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For more links connecting Jonathan Safran Foer and Colum McCann and Philippe Petit and Man on Wire and 11' 9" 01 and more...

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with a little help from former students.

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America, it is to thee,
Thou boasted land of liberty,-
It is to thee I raise my song,
Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong.
It is to thee, my native land,
From whence has issued many a band
To tear the black man from his soil,
And force him here to delve and toil;
Chained on your blood-bemoistened sod,
Cringing beneath a tyrant's rod,
Stripped of those rights which Nature's God
   Bequeathed to all the human race,
Bound to a petty tyrant's nod,
   Because he wears a paler face.
Was it for this, that freedom's fires
Were kindled by your patriot sires?
Was it for this, they shed their blood,
On hill and plain, on field and flood?
Was it for this, that wealth and life
Were staked upon that desperate strife,
Which drenched this land for seven long years
With blood of men, and women's tears?
When black and white fought side by side,
   Upon the well-contested field,-
Turned back the fierce opposing tide,
   And made the proud invader yield-
When, wounded, side by side they lay,
   And heard with joy the proud hurrah
From their victorious comrades say
   That they had waged successful war,
The thought ne'er entered in their brains
   That they endured those toils and pains,
To forge fresh fetters, heavier chains
For their own children, in whose veins
Should flow that patriotic blood,
So freely shed on field and flood.
Oh no; they fought, as they believed,
   For the inherent rights of man;
But mark, how they have been deceived
   By slavery's accursed plan.
They never thought, when thus they shed
   Their heart's best blood, in freedom's cause
That their own sons would live in dread,
   Under unjust, oppressive laws:
That those who quietly enjoyed
   The rights for which they fought and fell,
Could be the framers of a code,
   That would disgrace the fiends of hell!
Could they have looked, with prophet's ken,
   Down to the present evil time,
   Seen free-born men, uncharged with crime,
Consigned unto a slaver's pen,-
Or thrust into a prison cell,
With thieves and murderers to dwell-
While that same flag whose stripes and stars
Had been their guide through freedom's wars
As proudly waved above the pen
Of dealers in the souls of men!
Or could the shades of all the dead,
   Who fell beneath that starry flag,
Visit the scenes where they once bled,
   On hill and plain, on vale and crag,
By peaceful brook, or ocean's strand,
   By inland lake, or dark green wood,
Where'er the soil of this wide land
   Was moistened by their patriot blood,-
And then survey the country o'er,
   From north to south, from east to west,
And hear the agonizing cry
Ascending up to God on high,
From western wilds to ocean's shore,
   The fervent prayer of the oppressed;
The cry of helpless infancy
   Torn from the parent's fond caress
By some base tool of tyranny,
   And doomed to woe and wretchedness;
The indignant wail of fiery youth,
   Its noble aspirations crushed,
Its generous zeal, its love of truth,
   Trampled by tyrants in the dust;
The aerial piles which fancy reared,
   And hopes too bright to be enjoyed,
Have passed and left his young heart seared,
   And all its dreams of bliss destroyed.
The shriek of virgin purity,
   Doomed to some libertine's embrace,
Should rouse the strongest sympathy
   Of each one of the human race;
And weak old age, oppressed with care,
   As he reviews the scene of strife,
Puts up to God a fervent prayer,
   To close his dark and troubled life.
The cry of fathers, mothers, wives,
   Severed from all their hearts hold dear,
And doomed to spend their wretched lives
   In gloom, and doubt, and hate, and fear;
And manhood, too, with soul of fire,
And arm of strength, and smothered ire,
Stands pondering with brow of gloom,
Upon his dark unhappy doom,
Whether to plunge in battle's strife,
And buy his freedom with his life,
And with stout heart and weapon strong,
Pay back the tyrant wrong for wrong,
Or wait the promised time of God,
   When his Almighty ire shall wake,
And smite the oppressor in his wrath,
And hurl red ruin in his path,
And with the terrors of his rod,
   Cause adamantine hearts to quake.
Here Christian writhes in bondage still,
   Beneath his brother Christian's rod,
And pastors trample down at will,
   The image of the living God.
While prayers go up in lofty strains,
   And pealing hymns ascend to heaven,
The captive, toiling in his chains,
   With tortured limbs and bosom riven,
Raises his fettered hand on high,
   And in the accents of despair,
To him who rules both earth and sky,
   Puts up a sad, a fervent prayer,
To free him from the awful blast
   Of slavery's bitter galling shame-
Although his portion should be cast
   With demons in eternal flame!
Almighty God! Ât is this they call
   The land of liberty and law;
Part of its sons in baser thrall
   Than Babylon or Egypt saw-
Worse scenes of rapine, lust and shame,
   Than Babylonian ever knew,
Are perpetrated in the name
   Of God, the holy, just, and true;
And darker doom than Egypt felt,
May yet repay this nation's guilt.
Almighty God! thy aid impart,
And fire anew each faltering heart,
And strengthen every patriot's hand,
Who aims to save our native land.
We do not come before thy throne,
   With carnal weapons drenched in gore,
Although our blood has freely flown,
   In adding to the tyrant's store.
Father! before thy throne we come,
   Not in the panoply of war,
With pealing trump, and rolling drum,
   And cannon booming loud and far;
Striving in blood to wash out blood,
   Through wrong to seek redress for wrong;
For while thou 'rt holy, just and good,
   The battle is not to the strong;
But in the sacred name of peace,
   Of justice, virtue, love and truth,
We pray, and never mean to cease,
   Till weak old age and fiery youth
In freedom's cause their voices raise,
And burst the bonds of every slave;
Till, north and south, and east and west,
The wrongs we bear shall be redressed.

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America, it is to thee, Thou boasted land of liberty,- It is to thee I raise my song, Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong.

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Sports
I've seen my fair share of baseball games,
eaten smothered hotdogs in Kansas City
and carne asada burritos in San Francisco
in the sunny stands on a day free of fog.
I've sat in a bar for hours watching
basketball and baseball and the Super Bowl,
and I've even high-fived and clinked
my almost-empty drink with a stranger
because it felt good to go through something
together even though we hadn't been through
anything but the drama of a game, its players.
If I am honest, what I love, why I love
the sounds of the games even when I'm not
interested, half-listening, is one thing:
When my father and my stepfather had to be
in the same room, or had to drop my brother
and me off during our weekly move from one
house to another, they, for a brief moment,
would stand together in the doorway or
on the gravel driveway and it felt like what true
terror should feel like, two men who were so
different you could barely see their shadows
attached in the same way, and just when
I thought I couldn't watch the pause
lengthen between them, they'd talk about
the playoffs or the finals or whatever team
was doing whatever thing required that season
and sometimes they'd even shrug or make
a motion that felt like two people who weren't
opposites after all. Once, I sat in the car
and waited for one of them to take me away
and from the backseat I swear they looked
like they were on the same team, united
against a common enemy, had been fighting,
all this time, on the same side.

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Sports I've seen my fair share of baseball games,eaten smothered hotdogs in Kansas Cityand carne asada burritos in San Franciscoin the sunny stands on a day free of fog.I've sat in a bar for hours watchingbasketball and baseball and the Super Bowl,and I've even high-fived and clinkedmy almost-empty drink with a strangerbecause it felt good [...]

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NOVELS are GREEN
POEMS are BLUE
NON FICTION is LILAC
GENERAL INFO is WHITE