Barack Obama's Poems

At the link are two poems Obama wrote while at Occidental College in LA in 1982.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steven-barrieanthony/obamas-poetry_b_44271.html

According to the article author:

"These poems have not been distributed, as far as I know, outside of the original lit mag and Occidental Weekly, and are worth including here in full. Weekly reporter Kevin Batton notes that the first poem, "Pop," "is a clearly autobiographical evocation of a moment between a very young Obama and... his maternal grandfather, with whom Barack lived for many years of his youth." The next poem, "Underground," is more difficult to decipher."

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.

I'm a bit of a poetry buff and I can tell you Barak IS talented!

I think "Pop" is pretty good and shows Barack's writing talent. The second poem is way beyond me, perhaps there is too much space between the thinking of a ninetine year old and a sixty-one year old. ;-)

:evilgrin:

Not half bad for a kid, but still...