Poet Richard Blanco on Inauguration: "I've Never Felt More American"

Richard Blanco, at 44, has reached the ranks of renowned poets Robert Frost and Maya Angelou. He reveals what it was like to speak at inauguration in front of the President, the First Lady and a crowd of hundreds of thousands.

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One Today - Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, 

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces 

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth 

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. 

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story 

told by our silent gestures moving behind windows. 

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors, 

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: 

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, 

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows 

begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, 

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—

to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did 

for twenty years, so I could write this poem. 

All of us as vital as the one light we move through, 

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: 

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, 

the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming, 

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain 

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent 

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light 

breathing color into stained glass windows, 

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth 

onto the steps of our museums and park benches 2 

as mothers watch children slide into the day. 

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk 

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat 

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills 

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands 

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands 

as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane 

so my brother and I could have books and shoes. 

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains 

mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it 

through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs, 

buses launching down avenues, the symphony 

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, 

the unexpected song bird on your clothes line. 

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling, or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open 

for each other all day, saying: hello| shalom, 

buon giorno |howdy |namaste |or buenos días 

in the language my mother taught me—in every language 

spoken into one wind carrying our lives 

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips. 

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed 

their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked 

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands: 

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report 

for the boss on time, stitching another wound 3 

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait, 

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower 

jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience. 

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes 

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather 

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love 

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother 

who knew how to give, or forgiving a father 

who couldn’t give what you wanted. 

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight 

of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home, 

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon 

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop 

and every window, of one country—all of us—

facing the stars 

hope—a new constellation

waiting for us to map it, 

waiting for us to name it—together

Inaugural Poem by Richard Blanco: One Today

“One Today”

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches 
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plainsOne ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.