Barack Obama (President of the United States) wrote and published 2 Poems

Now it's time out. As the case with ALL prior poems published on this blog, I've included my opinion and a brief literary explanation of the poem.  However in this case, I've elected just to publish President Obama's poems on this blog without any explanation. As most of my readers know, I also write a blog called 'Obama in the White House' which can be found at http://www.obamainthewhitehouse.us .  Many people do not know that the President actually published the following two poems when he was a college student.   

Obama as Poet President Barack Obama Courtesy of Barack Obama: U.S. Senator for Illinois Web site  When President Obama was a 19-year-old student at Occidental College, he published two poems in the spring 1982 issue of Feast, the school's literary magazine. The first poem, "Pop," appears to capture a moment between the young Obama and his maternal grandfather, Stanley Dunham. The bond between the two is reinforced at the end of the poem by the framing and reflective properties of Pop's glasses. "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. When asked to comment on the merit of "Pop," Harold Bloom, Sterling Professor of the Humanities and English at Yale University, described it as “not bad—a good enough folk poem with some pathos and humor and affection.... It is not wholly unlike Langston Hughes, who tended to imitate Carl Sandburg." [1] Obama's poetry, Bloom makes clear, is much superior to the poetry of former President Jimmy Carter (Bloom calls Carter "literally the worst poet in the United States"). President Obama's second poem, "Underground," is more exotic and obscure: "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. Bloom feels that "Underground" is the better of Obama's two poems, reminiscent of some of D. H. Lawrence's poetry: “I think it is about some sense of chthonic forces, just as Lawrence frequently is—some sense, not wholly articulated, of something below, trying to break through.” [2] While President Obama's poetry displays some signs of talent, by choosing politics over poetry he made, like the other poetry-writing presidents before him, the right career choice. As Bloom notes: “If I had been shown these poems by one of my undergraduates and asked, Shall I go on with it?, I would have rubbed my forehead and said, On the whole, my dear, probably not. Your future is not as a person of letters.“ Although President Obama may not have written poetry since his college years, his fondness for poetry remains. Obama was seen carrying Derek Walcott's Collected Poems, 1948-1984 shortly after his election; invited Elizabeth Alexander to read a poem at his inauguration; hosted, along with First Lady Michelle Obama, a celebration of poetry, music and the spoken word at the White House; and noted in a recent interview that he reads Urdu poetry.  Notes 1. All quotations by Harold Bloom from Rebecca Mead's "Obama, Poet," (http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2007/07/02/ 070702ta_talk_mead, The New Yorker, July 2, 2007). 2. To read other assessments of Obama's poetry, many less positive than Harold Bloom's, see "Obama's Poetry Skills Draw Scrutiny" (http://media.www.oxyweekly.com/media/storage/paper1200/news/2007/04/04/News/ Obamas.Poetry.Skills.Draw.Scrutiny-2822022.shtml, The Occidental Weekly, April 4, 2007).

Poof gone bye bye (Poem)

Looking back sometimes makes you ask a simple question "Is it worth it?" You know that it is, but sometimes you work so hard at it, and in a moments time, it could be gone. That's almost funny, as it happened to me just yesterday while writing. All of a sudden, all of my time and effort to write was for not, because just as I was posting another poem here, my computer froze with the 'blue screen of death'. But then I came across this poem.Then I realized that it is worth it. A moment of uncontrolled anger hit me when it happened, but then I realized that all I lost were a few words. Here is a simple poem (author unknown) that had me laughing after that moment of anger. Has this ever happened to you while writing your blog?

 Poof gone bye bye (poem)

I sat here this morning with freezing cold feet

And wrote a poem that was beautiful and sweet 

And when I hit the button to make it post  now

It just vanished into thin air some how 

I worked so hard, it took me so long

And some how my poem just didn't belong 

Because it went poof, gone, bye bye

I trembled inside and wanted to cry 

Where did it go and why did it leave

I may never know,all I can do now is grieve 

Poof gone bye bye, it's gone out the door

My feet are still freezing,and my poem is no more