Who read the poem "On the Pulse of Morning" at Bill Clinton's first inauguration?

"On the Pulse of Morning" is a poem by writer and poet Maya Angelou that she read at the first inauguration of President Bill Clinton on January 20, 1993. With her public recitation, Angelou became the second poet in history to read a poem at a presidential inauguration, and the first African American and woman. (Robert Frost was the first inaugural poet, at the 1961 inauguration of John F. Kennedy.)

Angelou told her friend Oprah Winfrey that the call requesting her to write and recite the poem came from television producer Harry Thomason, who organized the inauguration, shortly after Clinton's election. Even though she suspected that Clinton made the request because "he understood that I am the kind of person who really does bring people together", Angelou admitted feeling overwhelmed, and even requested that the audiences attending her speaking engagements pray for her.

The week after Angelou's recitation, sales of the paperback version of her books and poetry rose by 300–600 percent. Bantam Books had to reprint 400,000 copies of all her books to keep up with the demand. Random House, which published Angelou's hardcover books and published the poem later that year, reported that they sold more of her books in January 1993 than they did in all of 1992, accounting for a 1200 percent increase. The sixteen-page publication of the poem became a best-seller, and the recording of the poem was awarded a Grammy Award.

More Info: en.m.wikipedia.org

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Fred Mayes

On The Pulse Of Morning A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry 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 Face down 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 Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher. 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 traveller, 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 ... 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 new beginnings. 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, your 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.

Margaret O'Neill

Maya Angelou was a remarkable woman, and a heroine to many!

Sean Philips

Wonderful poem, brilliant poet!

ninakamwene

Got it. Maya Angelou RIP a brilliant lady and scholar. Thank you.

billyboy915

Chrisg192, You win today for the most disgusting comment. Congratulations on your lack of class and total negativity. Your family must be so proud. The next time you want to make a comment, DON'T!

Nina Liles

I miss Maya Angelou she is a real. Sister and Family

Carroll Price

Wasted on me.

Susannah Landis

Fred Mayes, Thank you.

Annie

Great lady!

Peter Robertson

Well there you are.Always able to learn something not worth the bother

Mr.LaFaye

Corey Taylor, LOL @ you...

docluci

Maya Angelou read a poem for Bill Clinton’s inauguration.

Harold Naidu

Got it

Sue Fairweather

Got it

ggvain

Hmm lucky she's not dead. Ok here comes the hate. Lol

ninakamwene

Fred Mayes, Thank you brother Mayes for sharing this with the Quiz folks. Got it by guessing because I had not read the poem. Brilliant piece of poetry.