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 heart: 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 Boheme, 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 sweet, 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.



Italian, 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 deprive 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 aint

never killed a rabbit, you aint no friend



of mine. As with those profs and TA's,

course after course, you had to produce--

kill some rabbits--to earn respect.

And at times OSU may have seemed

like Heartbreak Hotel, down at the end



of Lonely Street, so difficult was it

to do your best. Tennessee Ernie Ford,

"Sixteen Tons": St. Peter don't you

call me ŒCause I can't go. I owe

my soul to the company store.



You have been 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 the 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 steerage 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 wilds 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 overflowing

with the diversity of us. Diversity.

Networks and talk shows devalue the word.



I say, rather, the richness of us,

precious difference, the grand multiplicity

of selves that balance this globe

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 twenty-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 selfishness. 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 down

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 parents, 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



ang before us, gave us a name, a voice,

taught us the right words. 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 here, 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 forget 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.

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