In the “God I Wish This Was True” Category -Inaugural Poem for Donald J. Trump

Earlier today, the British newspaper The Independent published a copy of a poem that “pays tribute to his Scottish ancestry and attacks Barack Obama” (

And then it went from there.

“The President-elect’s mother, Mary Anne Macleod, is a Scot and grew up on the Hebridean island of Lewis.

The poem, which was not commissioned by Mr Trump or his transition team, refers to snatching power from “a tyrant” who has “ill-gotten power”.

 It was written by celebrated American poet Joseph Charles McKenzie of the Society of Classical Poets.”
Celebrated? I had never heard of him. Maybe I have overlooked him. Maybe that’s why they missplled his name.
There are many living poets out there in America who have certainly been celebrated – Billy Collins, Natasha Trethaway, Mary Oliver to name just a few, but I had not heard of MacKenzie.
I have an English degree. Took a few poetry classes. Taught a lot of poetry to freshmen all the way to AP Lit students. Written bad poetry myself. I have never run into a poem by MacKenzie.
But I have heard of a Charlie MacKenzie. He’s a fictional character in the movie So I Married An Axe-Murderer and he’s played by Michael Myers of SNL fame. In it he plays not only Charlie, but his cantankerous father, Stuart MacKenzie, who is Scottish. Myers’s actual parents are Scottish, so he does the accent extremely well.
The parts where Stuart talks about the size of his son’s head and the “pentavirate” and the wedding reception singing Rod Stewart are hilarious.
You should see it. You will hear the Shrek voice for the first time.
But that’s the wrong MacKenzie.
So I read the poem and all of its introductory glory on the website for The Society of Classical Poets.
I am glad I did. I feel better about my own poetry.

Pibroch of the Domhnall

By Joseph Charles MacKenzie

Author’s Notes:

§ The refrains at the end of each stanza are to be recited by the Inaugural crowd.
§ A Pibroch is a rallying bagpipe tune and is pronounced like “PEA-brohgh.”
§ Domhnall, the Scottish form of the name Donald, is pronounced like “TONE-all”
§ Torquil was the royal progenitor of the MacLeods of Lewis, the outer hebridean island and birthplace of President Trump’s immigrant mother, Mary Anne MacLeod.

Come out for the Domhnall, ye brave men and proud,
The scion of Torquil and best of MacLeod!
With purpose and strength he came down from his tower
To snatch from a tyrant his ill-gotten power.
Now the cry has gone up with a cheer from the crowd:
“Come out for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!”

When freedom is threatened by slavery’s chains
And voices are silenced as misery reigns,
We’ll come out for a leader whose courage is true
Whose virtues are solid and long overdue.
For, he’ll never forget us, we men of the crowd
Who elected the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

When crippling corruption polluted our nation
And plunged our economy into stagnation,
As self-righteous rogues took the opulent office
And plump politicians reneged on their promise,
The forgotten continued to form a great crowd
That defended the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

The Domhnall’s a giver whilst others just take,
Ne’er gaining from that which his hands did not make.
A builder of buildings, employing good men,
He’s enriched many cities by factors of ten.
The honest and true gladly march with the crowd
Standing up for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

True friend of the migrant from both far and near,
He welcomes the worthy, but guards our frontier,
Lest a murderous horde, for whom hell is the norm,
Should threaten our lives and our nation deform.
We immigrants hasten to swell the great crowd
Coming out for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

Academe now lies dead, the old order rots,
No longer policing our words and our thoughts;
Its ignorant hirelings pretending to teach
Are backward in vision, sophomoric in speech.
Now we learnèd of mind add ourselves to the crowd
That cheers on the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

The black man, forgotten, in poverty dying,
The poor man, the sick man, with young children crying,
The soldier abroad and the mother who waits,
The young without work or behind prison gates,
The veterans, wounded, all welcome the crowd
That fights for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

Whilst hapless old harridans flapping their traps
Teach women to look and behave like us chaps,
The Domhnall defends the defenseless forlorn;
For, a woman’s first right is the right to be born.
Now the bonnie young lassies that fly to the crowd
Have a champion in Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

But for all his great wisdom, the braw gallant man
Is matched by his children, the handsome Trump clan,
And the flower of Europe, Melania the fair,
Adds a luster and grace with her long flowing hair.
May they flourish and prosper to form a great crowd
Around the good Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

Is there man left in Scotland, without base alloy,
Who remembers the Wallace, the Bruce, or Rob Roy?
Or have five hundred years of a blasphemous lie
Robbed your manhood of might that you lay down and die?
Get up and walk free, all ye brave men and proud!
Long life to the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!

 Please remember that there is a part of me that really thinks this might actually be connected to the 45th president. The rest of me is thinking that this ha to be a parody of some sorts.
Why? Well I thought after reading it that the corpse of Robert Burns would literally come out of his grave, drink a fifth of scotch, and piss on a copy of this poem, not to mention that when I hear “MacLeod!” shouted repeatedly I think of the original Highlander movie (which kicked ass by the way).
So then I started reading the comments from the “Comments” section.
So then, I had to go and read up on one Joseph Charles McKenzie because in one of the responses to his comments, he lovingly shared his website –

Just go to his website. Big on lyrical poetry. BIG ON HIS LYRICAL POETRY.

And he even compares himself to the likes of Shakespeare and W. B. Yeats. I have heard of those two guys.

“One of my professors, an Oxonian named Charles Bell, indicated that some of my sonnets surpassed many of Shakespeare’s.”

“The only solution to the crisis is the triumphant appearance of Joseph Charles MacKenzie’s Sonnets for Christ the King, the first significant body of traditional lyric verse produced since the poems of W.B. Yeats and Charles Péguy.”

And then the magic was taken away as reported that the poem was not really the true inauguration poem (

It reported,

Although this article was published under the headline “Poem celebrating Donald Trump inauguration describes Barack Obama as a ‘tyrant,'” The Independent used a more sensational (and less factual) title when they shared this item on social media — “Donald Trump to pay tribute to British heritage at inauguration with poem about Scotland”:

trump inauguration poem

Several other publications also shared this poem in articles claiming that it was “Donald Trump’s inauguration poem,” misleading readers into believing that this poem would actually be read at the inaugural event. Paper Magazine, for instance, reported that this was the “official poem for President-elect Trump’s inauguration:”

The official poem for President-elect Trump’s inauguration celebrates the Trump clan’s Scottish roots (his mother, Mary Anne Macleod was born and raised in Scotland till she was 18) while taking time to exalt Trump to Christ status, and call President Obama a “tyrant.”

However, this poem is not an “official” selection for Trump’s inauguration, nor was it commissioned by the president-elect. The text of the The Independent‘s article explained that this poem was merely inspired by Trump’s election:

The poem, which was not commissioned by Mr Trump or his transition team, refers to snatching power from “a tyrant” who has “ill-gotten power”.

It was written by celebrated American poet Joseph Charles McKenzie of the Society of Classical Poets.

The group said the inspiration behind the poem is “to touch on the classical poetry existing throughout American history, and the inauguration poem marks important moments in US political history”.

This “inauguration” poem was first published by the web site on 15 January 2017. The group did not claim that the poem would be read at the inauguration, but their version of the poem was accompanied by instructions for how the it would theoretically be presented if it were used at the inauguration:

§ The refrains at the end of each stanza are to be recited by the Inaugural crowd.
§ A Pibroch is a rallying bagpipe tune and is pronounced like “PEA-brohgh.”
§ Domhnall, the Scottish form of the name Donald, is pronounced like “TONE-all”
§ Torquil was the royal progenitor of the MacLeods of Lewis, the outer hebridean island and birthplace of President Trump’s immigrant mother, Mary Anne MacLeod.

When the group shared the poem on Facebook, the lyric was accompanied by a message imploring Trump to include the poem, making it clear that this poem had not been selected for this purpose in the first place:

No Republican has had an inaugural poem. Trump should be the first…

This poem is not listed in the schedule of events planned for the inauguration. 

We’ve reached out to both Joseph Charles McKenzie, the poem’s author, and the Society of Classic Poets for more information. “

Still think I might just slip this poem in a class one day and see what happens, and if I ever meet one Joseph Charles MacKenzie I will have to thank him for the time well spent reading and researching this posting. I will also have to ask him what he thinks of his poems.

Poetry List For My Daughter – List #1


Here’s another one of those posts that I hope you may read when you are older. Hopefully, I will still be around, but if not, then here’s another way for us to acquaint ourselves with each other.

Poems. My favorite ones. And why they speak to me, not as a nerdy English teacher, but as a person – a father, husband, son, friend, teacher, and overall good guy.

Last summer, I constructed a list of books that I thought would be a library of what I thought best gave some semblance of me.

And now for poems.

The first ten are below. More to come.

W. H. Auden – “Funeral Blues”

It is an utterly sad poem. Auden’s partner died. Complete distress. There will be times that you may feel this way. You are never alone in that loneliness.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good

There is a movie called “Four Weddings and a Funeral” in which this poem is delivered as part of a eulogy of a man who lost his love. It is emotional.


Carl Sandberg  – “I Am the People, the Mob”

Sandberg has ties to North Carolina. I think of him as a common man’s poet, like a twentieth century Walt Whitman. He so understood the power of people. Watch those social movements closely and the resiliency of humans which is sometimes disguised as stubbornness.

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. 

Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? 

I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.

I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.

I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.

Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.

When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.

The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

W. B. Yeats – “A Prayer For My Daughter”

He’s Irish and by far my favorite poet. He literally spanned three literary movements and helped revive Ireland through its myths and literary power. And he was an absolutely interesting bird. He actually had an operation to revive his sex drive that involved the testicles of a monkey. Not joking.

Yeats had children late in his life and this poem shows a little of the bond that a father can have with his only daughter.

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on.  There is no obstacle
But Gregory’s wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.
It’s certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty’s very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there’s no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty’s horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven’s will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all’s accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony’s a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

Walt Whitman “O Captain! My Captain!”

Whitman is a poet from the American Romanticism movement. Worked a lot with cadence. Read this poem and be reminded that learning should be an act of curiosity and that a classroom is not defined by four walls.

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

e.e. cummings “Since feeling is first”

Simply fantastic. Words do not always have to be in order.


since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.  Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Billy Collins “Walking Across The Atlantic”

I heard Collins speak at UNC-Chapel Hill one evening. He answered a question for me about how teachers can get students to look at poetry. He said to just throw them into it and let them explore it from the inside out. He’s quirky. I like quirky.

I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.

Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.


Gwendolyn Brooks “Speech to the Young”

Simply says it all with the line “Live in the along.”

Say to them,
say to the down-keepers,
the sun-slappers,
the self-soilers,
the harmony-hushers,
“Even if you are not ready for day
it cannot always be night.”
You will be right.
For that is the hard home-run.
Live not for battles won.
Live not for the-end-of-the-song.
Live in the along.


Ted Kooser  “In the Basement of the Goodwill Store”

I just like the poem.

In musty light, in the thin brown air
of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath long rows of sharp footfalls
like nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying on glasses, lifting each pair
from the box like a glittering fish
and holding it up to the light
of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of enameled pans as white as skulls
looms in the catacomb shadows,
and old toilets with dry red throats
cough up bouquets of curtain rods.

You’ve seen him somewhere before.
He’s wearing the green leisure suit
you threw out with the garbage,
and the Christmas tie you hated,
and the ventilated wingtip shoes
you found in your father’s closet
and wore as a joke. And the glasses
which finally fit him, through which
he looks to see you looking back—
two mirrors which flash and glance—
are those through which one day
you too will look down over the years,
when you have grown old and thin
and no longer particular,
and the things you once thought
you were rid of forever
have taken you back in their arms.

Audre Lorde “Coal”

Power. Simply power. In a world that defines people by gender and race, this is power.

is the total black, being spoken
from the earth’s inside.
There are many kinds of open
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame
how sound comes into a words, coloured
by who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open like a diamond
on glass windows
singing out within the crash of sun
Then there are words like stapled wagers
in a perforated book – buy and sign and tear apart –
and come whatever will all chances
the stub remains
an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.
Some words live in my throat
breeding like adders. Other know sun
seeking like gypsies over my tongue
to explode through my lips
like young sparrows bursting from shell.
Some words
bedevil me

Love is word, another kind of open.
As the diamond comes into a knot of flame
I am Black because I come from the earth’s inside
Now take my word for jewel in the open light.

Mary Oliver “The Journey”

Hauntingly realistic.

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.