Explain what, in your opinion, are the most important characteristics that distinguish American literature?

Part I: What, in your opinion, are the most important characteristics that distinguish American literature?

Part II: what is the Listening to a Rail in Mandan

long-term significance. How does it compare to classics that have stood the test of time? Be specific. What elements of the work give it potential staying power?

Listening to a Rail in Mandan:

I’ve heard it said that you can feel it coming

in the tremor of the tracks, that you can cock

your head and cup an ear to the smooth steel

and sense it coming in vibrations, in rattles,

that you can gather the blaze of friction

as it builds, the heart murmur climbing the pass

through the mountains inside your head.

I stand at the edge of the brake and listen

for far-off signs: whistles, footfalls, gravel

ground under truck tires. I crawl up the grade

to the raised beds and the rails, the bull-run

on the far side of the yard lit by overheads,

each pool of light like a crude betrayal

of the darknesses between. The rails

take parallel trails of light past the sidings,

past the curve at the end of the yard,

past the bottleneck at the Heart River bridge––

two aisles of light like childhood brothers adrift,

like a father’s eyes carving the dark land

beside the dark river. The shape of a tree.

The shape of an owl grinding the sky.

I’ve heard it said that you can feel it coming

from as far off as a mile, the distance erased

in the pump of a vein, in the flicker of overhead lights,

the bull-run laying in its own dust wasted,

the tire tracks zigzagged and stacked

where the rail-cop makes fate his listless routine.

I shoulder against a fishplate and lower

my head to the rail. I wait for a chime, a shiver,

some thunder to ride past the overland silence.

I’ve heard it said that the kingdom of heaven

surrounds us, though we fail to see.

No stars tonight. No fire. No brother by the junkers

awaiting my call. No father walking toward me

on the tar-blackened ties. No dog’s eye

catching the searchlights. Not a single sound

fleshing this tank town as the rail begins to shake,

as the train begins to whisper my name.

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