Of Work and Poets

Today - the first Monday of September - is a national holiday - LABOR DAY.  The mail will not run today, the banks are closed, and at least some of your parents are probably home from work.  What is Labor Day and how did it become a holiday?

Labor Day is a creation of the labor movement - something we have not talked about yet, but it is on the horizon.  It is a day set aside to celebrate the contributions of American workers to the strength and prosperity of this country.  The first Labor Day was celebrated in New York in 1882 and in the next three years it grew in popularity to become a "working man's" holiday throughout the entire country.

Today I heard a poem on the radio by our new Poet Laureate, Philip Levine.  He is known as the poet of the 'industrial heartland' and the poem I heard is titled 'What Work Is'.  You can hear the entire interview and Levine reading the poem HERE.  If you want to hear more about his work when he was younger you can listen to Terry Gross's interview HERE.   (Whenever you have the opportunity to hear a poet read his own work take advantage!)

What Work Is

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it’s someone else’s brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, “No,

we’re not hiring today,” for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who’s not beside you or behind or

ahead because he’s home trying to   

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you’re too young or too dumb,

not because you’re jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,   

just because you don’t know what work is.