Maya Angelou died yesterday. An important and venerable American, to be sure, and worthy of the flood of tributes and remembrances that have since ensued. You need only to read her moving poem "Still I Rise" to realize her greatness and relevance in a day when many people may fool themselves into believing racism was left behind us with the election of Barack Obama. (It wasn't.)
Not having had much time to see/hear electronic news on Wednesday, I first learned of Angelou's death via an "appreciation" of her written by Natasha Trethewey, published in the Washington Post the next day. For that, I am grateful to Trethewey.
But not for much else. She came into the job two years ago, and as far as most Americans are aware, disappeared into the woodwork until today. It's not her fault. All poets laureate have tended to suffer the same fate. And for good reason. Poetry? Oh, c'mon.
I've written before about the concept of a "poet laureate." It seems a waste, and very unAmerican, that we continue to indulge such frippery on the government budget. Let's let our British colleagues continue that tradition, if they wish, but why hasn't the tea party tilted at this silly windmill? Here's a small battle they could win.
(And after that, it wouldn't hurt their credibility to kill off Daylight Saving Time, either.)