Habemus poem

 Yesterday:

I didn't, couldn't, watch the inauguration of the Biden #46. By its very etymology - augur - it is going to be filled with mystical passes, crowd manipulation and woo-wah, The augurs in ancient Rome would predict the future [usually, as government officials, with optimism] by interpreting the flights of birds . . . hoping for 3 eagles flying [R] dexterously, because sinister was such bad news. They worked hand in bloody <eeeuw> glove with the haruspices who where riffling through chicken giblets looking for signs on the liver.

But Kottke flagged up a picture of Amanda Gorman, Poet Laureate Jr partly visible behind two [2] enormous microphones which could pick up her words - outside broadcasting with the least breeze is tricky - but were designed for taller folk. I then watched to her entire speech - a poem The Hill We Climb to celebrate a new Biden dawn. She's had to red-pencil and re-write large chunks to bring it [Capitol Coup 1/6/21] up to date.

When day comes we ask ourselves: 

where can we find light in this never-ending shade? 

The loss we carry, a sea we must wade. 

We’ve braved the belly of the beast. 

We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, 

and the norms and notions of what just is, 

. . . isn’t always justice.
etc.

It a bit rappy but maybe owes its alliteration to the kennings of Beowulf [Joe Biden is known to like a bit of Seamus Heaney . . . and hope and history rhyme] and its sprung rhythms to Pied Beauty. The kit owes something to 22ndC SciFi cosplay - mid-calf canary yellow coats are being run up by craft-handy kids ♀♂⚥ across the nation today. It's high theatre, and why not? We go to the theatre to add salt to our boring potatoey daily life. 

Grendel is banished.

We have been addressed.

I have been unmanned.