Even in the largely unreported
world of contemporary poetry, Miller Williams is not a familiar name.
He's certainly no Robert Frost, no James Dickey, no Maya
Angelou.
Nevertheless, now the world -- because of presidential
inaugurations -- also knows his name and his work.
``We have memorized America,'' Williams began his Inauguration
Day poem, a poem that called the nation of 200 million Americans -- many
watching and listening to him -- to constant renewal, a poem that had President
Clinton leaning forward on his hands in attentive reflection, a poem that
couched in its soft lines Williams' years as a civil rights activist who
had been asked to leave an Arkansas college for scheming to have a black
student enrolled.
It was also a poem that moved
Paul Loeb, a critic in the Los Angeles Times, to remark, ``Williams' brief
poem and bland recitation turned out to be the perfect emblem of lowered
expectations.''
If one reads carefully, one discovers Loeb's critique is
less an attack on Williams' poetry than on Clinton's administration; Loeb,
in effect, wanted a form of politically correct poetry.
Loeb was impressed with the words of Maya Angelou, whom
Clinton selected to read at his first inauguration in 1993. Loeb wanted
more of Angelou's ``elegant and challenging words,'' and instead got what
he characterized as Williams' ``pious sentiment, poetry as condiment.''
Without being aware of it, Williams answered Loeb's criticism
in answering questions posed to him as part of ``The Inaugural Classroom''
sponsored by PBS on the Internet. Williams responded to questions posed
by visitors to the PBS World Wide Web site.
``How does it feel to be compared to Maya Angelou,'' a
12th-grader from Clarksville, Tenn., asked the poet.
``She writes opera and classical music,'' Williams responded, ``and I write jazz and blues.
``I greatly admire the magnificent voice with which she reads,'' Williams
added, ``and wish I could match it. My voice, though, is as conversational
as my poems, and there's nothing I can do about that.''
Another student, an 11th-grader
from Newport Beach, Calif., asked Williams if he worried about being ``politically
correct'' in his poem so as not to offend on such a public occasion.
``All of us are too sensitive about language,'' Williams answered in denying any PC concern.
``My dearest friend, much more than a friend, is my black suite-mate from
college and godfather to my daughter. He sometimes introduces me as his
honkie brother, to the dismay of our politically correct friends. I love
it. We've got to get over the silly language hangups.''
Were it not for his spotlight at the inauguration, Williams
might best be known as the father of Grammy-award winning country singer
and songwriter Lucinda Williams.
The 60-something Williams is director of the University
of Arkansas Press, a professor of English and foreign languages at the university,
and the author of 26 books, including a history of American railroads and
several books of poetry.
He spent a good part of his career trying to become a biological
researcher because his early aptitude tests and advisers told him he ``wasn't
verbal.''
He loved to write, however, and won a poetry fellowship
at the prestigious Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in New England, a circumstance
that shaped his career as a writer.
As is often the case, one can
learn a great deal more about a person from questions asked of him by ordinary
people, especially young people, than from questions asked by professional
journalists.
In Williams' case, few professional journalists even bothered
to interview him, so the students' questions become critical.
A student in Rumford, Maine, asked Williams, ``What was
your first feeling when President Clinton asked you to write and read his
inaugural poem?''
``I was surprised and honored and pleased and a little
scattered for a while,'' the poet said. ``It can shake you up a little to
know that you have a month in which to write a poem to be read to 200 million
people.''
Williams met the Clintons in
the 1970s when the future president and first lady were teaching law at
the University of Arkansas.
The poet told another student that President Clinton ``has said good things about my poetry over the years and that he reads deeply and widely in poetry -- as President Jimmy Carter did and does.''
Williams notes that the president was impressed with the poem Williams wrote
eulogizing the late Sen. William Fulbright.
He thinks that may have had something to do with his selection
as the inaugural poet, but he wisely told the student, ``The selection of
a poet to read at the inauguration is a very private and personal one for
the president, and it didn't seem appropriate even for the poet to inquire
into it too much.''
Asked by a Cambridge, Mass., second-grader where he got the idea for the inaugural poem, Williams said, ``The idea for the inaugural poem was not something I had to find, really. It's the idea of America. I simply let that move around in my mind for a few days and followed it.''
Another Clarksville, Tenn.,
12th-grader wanted more specifics about the ``inspiration'' for the inaugural
poem.
The poet told the student he put himself in ``a physical
and spiritual situation that I know from experience will likely start the
juices to flowing . . .''
That situation probably surprised the student and many
others like critic Loeb who expect inauguration poets to prophesy from a
thundering mountain.
For Williams, inspiration means ``to sit in a big leather
chair in my office with my feet on a big footstool and my dog -- a little
Shih Tzu named Bubba -- on the footstool between my feet, a CD of the gentle
side of John Coltrane or Billy Novick on the stereo and a yellow legal pad
on my lap.''
The product of that process, the inaugural poem called
``History and Hope,'' will be included in a collection of Williams' poetry
titled ``The Ways We Touch,'' scheduled for publication in early 1997.
``How much were you paid for writing the poem and traveling
to the inauguration?'' another Tennessee 12th-grader asked.
Pay was zero, Williams said.
The Presidential Inauguration Committee covered his traveling expenses.
No one told him how to write, what to write or what to
write about, Williams told the questioners, ``And no one asked to look at
it before I read it.''
Williams conceded the White House gave him one bit of advice: Bring a heavy coat.
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Allan R. Andrews can be contacted at arandrews@aol.com