'On The Pulse Of Morning' : An Inaugural Poem by Maya Angelou


A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Marked the mastodon,

The dinosaur, who left dried tokens

Of Their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.



But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly,

forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,



But seek no haven in my shadow,

I will give you no hiding place down here.



You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness

Have lain too long

Facedown in ignorance,

Your mouths spilling words



Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,

You may stand upon me;

But do not hide your face.



Across the wall of the world,

A River sings a beautiful song. It says,

Come, rest here by my side.



Each of you, a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet today I call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more.



Come, clad in peace,

And I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I and the

Tree and the Rock were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The River sang and sings on.



There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew

The African, the Native American, the Sioux

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,



The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.

They hear. They all hear

The speaking of the Tree.



They hear the first and last of every Tree

Speak to humankind today.

Come to me,

Here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside the River.



Each of you, descendant of some passed-

On traveler, has been paid for.



You, who gave me my first name, you,

Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you

Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then

Forced on bloody feet,

Left me to the employment of

Other seekers -- desperate for gain,

Starving for gold.



You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede,

The German, the Eskimo, the Scot,

The Italian, the Hungarian, the Pole,

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought

Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

Praying for a dream.



Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am that Tree planted by the River,

Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree

I am yours -- your passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need

For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,

Cannot be unlived, but if faced

With courage, need not be lived again.



Lift up your eyes

Upon this day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.



Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands,

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts

Each new hour holds new chances

For a new beginning.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.



The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space

To place new steps of change

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out and upon me,

The Rock, the River, the Tree, you country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.



Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes,

And into your brother's face,

Your country,

And say simply

Very simply

With hope --

Good morning.

January 20, 1993

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