Poster Month | Day 13 | Not Golden
Today’s piece is about The New Colossus - the poem at the base of the Status of Liberty. When I think about the promise of America and its place in the world, this comes to my mind. It’s the place where common, struggling people from anywhere in the world can come to start over. A nation that welcomes all and refuses to judge.
I’m afraid we’ve lost this attitude. We no longer see the homeless and wretched as an inheritance, but as a burden - just the inhabitants of one “shithole” or another.
Some seek to bar the Golden Door shut and to make talent or privilege payment for entry. That’s not our heritage. We’re a nation of immigrants. A nation built by people from around the world.
Size: 18” x 24”. Limited run of 10. Matte coating. Signed and numbered.
The New Colossus – by Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Today’s piece is about The New Colossus - the poem at the base of the Status of Liberty. When I think about the promise of America and its place in the world, this comes to my mind. It’s the place where common, struggling people from anywhere in the world can come to start over. A nation that welcomes all and refuses to judge.
I’m afraid we’ve lost this attitude. We no longer see the homeless and wretched as an inheritance, but as a burden - just the inhabitants of one “shithole” or another.
Some seek to bar the Golden Door shut and to make talent or privilege payment for entry. That’s not our heritage. We’re a nation of immigrants. A nation built by people from around the world.
Size: 18” x 24”. Limited run of 10. Matte coating. Signed and numbered.
The New Colossus – by Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Today’s piece is about The New Colossus - the poem at the base of the Status of Liberty. When I think about the promise of America and its place in the world, this comes to my mind. It’s the place where common, struggling people from anywhere in the world can come to start over. A nation that welcomes all and refuses to judge.
I’m afraid we’ve lost this attitude. We no longer see the homeless and wretched as an inheritance, but as a burden - just the inhabitants of one “shithole” or another.
Some seek to bar the Golden Door shut and to make talent or privilege payment for entry. That’s not our heritage. We’re a nation of immigrants. A nation built by people from around the world.
Size: 18” x 24”. Limited run of 10. Matte coating. Signed and numbered.
The New Colossus – by Emma Lazarus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”