Brother AACOOLDRE : Black History moment: the poem that got Obama in trouble

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  1. AACOOLDRE

    AACOOLDRE Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    How Frank Marshall Davis poem 47th street might be typologically linked with Obama’s poem “Pop”?

    1. The mentioning of Orphan Annie and Popeye (Anne is Obama’s mother’s name)

    2. A Green bus that snorts

    3. Spotted soul of a straining street

    4. A canal flowing in Mathematically precise channels

    5. Impending death of a woman

    So what do we have in Obama’s “Pop” poem?:

    1. The Pop & Popeye comparison. All throughout the Pop poem Obama several times talks about his eyes.

    2. A Green young man who pulls out a mirror from under a seat he has been saving. This is an allusion to a line of cocaine to be snorted through the nose.

    3. A spot on the brain that may be squeezed out

    4. Twice he states Pop “Switches channels”

    5. Pop recites an old poem before his mother died

    Some how some way my book Poor Dre’s Almanac was hacked into and this information was edited out. I’ve now updated my book to put all of this information back in. I’m glad they did this because I re-read both poems and found more information to link up. With that said I’m posting Frank Marshall Davis poem 47th street in its full text:

    47th Street

    By Frank Marshall Davis

    From hollow backs

    Of uneasy packhorse buses

    Whinnying nervously

    At 47th street street intersections

    In Chicago’s Congo

    Caucasian faces peer momentarily

    In curious contempt

    Then turn back to “Orphan Annie”, “Popeye”

    News of the juiciest murders

    Or bargain basement sales

    Unconsciously sure of superiority

    Within furnished apartment minds

    As green buses snort

    From gasoline spurs

    Then gallop on.


    But a new moon

    Lingering longer

    Sees the spotted soul

    Of this straining street



    I have watched a new moon crawl

    Like a pale and eager child

    To a lean building

    And rest its white face

    On the creased dark edge

    Then look in platinum wonder

    Upon the restless canal

    Of 47th street below

    Flowing in mathematically precise channels

    Between cement walks.


    Besides the beds of the deathly sick

    Like an aged angel

    Bathing souls with purple prayers

    Refusing to leave before life left

    And the town that had known her

    Only as a name and gray-haired virgin

    Now praised her unselfishness

    Shared its most fragile secrets

    And erected its new hospital in her honor


    But it was not for these things

    That Samantha Wilson labored


    Knowing death eyed her closely

    Dreading eternity friendless

    She was arranging for companions

    Among the fatally sick she’d tended

    To be watchfully waiting

    In that misty place

    Beyond the grave.


     
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