[Congressional Record Volume 143, Number 57 (Tuesday, May 6, 1997)]
[House]
[Page H2244]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




              AMERICA'S 39TH POET LAUREATE, ROBERT PINSKY

  The SPEAKER pro tempore. Under a previous order of the House, the 
gentleman from New Jersey [Mr. Pallone] is recognized for 5 minutes.
  Mr. PALLONE. Mr. Speaker, this fall, the acclaimed poet Robert Pinsky 
will take his place as America's 39th poet laureate.
  I am very proud to point out to my colleagues that Mr. Pinsky was 
born and raised and graduated from the public high school in my 
hometown of Long Branch, NJ, a historic seashore community that was the 
inspiration for many of his poems.
  Mr. Pinsky is truly the right poet laureate for our time in history. 
In announcing his appointment, the Librarian of Congress, James H. 
Billingham, noted that his accomplishments in translation, his interest 
in making poetry accessible through digital technology on the Internet, 
and his own probing poetry promise an exciting year for us in 
Washington.
  He follows in the footsteps of many great poet laureates, including 
Robert Frost, Gwendolyn Brooks, Robert Penn Warren, and Conrad Aiken.
  The duties of the poet laureate have traditionally included promoting 
poetry in this country through seminars, workshops, and speaking 
engagements. Judging from Mr. Pinsky's rich imagination and creative 
use of language in the computer, I am sure we can count on him to make 
his mark on the poet laureates' role in a significant and lasting way.
  Mr. Speaker, Mr. Pinsky is the author of five collections of poetry, 
including his most recent publication, ``The Figured Wheel: New and 
Collected Poems 1965 to 1995.''

                              {time}  2130

  He is the poetry editor of the weekly Internet magazine called Slate. 
In 1994, Mr. Pinsky translated Dante's ``Inferno'' from the Italian and 
won great national acclaim for the deep poetic talent displayed in this 
formidable task. The students at Boston University where he is a 
professor are certainly fortunate to have him teaching in their 
creative writing program.
  I know that I reflect the views of my constituents when I express how 
proud I am that a native son of the Sixth Congressional District of New 
Jersey will hold the esteemed and historic title of Poet Laureate.
  So at this time I would like to share with my colleagues a few of Mr. 
Pinsky's poems so that we might welcome him to Washington with a deeper 
appreciation of his outstanding poetry.
  First of all, these are from the Figured Wheel which I mentioned. The 
first one, if I could read it briefly, Mr. Speaker, is about my home 
town of Long Branch, which is also Mr. Pinsky's home town, and he talks 
about the ocean, which we are all so very fond of since Long Branch is 
along the shore. It is called ``A Long Branch Song.''

     Some days in May, little stars.
     Winked all over the ocean. The blue
     Barely changed all morning and afternoon.
     The chimes of the bank's bronze clock;
     The hoarse voice of Cookie, hawking
     The Daily Record for 35 years.

  I have to say, Mr. Speaker, that brings home to me because I remember 
Cookie who was hawking the Daily Record, our local newspaper, for a 
long time when I was growing up.
  The next poem is also about Long Branch. It is a little longer but 
not much. I would like to read it, if I could, to my colleagues, Mr. 
Speaker. It is called ``Long Branch, New Jersey.''

     Everything is regional,
     And this is where I was born, dear,
     And conceived,
     And first moved to tears,
     And last irritated to the same point.
     It is bounded on three sides by similar places
     And on one side by vast, uncouth houses.
     A glum boardwalk and,
     As we say, The Beach.
     I stand here now
     At the corner of Third Avenue and Broadway.
     Waiting for you to come by in a car,
     And count the red carlights
     That rush through a fine rain
     To where Broadway's two branches--North
     Broadway and South Broadway--both reach
     To the trite, salt, welcoming ocean.

  I like to read that one, Mr. Speaker, because not only is Broadway 
near where I was born and grew up but it is also where my congressional 
office is, on Broadway.
  The last one I would like to read, I hope there is time in the time I 
have allotted, is called ``To My Father, for Milford S. Pinsky,'' who I 
remember was Robert Pinsky's father, a local obstetrician in Long 
Branch.

     The glazed surface of the world, dusk.
     And three mallard that land
     In the dim lake, each
     Scudding in a bright oval . . .
     What chance, man, for the thin
     Halting qualities of the soul?
     Call this, prologue to an explanation,
     Something like the way Uncle Joe Winograd
     With a carpenter's flat silence
     Might act on some given stretch
     Of Uncle Italo Tarantola's lifelong
     Lawyerly expanding monologue.
     What I wanted, was to dwell
     Here in the brain as though
     At my bench, as though in a place
     Like the live ongoing shop--
     Between kitchen and factory--
     Of a worker in wood or in leather.
     Implements ranged in sizes and shapes,
     The stuff itself stacked up
     In the localized purposeful clutter
     Of work, the place itself smelling
     Of the hide, sawdust or whatever.
     I wanted the exact words;
     I wanted the way to pronounce
     Evenly the judgment which a man
     Who was quiet holds back as distinct
     But not final in the presence
     Of a good talker. I a good talker
     Ask you a quiet man to recall the inside
     Of a shop, glassdust and lenses
     Everywhere, broken eyeglasses, forms
     And odd pieces of paper, voices
     Like phones ringing, tools
     Broken and whole everywhere, mail
     Unread, the sign--``Milford S.'' or
     ``Robert''--hanging like a straight face . . .
     Surface, tyranny of the world visible,
     Images that spread outward
     From the brain like lines crazing--
     Or like brief silvery ovals
     That glide over the dark,
     Ethereal, yet each wingbeat
     Firm in time, of more
     Substance than this, this mothlike
     Stirring of words, work or affection.

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