(continued from inside front cover)
Pomp, circumstance, and other songs of a lifetime
Pomp, circumstance,
and other songs of a lifetime
—by Professor David Citino, 1947–2005, Late University Poet Laureate
(Originally presented as the 2000 Winter Commencement address)
I say, rather, the richness of us,
of selves that balance this globe
precious difference, the grand multiplicity
and enable it to spin true. Grandson
of peasant immigrants, I was given
the opportunity to earn a doctorate
in English literature from Ohio State—
because my family labored long nights
around the kitchen table trying to learn
this arduous English. I sat where
you’re sitting tw
enty-six years ago.
Bob Dylan and Smokey Robinson got me
through. Yes, it took a prophet and Miracles!
My son earned an OSU Ph.D. in history.
Now you, graduates, are being honored—
by degrees. We’ve
all come together
around the kitchen table of Ohio State.
Ohio, Round on the ends and high
in the middle. For the years to come
we’ll sing together, Beautiful Ohio,
in dreams again I see, Visions of what
used to be. These psalms, sacred thoughts
of our tribes, 78’s and 33’s, tapes,
CD’s—they take up space in shelves
of our skulls, our hearts. They remind us
we want a song beyond the run-
of-the-mill thrill, the moment throbbing
with pleasure or bathed in the blues.
We ache for something grander than
pure selfishn
ess. Songs sung for one
alone are not true music. Arias shared
are music of the spheres, ways of saying
to another something from the soul.
Of course the Buckeye Battle Cry
is there. Drive, drive on down the field,
Men (and women!) of the Scarlet
and Gray. Well, you drove on down
the field, and you drove up and dow
n
the streets, around and around
crowded lots, looking for a place to park,
and you searched our dark, ancient library
for a decent place to study. My wife,
Mary’s, father marched in the
first
“Script Ohio,” in 1936. He’s here today
with us, blowing his horn, I can’t help
but feel, as is the sweet mother
I lost last year, the one who gave me
the stars. Today’s music makes us think
of the debts we owe, and never can repay.
So many of us would not be here
were it not for the lullabyes and songs
of dear parent
s, their parents, theirs.
Some are here today in the flesh.
Many are not. We mourn them with cadences
of our hearts. Think how many people
sang before us, gave us a name, a voice,
taught us the right w
ords. We must
cherish them by remembering every song.
When we sing to others, we honor
our fathers and mothers, thank them
for this day of profound scarlet and gray
pomp and circumstance. O, come
let’s sing Ohio’s praise, And songs
to Alma Mater raise. Alma mater.
Ohio State is our sweet, nurturing mother.
We came of age h
ere, with her help.
Well, Mother, we love you, but, like,
it’s time we moved out, got a place
of our own. You’re standing there,
Mom, gray hair, eyes scarlet
from crying. We won’t f
orget you.
Now, even though this ceremony
means we’re being weaned, taken off
the nipple, let’s take care to cherish her
all our days. Let’s remember
the words to the songs she taught us,
and pass them on. We’ll remember
always, Graduation Day. Summer’s heat,
and winter’s cold, The seasons pass,
the years will roll, Time and change
will surely show How firm
thy friendship,
O-hi-O. We call that little number
Carmen Ohio. Carmen means song
in Latin. You’ve worked hard; she
is your reward; today is your reward.
You’re filled to overflowing with
the notes,
the poems we’ve written
together. You know the score.
Continue to work hard for yourselves,
and one another. Find the ones who need
you to sing to, for them, in the world.
Graduates, this joyful litany, this hymn
our ancestors collaborated on with us,
the calling of your name today is music
to our ears. Sing that
name proudly
all your days, as if your life depended
on it. It does, you know. It has been
an honor for me to speak—and sing—
to you today. Thank you, graduates,
and, again, Congratulations.
(continued on inside back cover)
If you’re like me, you’ve got a big head,
not to mention a funny robe, full of music—
poems and melodies, the tunes
we move to, shower and shave by,
study, write to. Not just the incidental,
but the momentous music keeping time.
Our histories are measures of song.
Listen to your hea
rt: drums of Africa,
sea-spume of blind, far-sighted Homer,
Sappho’s honeyed love lyrics. Often,
music speaks for us, one note saying
a thousand words. Like Rodolpho
in Puccini’s La Boh
eme, Sono un poeta.
I am a poet. Che cosa faccio? What
do I do? Scrivo. I write. This ceremony
is loud music—pomp and circumstance
of the life you began freshman year
or that first day of graduate school.
In my head I press Play, and the CD
of Big Days kicks on. I leap and linger
over moments too sw
eet, nearly, for words.
I’ll never escape rhymes from the nursery.
Up above the world so high, like a diamond
in the sky. We knew from the start
our universe was aglow with wonder.
Itali
an, Latin, English songs in nasal accents
of Cleveland. Gaudeamus igitur, Juvenes
dum sumus. So, let us rejoice, while
we are young. Youth is that gift we can’t
comprehend while we’re young. This ceremony
means you all are less young than you were.
Don’t let the heavy knowledge gained
from your studies de
prive you of the gifts
of youth, to be able to rejoice at the drop
of a hat, to care for, be moved by others.
Now I hear golden hits of five decades.
Big Mama Thornton, and that so-called King
(
King of what, fried butter sandwiches?)
who stole away her hound dog. You ain’t
never killed a rabbit, you ain’t no friend
of mine. As with those profs and TAs,
course after course, you had to produce—
kill some rabbits—to earn respect.
And at times OSU may have seemed
lik
e Heartbreak Hotel, down at the end
to do your best. Tennessee Ernie Ford,
of Lonely Street, so difficult was it
“Sixteen Tons”: St. Peter don’t you
call me ‘Cause I can’t go. I owe
my soul to the company store.
You have be
en digging deep in mines
of knowledge. We all owe our souls
to Ohio State, company store of learning,
shared experience—precious ore
we have in common forever.
Now I hear Domenico Modugno’s
fervent urging to wish, sing, fly,
Volare, Wo-oo. Cantare, Wo-o-o-o.
My grandfather was a peasant farmer,
a contadino in Calabria in t
he toe
of Italy. He knew it’s the human lot
to dream of flying. Lucky, lucky,
lucky me, I’m a lucky son-of-a-gun.
I work eight hours, I sleep eight hours,
That leaves eight hours for fun.
Hey! He sailed in steerag
e across
the Atlantic, came to Cleveland, where
he stayed long enough to work 52 years
for the B&O Railroad, before lying down
to rest in good Ohio soil. So many of us
here today came from elsewhere,
or ancestors did. From Tennessee, Italy,
Africa, Asia, Appalachia—even,
President Kirwan, the wild
s of Kentucky
and Maryland. Women and men with backs
supple as birch trunks. The courage
it took to pick up stakes and begin again
in a new world! Think of the work
those older ones did. For you. You all
are
facing a change right now.
This sheepskin is your passport.
You’re bound for emigration to
the next song of your life. Ohio State
is the ark on which you’ve been sailing.
You’ve been the precious cargo.
But, as Noah once said, I can see
clearly now the rain is gone. The ark,
our university, was filled to overflow
ing
with the diversity of us. Diversity.
Networks and talk shows devalue the word.