O President, My PresidentFirst written in January of 2003 for Sam Hamill’s Poets Against the War website, for which I was also a volunteer editor. See also “Beating about the Bush” and “Iraqi Boys.”
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O President! my President! our fearful trip is unbegun; The ship need not weather desert storms again, that prize need not be won; The port is here, the bells I hear, the poets now exulting, While follow eyes the trembling keel, the vessel thin and craving; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my President lies Compassion cold and dead.
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O President! my President! rise up and hear our bells; Rise up—for you peace flags are flung—for you our bugle trills; For you sobriquets and anxious pleas—for you the shores a-crowding; For you we call, the swaying mass, our fretful faces turning; Here President! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck Your compassion’s cold and dead.
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My President does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship of state is anchored safe, its voyage yet undone; The fearful trip, the hollow ship, its battles over-won; Plead, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my President lies, Compassion cold and dead.
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