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WASHINGTON (AP) - Poets don't typically write to order.

You can't just call them up and ask them for a poem. Not even for an inauguration.

But The Associated Press did ask. And they did write.

The inauguration of a new president just seems to be a fitting time for poetry, and so 10 American poets accepted the AP's invitation to come up with a little something to mark Barack Obama's ascension to the presidency.

The poems came from an eclectic assortment of American wordsmiths, ranging from a former poet laureate and a Pulitzer Prize winner to a self-described "cowboy poet."

Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate from 2001 to 2003, submitted "launch," containing shimmery imagery of a boat set afloat under "the sun's golden rafters."

In "Making the News," Californian Gary Soto wrote about setting a match to the newspaper and letting "the bad years go up in a question mark of smoke."

Novelist and poet Julia Alvarez, who spent her first 10 years in the Dominican Republic, wrote a rebuttal to the poem that Robert Frost had recited at John F. Kennedy's inauguration in 1961.

Alvarez remembers watching Kennedy's inauguration and being fascinated with the "old, cranky, white-haired man" who recited "The Gift Outright." Later, she studied the poem and came to see it as overlooking huge swaths of the U.S. population.

Frost's poem focused on the American colonists from England and stated that "The land was ours before we were the land's." Alvarez countered that "The land was never ours, nor we the land's: no, not in Selma, with the hose turned on, nor in the valley picking the alien vines. Nor was it ours in Watts, Montgomery - no matter what the frosty poet said."

Themes of change and hope were everywhere in the poems.

In "The Procession," Yusef Komunyakaa wrote that "Each question uncurls a little whip in the air. Can we change tomorrow?"

In "The World Has Changed," Alice Walker, who won the Pulitzer Prize for "The Color Purple," exhorted readers to "wake up & smell the possibility."

Almost as poetic as some of the poems that arrived were the comments of poets who either said they'd give it a try, or who wouldn't think of it.

Nathaniel Mackey explained that writing an inaugural ode would be a challenge because "I tend to write in a rather dark vein." Nothing came of his pledge to try.

Sandra Cisneros wouldn't make any promises, writing that "I just go to sleep, and it's just born or it's not." It wasn't.

Charles Simic, another former poet laureate, said "it's impossible to say yes or no. ... I can't write to order. ... When do you need it by?"

His good intentions didn't bear fruit.

New Yorker Sharon Olds deemed her efforts unworthy.

"It's as I suspected," she e-mailed. "I'm not able to come up with anything near good enough, tho I used a lot of paper!"

Andrei Codrescu, who was born in Romania and became a U.S. citizen in 1981, wasn't one even to venture a try.

"I voted for Obama, but I grew up under Ceausescu," Codrescu wrote of the former Romanian dictator. "The idea of writing poems for people in power gives me the creeps."

There was some modesty among those who did venture to write something.

Soto - winner of too many poetry prizes to list - sent his in with the instructions: "feel free to edit."

Alvarez sent hers along with the caveat that "it's in the nature of occasion poems to be somewhat disposable."

The AP set no ground rules for the poems. But poet David Lehman, editor of the Best American Poetry series, decided his should meet the same guidelines as those established for an inaugural ode contest sponsored by the poetry series that he edits. Writers were required to use at least three of six designated words (integrity, faith, change, hope, power and honor.) Lehman managed to work five into a poem that offered Obama the wish that "May God, in this winter hour, shine on your countenance and teach you to balance the heart's poetry and the mind's power."

Digital poet Christopher Funkhouser bypassed the whole words-on-paper realm to create a swirl of bouncing letters and words that form and re-form on a video screen. He ended up creating three poems, explaining: "I couldn't manage to do just one!" You can see them at: http://wepress.org/inauguration/

Bob Holman, founder of the Bowery Poetry Club in New York, happened to be in West Africa filming a documentary on oral storytellers when the request for a poem arrived. He drew inspiration from his surroundings to write "Africa goes for Obama!"

Cowboy poet Ted Newman penned a plea to Obama to "be the president our country needs."

Amiri Baraka, former poet laureate of New Jersey, took a short cut and sent in something he'd written about Obama last February: "Imagine Obama Talking To A Fool."

One of the poets who didn't respond to the AP's invitation was poet Elizabeth Alexander. It turns out she'll be reciting an original poem at the inauguration.

Apparently, Obama's invitation took priority over the AP's.

Poems written for the inauguration of Barack Obama as 44th president.

Launch

A boat is sliding into the water today

to test the water and the boat

 

which glides down a grassy bank

the prow touching the wavelets

 

then another push

and the length of it up and buoyant

 

the tapered length of it floating

toward the middle on its own

 

as we watch from the shore

pointing to the heavy clouds coming in

 

from every side

but now above us only the sun's golden rafters

 

and the boat afloat

out there on the bright surface of the water.

 

--By Billy Collins.

---

The land was never ours, nor we the land's:

no, not in Selma, with the hose turned on,

nor in the valley picking the alien vines.

Nor was it ours in Watts, Montgomery--

no matter what the frosty poet said.

We heard the crack of whips, the mothers' moans

in anthems like an undertow of grief.

The land was never ours but we believed

a King's dream might some day become a deed

to what we did not own, though it owed us.

(Who had the luxury to withhold himself?)

No gift outright for us, we earned this land

with sorrows currency: our hands, our backs,

our Rosas, Martins, Jesses our Baracks.

Today we give our land what we withheld:

the right at last to call itself one nation

 

--By Julia Alvarez.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Julia Alvarez. By permission of Susan Bergholz Literary Services, New York and Lamy, NM. All rights reserved.

---

 

Making the News

 

 

It's not right to burn newsprint,

The stink of ink in the air,

But I have to crumple at least a few pages

And strike a match in the fireplace--

The bad years go up in a question mark of smoke.

 

Or should I make confetti from the sports section,

Or shape a dunce hat from the business page--

I, the investor in rubber bands

That shot me in the foot.

 

Or should I cut out coupons--

Two cans of soup for the price of one.

Or, for a laugh, should I spread open the comics

On the kitchen table and string a macaroni necklace,

The playground craft I could master.

 

I choose smoke and fire,

The sting in my eyes on this January day,

And poke a wreath of newspaper

Until it crackles with a steady fire.

 

Let's air out the square and oval rooms.

Let's wave at a dog frolicking on the lawn.

Let's hear children and the tap of rain on a tulip.

Let's welcome the new resident to our house,

His handshake strong from the clasp of so many.

 

--By Gary Soto.

 

---

 

The Procession

 

Yes, the dust of the Great Migration

is in our dreams & on the soles of our feet,

but we can foxtrot into this bandaged season

limping toward us from the fog. Each question

uncurls a little whip in the air. Can we change

tomorrow? Can we love what's in the deep mirror

& trace fault lines beneath nocturnal streets?

Loneliness & anger always know the road home.

Now the long-lost ones stand at the threshold

& gaze into our eyes. Please don't turn away,

don't retreat into caves of artificial light

& borrowed lowly laughter brimming up.

There's a hard, long road ahead. Nights

& days ahead, one foot in front of the other.

 

Days ahead, one foot in front of the other

is how we ascend Jacob's tangled ladder.

Bring your lantern & philosopher's stone,

your pick & shovel, ball of twine, hook

& sinker, your slide ruler & plumb bob.

There's some faithful work to be done

on this hill & down in the valley, too.

Bring your running shoes & baseball cap.

I tell you, I'm no one's Benjamin Banneker,

but I know a cul-de-sac is a whiplash

& slipknot. Sometimes you have to bow

to self-given thorns, or weave around a body

of water. Some things you argue against

or for, & then you go straight through bedrock.

 

You have to go straight through bedrock

to find hope, I said. You can't kill the past

to erase a page. Cut out a tongue singing delta,

& still a windy lamentation crests the hilltop.

Burn odes into ash to smear on the forehead,

but still the laconic cricket calls the night

to sing deeds, blasphemies, & allegories

droning beneath the earth's blueprint.

Yes, even if we parade in secondhand garb

as priestly nobodies, the Daylight Boys,

or other heretical truth-seekers, we know

weeping isn't a fly in a spider's web.

If you can't see hunger on our streets,

at least remember hard songs left behind.

 

At least remember hard songs left behind

on fields from Concord to the Green Zone.

Our maps go to the edge of a lost frontier,

following every unsolved riddle & tributary,

indigenous souls still in the drizzle & bog

grass, behind hedgerows--beyond imagination.

Now there's one sky, with holes in the ozone.

Limitless steps across snow recast star charts.

All the old gods gaze at us like deathwatch

beetles, waiting to see what we do with this hour.

Let Walt Whitman put his lips to your ear

as he rocks the dead of north & south in his arms.

Words taproot down to what we are made of,

& these hosannas are ours to surrender to.

 

These hosannas are ours to surrender to

till laurel & olive branch into our footpath,

an eruption of blooms overtaking our heads.

We're here to honor those who came before,

who gladly or sadly gave themselves back

to earth. You know their names. We know

who stood & never lost ground. We know

who knelt beside their contraband drums

& depended on hawthorn to guard them.

Sunlight & water draw roots deep as seed

& oath; their sway & pull can bend an oak

over a grand monument. Evermore pours

from a beggar's tin cup as one thousand

clocks strike inside the stone base.

 

Clocks strike inside the stone base.

The mainsprings are about to be adjusted

& oiled. For the first time in decades

the blindfold has slipped off her face,

& we are now seeing her true reflection

on the harbor. The shortcuts tell us, no,

the winding road isn't a second guess,

& one could risk one's life getting here.

Where I stand in splendor, at this point

of view, surely, it is already Springtime.

How could it not be? The Sunday-go-to-

meeting clothes, the bright hats cocked

at the true angle that slays blue devils.

How could it not be? This is the hour.

 

How could it not be? This is the hour

beckoning the North Star & drinking gourd,

waist-deep shadows crossing the Ohio River,

& I hear Fredrick Douglass' voice in a brisk

shiver of dry leaves, saying, "When the dogs

in your streets, when the fowls of the air,

when the cattle on your hills, when the fish

of the sea, & then reptiles that crawl"

The rattle of night pods is the only shaman

at this late hour. Secret markers run

from flatland to river town, pale desert

to mountain, grassland to autumn skyline.

From here I see a lighthouse, love of the planet

bringing a polar bear back to its ice floe.

 

--By Yusef Komunyakaa.

---

The World Has Changed

 

The World Has Changed:

Wake up & smell

The possibility.

The world

Has changed:

It did not

Change

Without

Your prayers

Without

Your faith

Without

Your determination

To

Believe

In liberation

&

Kindness;

Without

Your

Dancing

Through the years

That

Had

No

Beat.

The world has changed:

It did not

Change

Without

Your

Numbers

Your

Fierce

Love

Of self

&

Cosmos

It did not

Change

Without

Your

Strength.

 

The world has

Changed:

Wake up!

Give yourself

The gift

Of a new

Day.

 

The world has changed:

This does not mean

You were never

Hurt.

The world

Has changed:

Rise!

Yes

&

Shine!

Resist the siren

Call

Of

Disbelief.

The world has changed:

Don't let

Yourself

Remain

Asleep

To

It.

 

--By Alice Walker.

(Copyright (c) 2008 by Alice Walker.)

 

---

 

Poem for Obama

 

We want a hero, an uncommon one,

The common wisdom being that integrity

In an age of irony is as unlikely as fun

On jury duty and equally as vital to the city,

 

The state, and the nation. Put the likelihood

Of rejection and the inevitability

Of injustice on one side; the ability

Of free people to choose their livelihood

 

On the other; and though hope is genteel

And faith obsolete, yet breathes there

A man or woman who cannot feel

The charge of the change in the air?

 

May God, in this winter hour,

Shine on your countenance

And teach you to balance

The heart's poetry and the mind's power.

 

-- By David Lehman.

---

 

PLEA TO THE PRES

 

BAILOUTS FOR THE BIG GUYS

BUY BACK THEIR ROTTED FRUIT

FORGET THE CANOPY OF GOLD

IT'S THE PLATINUM PARACHUTE.

 

NO ONE INDICTS THE AUTHORS

GUYS LIKE FRANK AND DODD

THEY SAY SHOW ME THE MONEY

WE'LL BAIL YOU OUT BY GOD.

 

THE FRED AND FANNY WATCHDOGS

WITH OUR MONEY PLAY SO LOOSE

THEY BORROW US INTO SERFDOM

AS THEY KILL THE GOLDEN GOOSE.

 

THEY POSTURE AND PONTIFICATE

AS THEY DIVIDE THE LOOT

THEN REWARD THE BIG CONTRIBUTORS

WITH PLATINUM PARACHUTES.

 

THE DOUBLESPEAK AND DOUBLETALK

OF LEADERS PSUEDO-BRAVE

MORTAGAGE CHILDREN'S FUTURES

AS THEY TAX US TO THE GRAVE.

 

THANKS TO CORRUPT LEADERSHIP

AND IGNORANCE TO BOOT

THEY'LL SAVE US THE UNWASHED MASSESS

WITH PURE LEAD PARACHUTES.

 

SO PLEASE MR. OBAMA

DON'T LET THEM PLAY THEIR GAMES

DON'T LET THE LIES CONTINUE

DON'T LET THEM HIDE THE BLAME.

 

BE THE PRESIDENT OUR COUNTRY NEEDS

LET'S REALLY REARRANGE

THE POLITICAL HYPOCRACY

KEEP YOUR WORD AND BRING US CHANGE.

 

--By Ted Newman.

 

---

 

Imagine Obama Talking To A Fool

 

To Lead, is what

We fought We fighting now, We been

At war For equality, equal citizenship

Rights. Are those ours, No, no yet.

Our struggle Self Determination

Is always by the moment, is on us

Always, as our skin is, gleaming

Inside & outside w/ the fulfilled beauty

Of promise, as an eye arrow streaks

Through the darkness toward itself at

Thousands of miles an hour.

We are ourselves always

Full of ourselves. What we know

Is boundless as our everybody

All our hands & muscles, our swiftness

Is itself a thought & not a thought

But a being, a seeing, that, yes,

We want to lead, we are not fools

Or forever weaker than that self that cd

Be him, them, her, they, we can raise this

Stupid filthy place, we can strangle foolishness

Where it lurks and hurl it into hah hahs

Of imbecility. Why wd you taunt a person

With skeletons challenged by

The enlightenment?

So they turn the hood backwards

& now can see nothing

But how their weak breath

Makes the bedsheet soggy.

Yes, we can. Lead! We will anyway.

But we want to lead. Whats wrong

With that? We can!

And with all this mountain pile

Of wrong, backward, dumb,

Dishonest, boring, filthy

Thing you or they have created

This thing that we us I have

Hated, It can not be a surprise

That someone else shd see this world

Through their own eyes. Yes,

I want to lead. You have

Already failed.

We have all heard those songs

Those tales. I want to lead

You have already failed!

 

--By Amiri Baraka.

Feb. 10, 2008

---

Africa Goes for Obama!

 

In Bamako, the koras can't stop singing praises

Of the African king named Barack Obama.

You can talk all you want

in the courtyard

under the mango tree,

But these harps know their stories, revel

In contradiction's harmony.

A song that consumes history.

 

Meanwhile, in Timbuktu

The shirt off my back

Spirited off in high-fived exuberance

Barack Obama's face

Lifted in 2008 Sahara sandstorm

 

Lifting off from Dakar, Leopold

Senghor - they name their airports

After Poet-Presidents here --

An "I Made it to Timbuktu

And Back!" t-shirt on my back

 

Back to Union Square, 14th Street,

New York City, flying Middle Passage

Route of Bones Fair Trade Agreement

 

--By Bob Holman.