Fourth of July Poem: Jay Wright

Jay Wright at Rutgers-
New Brunswick, 2006

In place of a prose post about the Fourth of July, I thought I'd cede the space to a poet: Jay Wright (1935-). My very first post on this blog, 11 years ago, was a tribute to him when he received the Bollingen Prize, and I often think that I should post his poetry more, and occasionally have done so, but the ones I want to post tend to be quite long. 

Here's a poem from his début book, The Homecoming Singer (Corinth, 1971), which was reprinted in Transfigurations (LSU Press, 2000), a volume that should have received the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, National Book Critics' Circle Award, and every other major poetic honor. History will, I hope, be the ultimate judge in favor of his greatness; the poems are the testimony. 

"Crispus Attucks" is Wright's meditation on the Revolutionary War hero, who the first person to die in this country's first, decisive battle for freedom. A few years ago, while conducting research for a novel, I came across John Adams's dismissive description of Attucks, which was part of his trial defense of the British soldiers who killed the patriots during the Boston Massacre. 

Twenty years before, as that post also reveals, Attucks had run away from his master in Framingham; clearly freedom was on his mind, or as Wright calls it, the prelude to his "impulsive miracle." This was also his personal and mortal sacrifice, which helped this country to achieve the liberty it trumpets to the entire world. Too often, as Wright makes clear, we forget its first architect. Let's honor him today.

Crispus Attucks

CRISPUS ATTUCKS

When we speak

of those musket-draped

and manqué Englishman;

that cloistered country;

all those common people,

dotting the potted stoves,

hating the king,

shifting uneasily under

the sharp sails

of the unwelcome boats,

sometimes we forget you.

Who asked you

for that impulsive miracle?

I form it now,

with my own motives.

The flag dipping in your hands,

your crafted boots

hammering up the unclaimed streets,

all that was in that unformed moment.

But it wasn't the feel of those things,

nor the burden of the American character;

it was somehow the sense

of an unencumbered escape,

the breaking of a Protestant host,

the ambiguous, detached

judgment of yourself.

Now, we think of you,

when, through the sibilant streets,

another season drums

your intense, communal daring.

Copyright © Jay Wright, 1971, 2000. From Transfigurations: Collected Poems, Louisiana University Press, 2000. All rights reserved.