Rita Dove: A Voice of Grace and
Power in American Poetry
Rita Dove is one of the most
celebrated American poets of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Born on
August 28, 1952, in Akron, Ohio, she broke racial and literary boundaries by
becoming the first African American to serve as U.S. Poet Laureate (1993–1995)
and one of the youngest to ever hold the position.
Dove's poetry blends history,
personal experience, and political insight with lyrical beauty. Her language is
elegant yet accessible, making complex emotions and themes resonate with a wide
audience. One of her most famous collections, Thomas and Beulah (1986),
which won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, tells the story of her grandparents in
a series of poems that merge personal and historical narratives.
Throughout her work, Rita Dove
explores themes such as identity, race, family, and memory. She often draws on
music, dance, and classical references, weaving them into poems that feel both
timeless and deeply rooted in contemporary issues. Her collection Sonata
Mulattica (2009) is a poetic exploration of the life of biracial violinist
George Bridgetower, shedding light on forgotten Black figures in European
history.
Beyond her poetry, Dove is also a
playwright, essayist, and educator. Her impact extends beyond the page—she has
used her platform to support literacy, arts education, and diversity in
literature. Her voice is one of both calm reflection and powerful resistance.
Rita Dove’s legacy is one of grace,
intellect, and resilience. She opened doors for poets of color and showed how
poetry can tell stories that history has overlooked. Her work continues to
inspire readers and writers alike, proving that poetry is not just an art
form—but also a powerful tool for truth and transformation.
The House Slave
The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grass
and in the slave quarters there is a rustling –
children are bundled into aprons, cornbread
and water gourds grabbed, a salt pork breakfast taken.
I watch them driven into the vague before-dawn
while their mistress sleeps like an ivory toothpick
and Massa dreams of asses, rum and slave funk.
I cannot fall asleep again. At the second horn,
the whip curls across the backs of the laggards –
sometimes my sister’s voice, unmistaken, among them.
“Oh! pray,” she cries. “Oh! pray!” Those days
I lit on my cot, shivering in the early heat,
and as the fields unfold to whiteness,
and they spill like bees among the fat flowers,
I weep. It is not yet daylight.
American Smooth
We were dancing—it must have
been a foxtrot or a waltz,
something romantic but
requiring restraint,
rise and fall, precise
execution as we moved
into the next song without
stopping, two chests heaving
above a seven-league
stride—such perfect agony,
one learns to smile through,
ecstatic mimicry
being the sine qua non
of American Smooth.
And because I was distracted
by the effort of
keeping my frame
(the leftward lean, head turned
just enough to gaze out
past your ear and always
smiling, smiling),
I didn’t notice
how still you’d become until
we had done it
(for two measures?
four?)—achieved flight,
that swift and serene
magnificence,
before the earth
remembered who we were
and brought us down.
Banneker
What did he do except lie
under a pear tree, wrapped in
a great cloak, and meditate
on the heavenly bodies?
Venerable, the good people of Baltimore
whispered, shocked and more than
a little afraid. After all it was said
he took to strong drink.
Why else would he stay out
under the stars all night
and why hadn’t he married?
But who would want him! Neither
Ethiopian nor English, neither
lucky nor crazy, a capacious bird
humming as he penned in his mind
another enflamed letter
to President Jefferson—he imagined
the reply, polite and rhetorical.
Those who had been to Philadelphia
reported the statue
of Benjamin Franklin
before the library
his very size and likeness.
A wife? No, thank you.
At dawn he milked
the cows, then went inside
and put on a pot to stew
while he slept. The clock
he whittled as a boy
still ran. Neighbors
woke him up
with warm bread and quilts.
At nightfall he took out
his rifle—a white-maned
figure stalking the darkened
breast of the Union—and
shot at the stars, and by chance
one went out. Had he killed?
I assure thee, my dear Sir!
Lowering his eyes to fields
sweet with the rot of spring, he could see
a government’s domed city
rising from the morass and spreading
in a spiral of lights....
Dawn Revisited
Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,
the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits -
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours
to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You'll never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.
Heart to Heart
It's neither red
nor sweet.
It doesn't melt
or turn over,
break or harden,
so it can't feel
pain,
yearning,
regret.
It doesn't have
a tip to spin on,
it isn't even
shapely—
just a thick clutch
of muscle,
lopsided,
mute. Still,
I feel it inside
its cage sounding
a dull tattoo:
I want, I want—
but I can't open it:
there's no key.
I can't wear it
on my sleeve,
or tell you from
the bottom of it
how I feel. Here,
it's all yours, now—
but you'll have
to take me,
too.
Wingfoot Lake
On her 36th birthday, Thomas had shown her
her first swimming pool. It had been
his favorite color, exactly—just
so much of it, the swimmers’ white arms jutting
into the chevrons of high society.
She had rolled up her window
and told him to drive on, fast.
Now this act of mercy: four daughters
dragging her to their husbands’ company picnic,
white families on one side and them
on the other, unpacking the same
squeeze bottles of Heinz, the same
waxy beef patties and Salem potato chip bags.
So he was dead for the first time
on Fourth of July—ten years ago
had been harder, waiting for something to happen,
and ten years before that, the girls
like young horses eyeing the track.
Last August she stood alone for hours
in front of the T.V. set
as a crow’s wing moved slowly through
the white streets of government.
That brave swimming
scared her, like Joanna saying
Mother, we’re Afro-Americans now!
What did she know about Africa?
Were there lakes like this one
with a rowboat pushed under the pier?
Or Thomas’ Great Mississippi
with its sullen silks? (There was
the Nile but the Nile belonged
to God.) Where she came from
was the past, 12 miles into town
where nobody had locked their back door,
and Goodyear hadn’t begun to dream of a park
under the company symbol, a white foot
sprouting two small wings.
Hattie McDaniel Arrives at the Coconut Grove
late, in aqua and ermine, gardenias
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her smile chastened, purse giddy
with stars and rhinestones clipped to her brilliantined hair,
on her free arm that fine Negro,
Mr. Wonderful Smith.
It’s the day that isn’t, February 29th,
at the end of the shortest month of the year—
and the shittiest, too, everywhere
except Hollywood, California,
where the maid can wear mink and still be a maid,
bobbing her bandaged head and cursing
the white folks under her breath as she smiles
and shoos their silly daughters
in from the night dew . . . what can she be
thinking of, striding into the ballroom
where no black face has ever showed itself
except above a serving tray?
Hi-Hat Hattie, Mama Mac, Her Haughtiness,
the “little lady” from Showboat whose name
Bing forgot, Beulah & Bertha & Malena
& Carrie & Violet & Cynthia & Fidelia,
one half of the Dark Barrymores—
dear Mammy we can’t help but hug you crawl into
your generous lap tease you
with arch innuendo so we can feel that
much more wicked and youthful
and sleek but oh what
we forgot: the four husbands, the phantom
pregnancy, your famous parties, your celebrated
ice box cake. Your giggle above the red petticoat’s rustle,
black girl and white girl walking hand in hand
down the railroad tracks
in Kansas City, six years old.
The man who advised you, now
that you were famous, to “begin eliminating”
your more “common” acquaintances
and your reply (catching him square
in the eye): “That’s a good idea.
I’ll start right now by eliminating you.”
Is she or isn’t she? Three million dishes,
a truckload of aprons and headrags later, and here
you are: poised, between husbands
and factions, no corset wide enough
to hold you in, your huge face a dark moon split
by that spontaneous smile—your trademark,
your curse. No matter, Hattie: It’s a long, beautiful walk
into that flower-smothered standing ovation,
so go on
and make them wait.
Scarf
Whoever claims beauty
lies in the eye
of the beholder
has forgotten the music
silk makes settling
across a bared
neck: skin never touched
so gently except
by a child
or a lover.
Primer
In the sixth grade I was chased home by
the Gatlin kids, three skinny sisters
in rolled-down bobby socks. Hissing
Brainiac! and Mrs. Stringbean!, they trod my heel.
I knew my body was no big deal
but never thought to retort: who's
calling who skinny? (Besides, I knew
they'd beat me up.) I survived
their shoves across the schoolyard
because my five-foot-zero mother drove up
in her Caddie to shake them down to size.
Nothing could get me into that car.
I took the long way home, swore
I'd show them all: I would grow up.
November for Beginners
Snow would be the easy
way out—that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’t give.
So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing
a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!
Rita Dove – Full Biography
Full Name: Rita Frances Dove
Born: August 28, 1952
Birthplace: Akron, Ohio, USA
Occupation: Poet, Essayist, Novelist, Playwright, Educator
Notable Titles: U.S. Poet Laureate (1993–1995), Pulitzer Prize Winner
(1987)
Early
Life and Education
Rita Dove was born into a highly
educated African-American family. Her father, Ray Dove, was a chemist and one
of the first African-Americans in the U.S. to work in that field. Encouraged by
her family to pursue knowledge and creativity, Rita developed a deep love for
reading and music early in life.
She graduated summa cum laude from Miami
University in Ohio in 1973, then studied as a Fulbright Scholar at the University
of Tübingen in Germany. She later earned an MFA in Creative Writing from
the University of Iowa in 1977.
Career
and Literary Achievements
Rita Dove gained national acclaim
with her 1986 poetry collection “Thomas and Beulah,” which won the Pulitzer
Prize for Poetry in 1987. The book is a semi-fictionalized account of her
grandparents’ lives in the early 20th century.
In 1993, Dove became the first
African-American U.S. Poet Laureate—a prestigious role at the Library of
Congress—serving two years. She was also the youngest person to hold the
position at that time.
Dove’s work spans many genres. In
addition to poetry, she has written a novel (Through the Ivory Gate,
1992), short stories, plays, and essays. Her poetry often deals with themes
of history, memory, identity, music, and Black experience in America and Europe.
Her collection “Sonata Mulattica”
(2009) tells the story of George Bridgetower, a mixed-race violinist and
contemporary of Beethoven. Her most recent collections include Collected
Poems: 1974–2004 (2016) and Playlist for the Apocalypse (2021).
Academic
and Public Life
Dove is also a respected teacher.
She has taught at Arizona State University and University of Virginia,
where she is a Commonwealth Professor of English.
In addition to the Pulitzer Prize,
Dove has received numerous honors, including:
- The National Humanities Medal (1996)
- The National Medal of Arts (2011)
- Over 25 honorary doctorates
- The Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize (2014)
Personal
Life
Rita Dove is married to German-born
novelist Fred Viebahn, and they have one daughter. A trained cellist and
accomplished ballroom dancer, Dove often incorporates music and rhythm into her
work.
Legacy
Rita Dove’s literary contributions
have helped redefine American poetry. She paved the way for generations of
Black writers, advocating for diversity and inclusion in literature. Through
lyrical storytelling, emotional depth, and historical insight, her work
continues to inspire and educate readers across the world.
