarter of a million Covid deaths, economic collapse–we now know that our next president will be a man who himself has suffered and who has developed an extraordinary capacity for empathy. In other words, Biden may be just the leader America needs at this moment.

To mark the occasion, I turn to a passage from Aeschylus’s Agamemnon written 2500 years ago

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

Such wisdom came to the president-elect. May it come to the United States of America.

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“Stalin’s Epigram” and the Trump Era

Poet Osip Mendelstam after Stalin-ordered arrest

Friday

One of this blog’s goals is to show how an acquaintance with literature can help us through troubled moments. To that end, I love sharing stories about the poems and stories that people turn to. New Yorker’s Masha Gessen, a keen observer of life under autocrats who came to America after fleeing Vladimir Putin, recounts how she has been surfacing an Osip Mandelstam line while agonizing through the last few days.

Appalled that Donald Trump has made the race close, even after separating children from their families, lying daily, and spectacularly botching the Covid pandemic (we are now seeing 100,000 new cases daily), she has been telling herself, “We live without sensing the country beneath us.” 

The line is from “Stalin’s Epigram,” a 1933 poem that helped send Mandelstam to the gulag, where he died in 1936. The line, Gessen says,

seemed the best way of describing the state of disorientation and disbelief that marked Tuesday night. Too much of the country wasn’t what any of us thought or hoped it was, whether “we” were my friends and family and me, the mainstream media, the pollsters, or almost anyone I’d heard speak about the election in the last weeks.

Gessen walks us through the poem, choosing from various translations dependent upon which seem more applicable to our situation:

“Our speech is inaudible at ten paces,” reads the next line. We not only don’t know what happens in our country—we cannot speak and be heard; we are deaf to one another, and we are mute. In the time of social isolation, we are indeed almost inaudible at ten paces. We are also barely visible to one another, with half of our faces obscured by masks.

“But where enough meet for half-conversation / The Kremlin hillbilly is our preoccupation” is how Scott Horton translated the next two lines. “They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / His words, as solid as weights of measure.” The brute in charge is inescapable: he is our common obsession and our shared reality. Even as he continues to tear us apart, he brings us together in what conversation there is.

The second stanza, in Clarence Brown and W. S. Merwin’s translation, speaks to “the spectacle of sycophancy, the unceasing performance of dominance,” that we have been witnessing in the Trump administration:

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
He toys with the tributes of half men.
One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

“He alone goes boom” perfectly captures the narcissism, not only of Stalin and Trump, but pretty much of any autocrat.

The following lines compare the decrees of an autocrat to a kick from a horse:

David McDuff translated the next lines as follows: “He forges his decrees like horseshoes— / some get it in the groin, some in the forehead. / some in the brows, some in the eyes.” These lines evoke not only rule by decree but government as attack, as daily bodily assault. “He rolls the executions of his tongue like berries,” the translation by Brown and Merwin goes, and then the penultimate line of the poem: “He wishes he could hug them like big friend back home.”

Given Stalin’s history, “rolling the executions of the tongue like berries” sounds particularly sinister. While Trump doesn’t have the same power to mete out death, the image does get at the ego satisfaction he gets from hearing himself speak at his rallies. He loves his fans—sometimes he talks about kissing and hugging them—but it’s only because they adore him. That love can turn on a dime.

Gessen says that “Stalin’s Epigram” was circulated underground in 1960s Russia and eventually published in the west in the 1970s. Every line, she says, captures

the sense of not knowing where we live and who we share a country with; the stultifying feeling of not hearing and not being heard, of the isolation that is both the precondition and the product of totalitarianism; and most of all, the daily exercise of demonstrative humiliation and deliberate cruelty.

And in conclusion:

It has all happened before; it has been described.

Here’s the poem in its entirety:

Stalin’s Epigram

By Osip Mandelstam
Trans. W.S. Merwin and Clarence Brown

Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.
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2020: Wandering between Two Worlds

Henry Alexander Ogden, Battle of Spotsylvania

Thursday

As we await final vote tallies from a handful of states, I’ve come across a couple of poetic allusions that I appreciate. I love the tweet (author unknown) that riffs off of the final lines of T. S. Eliot’s “Hollow Men,” a poem that I have applied to Trump’s enablers

This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang but a WI/MI/PA.

In other words, Trump appears ready to go out with a whimper rather than a dramatic bang, what with his complaints about non-existent voter fraud, his frivolous lawsuits, his premature victory declaration, and his pleas to the Supreme Court to stop absentee vote counts (but only in states where he is ahead). In the end, I suspect, he will slink from the scene, skipping Biden’s inauguration.

Francis Wilkinson of Bloomberg News, meanwhile, alluded to Matthew Arnold’s “Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse.” In this 1850 poem, the poet is a tourist seeking refuge in the Grand Chartreuse monastery from his capitalistic, machine-driven society. As he watches the monks go about their prayerful routines, he believes he is witnessing a society that is passing away:

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride—
I come to shed them at their side.

Wilkinson writes,

The state of U.S. politics is dangerous dysfunction. A new nation is struggling to be born. An old nation is doing all it can to make it a stillbirth. And the toll of that struggle is rising.

To be sure, Wilkinson is less ambivalent about the new nation than Arnold. He is a liberal excited by the new order whereas Arnold is a conservative threatened by change (like many of Trump’s evangelical supporters):

If Biden prevails, as seems increasingly likely, and the Republicans hold the Senate, Republicans will devote themselves to using the Senate to destroy Biden’s presidency.

There is an enormous grassroots churning in the U.S. right now, from Black Lives Matter to suburban women organizing their neighborhoods. A future is coming into view. Yes, the anti-majoritarian Senate and Electoral College are serious impediments. But scores of millions of Americans voted for Trump.

In his most famous poem, Arnold describes being “on a darkling plain,/ Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,/ Where ignorant armies clash by night.” It would be a false equivalence to say that Trump and anti-Trump voters are equally ignorant, but, yes, there has been a lot of clashing in a dark time.

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After the Storm

Thomas Moran, Sunset after a Storm

Wednesday

I had to post today’s essay before polls closed yesterday so I don’t know the outcome. An “after the storm” poem, however, seems appropriate regardless of which side you support given all the “permutations of Satanic sound” we have been experiencing.

Hopefully, both sides will embrace poet William Baylebridge’s final hope: if we can have “clemency anew” following one of nature’s storms, can’t we also see an end to “the rancor of the unsensing heart”?

For the good of the country, pray that this proves to be the case.

After the Storm

The storm is done--the lightning with its lust
To rend the unhallowed dome in ruin dire;
The purple heaps, from the rank chaos thrust
On sheets of fell and inauspicious fire;
The thunder bellowing loud on every bound;
The hissing bolt, so tossed as to complete
All permutations of Satanic sound;
The flood that opened heaven and ransomed it.
Benign now is that beatific blue.
The flame that fires the hill is now remote
From aught in evil. Clemency anew
--Crowns every leaf, and sings in every throat.
Shall, then, the rage of earth and heaven depart,
And not the rancor of the unsensing heart?

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Whitman: Ballots Like Snowflakes Falling

Walt Whitman

Tuesday – Election Day

Walt Whitman got it right: America’s “quadriennial choosing” is more impressive than Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Yellowstone, the great lakes and the Mississippi River. Using a nature metaphor, the poet describes our votes as “the final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,/ The countless snow-flakes falling.”

For Whitman, our democratic process comprises the macro and the micro. Seen in the aggregate, it is “this seething hemisphere’s humanity.” But because each voter is also an individual, it is “the still small voice vibrating.” If Biden wins and there is a seamless transfer of power, then Whitman will be once again proved right when he calls our system “the peaceful choice of all” and “a swordless conflict/ Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s.”

Whitman is himself prepared to accept the result of the 1884 election, a mudslinging affair in which Grover Cleveland’s illegitimate child attracted far more attention than his impressive corruption-fighting record. Even if “darker odds, the dross” prevail, the process itself will triumph, Whitman believes. The dross itself “foams and ferments the wine…[I]t serves to purify.” As long as “the heart pants, life glows.”

A turbulent election will not sink the ship of state, Whitman confidently asserts. After all,

stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

We’re praying, of course, that our current gust doesn’t prove so stormy that it destroys democracy altogether. Trump would be more than willing to capsize the boat if it meant staying in power. He is no Washington, Jefferson, or Lincoln.

All my life, going back to the Kennedy-Nixon contest, I have shared as a matter of faith Whitman’s confidence that our democratic institutions will hold. This has been the first election where I have had doubts.

Election Day, November, 1884

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

Previous Election Day Posts
Nov. 2010 – Elections Got You Down? Read Samuel Johnson
Nov. 2012 – Lit Options for Election Day Defeat (Tom Jones, Beowulf)
Nov. 2014 – Election Day as Trollope Describes It
Nov. 2016 – Nussbaum: Lit Produces Good Voters
Nov. 2018 – Silko: Light and Darkness Wrestle for America’s Soul

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