Poetic Asides regular Bruce Niedt, who wrote a great WCW deconstruct yesterday, left an interesting suggestion for me via e-mail last night:
With the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks coming up this Sunday, why not invite members to share their poetry on the subject – either poems they wrote soon after the events, or more recent poetry reflecting on that day from a 10-year perspective. I wrote at least a dozen poems in the wake of the event, some of which were not my best, but about two or three that still held up pretty well over time. Anyway, I thought it would be interesting (and hopefully won’t spawn too many heated political arguments).
First off, let me echo the sentiment about the heated political arguments. Share your poetry on the left, the right, the middle, but don’t go attacking someone else’s perspective or creative output on this blog. I’m not into bullying, whether it’s kids against kids or poets against poets. Respect each other.
Second, let’s do this. I think this is a great idea from Bruce. I know I’ve written several 9/11-inspired poems myself. In fact, many non-9/11 poems I’ve written, I’m sure, have been written in a post-9/11 worldview. I’ll see if I can hunt some of those older poems down.
Please share your 9/11-inspired poems (new and old) in the comments below. Encourage your friends and family to share their own contributions too. We’re still dealing with the aftershocks of 9/11, but it’s important to show how we’ve progressed, regressed, and not changed at all as a result.
In the meantime, here’s a new attempt from me:
“All the way home”
What I remember most is the sky
was a blank slate of blue and that nobody
seemed to know the whole story. I drove
home through contradicting juxtapositions–
even the birds seemed to be grounded.
All the way home, I spotted vulnerable
targets. My dreams that night–when I could
finally get to sleep–involved men with guns
and loud voices. But the next morning,
I dressed for work and started living again.
*****
Again, please share your 9/11 poems and remember to be respectful.
REMEMBERING THE TWINS
Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design.
One taller than the other;
he wore his hat to distinguish them.
Side-by-side, they kept watch
over the multitudes with attitudes,
near the harbor, they held no ill will
standing still while liberty had shown the way.
Until that day, their futures bright together,
their fates tied to their function.
But their compunction was well founded
when they were grounded. Encouraging to the last,
until the fast descent caused by one’s great fall.
The other followed shortly, two swept clear.
Ten years older if they were still here.
Tall and proud they stood,
brothers from the same design,
holding lives and dreams for all
concerned in the balance.
Under a valance of dust and rubble
there remains no trouble remembering the twins
NOT COMING HOME
The phone rings.
An unanswered summoning
leaving one to wonder.
He said goodbye today.
He was used to saying “See you later”.
And the longer it had gone without answer
made her worry. The children came to mind.
Do they know? Did they hear?
Why doesn’t it add up?
Throught the window, smoke and dust,
a veil shrouded in obscurity.
You watched in terror. Replayed
over and over with the same result;
an insane happenstance. No chance
to say “I love you”. Only goodbye.
Your gut tells you what your heart refuses
to intimate. It’s too late. He’s not coming home.
NINE-ELEVEN
Lest we forget…
Many lives lost, affected and changed,
our perspectives forever askew, rearranged.
Our concern for humanity given new light,
ten years in the making, and it’s still not right.
Sacrifices made by the selfless and compassionate;
the brave and we’re still helpless.
Never to be far from our hearts and heads.
Buried within our souls instead,
explosive fire, never silenced,
thousand cries of anguish, never silenced.
One massive blaze unquenched, never silenced,
it still remains to burn in our common psyche all the same.
The eternal flame. Lest we forget.
HAIKU: 9/12/11
By dawn’s early light,
awaken to a new day.
This void will remain.
Where Were You When The Towers Fell?
Where were you when the towers fell?
Tucked all safe and snug in your bed
Waking to smell pancakes and coffee
Getting dressed, rushing out the door
No need to be late
Just another day of routine folly
Where were you when the towers fell?
Making your lunches
packing your things
Checking your homework,
meeting your friends
Filling the buses
Cramming the cars.
Where were you when the towers fell?
Just came in through the office door
Set your briefcase, keys and cell phone down
Flipping through papers
Business meetings
Conference calls
Emails and emails and more.
Where were you when the towers fell?
Radio, television tuned in to news.
Calling loved ones to hear their voice
Phone lines busy, anxiety runs high
Voices in huddles speak of nothing less
Daily habits are a distant dream
United in terror and pride.
Where were you when the towers fell?
Our home no longer safe
Family clenched tight
Clinging to the common bond
Strangers become family
Grasping at hope
Desperate for peace.
Where were you when the towers fell?
Back to your methodical drone.
No care in the world, not one reminder
On this ten year anniversary
Please don’t make this
Just another day of routine folly.
BEFORE THE STORM
How strangely still
the water is today.
Calm and tranquil. strangely still.
Dark clouds on the horizon,
harbingers of things to come;
clouds that obliterate the sun.
The air seems cold; it chills,
winds stirring through the clearing.
Winds of chnage do not thrill.
How strangely still
the water is today.
Peaceful thoughts; I get my fill.
And then, the clouds converge,
driven by gusts of fire and winds;
a nasty dose of an ill will.
Before the storm, it seemed quite warm.
How strangely still
the water was today. Such a rapid decay!
A 9/11 poem based on “Sea Calm” by Langston Hughes
DISHEARTENED: THE DISASTER
Death comes to call.
A vacancy unwanted; unwarranted.
Voices silenced,
visions delved into darkness.
Touching, cold and unfeeling,
leaving us reeling with sorrow.
Dreams of a tomorrow bright
and fruitful, become a night terror.
The bearer of sad tidings halting
thousands of hearts in mid-beat.
Ones are left to fend due to the end
of passion’s cleaving. Leaving no pulse;
disheartened. Love never dies.
It just ceases to be; the truest disaster.
Robert, I was transported back with your words.
Vigil
Normal has been redefined.
Now we move through everyday life
thinking about life, every day,
each minute a ripened fruit.
Senses have sharpened
we regard the world with warier eyes
while finely tuned to frequencies:
ear to the sky, the jet overhead.
We stand at tense attention
like veldt-dwellers,
watching on all sides
for predators in the grass.
Our vantage point,
our strange and somber advantage,
a small mountain
still burning below,
framed with steel skeletons,
built from two hundred crumpled stories
and thousands buried
without ceremony or warning.
It gives us a place
from which to move on,
and the benefit of hindsight
from higher ground.
09/29/2001
Ashes
Someone asked a firefighter,
after the fire,
after the buildings collapsed:
Where are the bodies?
He pointed to the gray dust
covering his face and clothes.
It is horrific to imagine
that these towers became
a huge crematorium
of jet fuel, concrete
and superheated steel,
but no more horrific
than the powder that leached
all color from the flattened
Hiroshima landscape
or the strange gray snow
that fell outside the gates
of Auschwitz and Buchenwald.
10/14/2001
(This was published and selected as a poem of the week on the website “Poets Against War”)
Haunting and powerful description… was that initial part taken from an actual report?
Yes it was.
Great work, Bruce.
How We Heal
We pay the mortgage, we pay the rent.
We wash our cars, we get the paper.
We see the photographs from a year ago
and feel the same twinge of horror, a bit fainter this time.
We go on vacation. Some of us fly.
We see old movies on TV
with shots of the towers, and feel a pang of loss.
Then we watch football, or a car commercial,
or a sitcom.
We shake our fists at the madman of the month.
We shake our fists at the driver who cut us off.
We yell at our children; we hug them tight.
We send them off to school.
We pray they will grow up healthy and good,
and not be taken by evils down the street,
or across the world.
We pray in the kitchen. We pray in our beds.
We pray when our plane takes off.
We pray to God, Jehovah, and yes, even Allah,
or whatever god or gods we think will listen.
We pray for the living, we pray for the dead.
We pray to keep the tightening circle of terrorists
from our families, from our door.
We pray for the families on whose door
they have already knocked.
We pray for our country, the greatest on earth,
we still sincerely believe.
We plant flowers. We pray for rain.
(September 2002)
Bruce, The end line “We plant flowers. We pray for rain.” was the perfect end to a moving poem.
I agree a stunning last line…..
Walt, As always I am amazed by your writing.
Written in Feb 2010
Where were you?
… after Wes Magee
Maria was dicing carrots
nutters were flying to hell
the smell of tar
polluted the bar
the day the towers fell
Cats playing with a dead mouse
hamburgers with relish as well
hands on heart and head
starting to count the dead
the day the towers fell
Half the world was sleeping
news was starting to swell
rattling cages
that had stood for ages
the day the towers fell
Elton cried and wrote
a witch cast a spell
bells ringing out
little boys shout
the day the towers fell
Bodies piling higher
panic and fear to tell
death and smoke
an unholy joke
the day the towers fell
I remember my location
and the phone´s ringing bell
when out of the blue
I suddenly knew
the day the towers fell
Iain
For those that don’t know Wes Magee’s original was about the assassination of JFK
Robert, I almost forgot to thank you for taking my suggestion. I’ve already read some really good and moving poetry on the subject here.
NINE-ONE-ONE
A state of emergency,
a state of insanity,
“The States” in disarray.
To understate the obvious,
the number says it all.
The situation and day
the twins would fall.
No one to call
in our time of need.
We call on ourselves,
each other to stop the bleeding
and the pain. Placing blame
cannot end the hurt,
no placebo can reign in
the pain we are in.
Ten years after the fact,
one thing is crystal clear.
One needs to keep loved ones close
and all we hold so dear.
A state of emergency.
Dial it in!
Here’s me reading my 911 poem in 2002. I’m amazed it’s still online!
DA
(Click “DA” to view)
I never cease to be amazed at how well you perform. Truly inspiring, Daniel.
AM: 9/11
I was getting ready for public teaching.
An enterprise that takes concentration,
Much effort and time.
I saw a plane hit the tower.
A little stunned,
I left for work.
Later, more crashing.
Colleagues were thoughtful,
Angry, sad and tired.
A few appeared excited,
I thought;
After all our aggressions, someone
Got through.
IT FILLS THE AIR
We sit in our breakable
adobe walls. On the tabletop,
a fired clay pot of flowers.
From across the continent,
the news numbs us: overload
of wrong numbers:
Flight 11, Flight 175, Flight 77.
Uncounted humans
fall from high-rise steel
no longer standing;
a choke of ash. How can numbers
ever count for us again?
And then Flight 93,
a band of stranger-heroes lifts
the horn of courage,
sounds it so we hear
it clear across the country.
Even here.
Shine the Light
In the Beginning, Word was light
As promised came one starry night
The darkness knew not what was right
It fought with might, it fought with might
Nine years ago it fought us here
Attacking us with hate and fear
It killed so many we hold dear
And with a jeer, and with a jeer
And some say darkness may have won
But tell me, can you quench the Sun?
God’s light still shines on everyone
To Him we come, to Him we come
He helped before, He’ll help again
The wars we’ve had, He helped us then
Through famines, floods and strife within
In Him we win, in Him we win
Darkness dispels with little light
As candles glow, the dark takes flight
The love of Jesus beams so bright
So shine the light, so shine the light
Well written encouragement, Connie. Thank you for this.
Nice work, Connie, I especially like “But tell me, can you quench the sun?”
Nueve Once
The New York City skyline is broken
and so are our hearts, I’m afraid.
An observation deck stub for a token.
The New York City skyline is broken,
our vulnerability, grief unspoken…
in front of the world now displayed.
The New York City skyline is broken
and so are our hearts, I’m afraid.
(c) jh 9/8/11
United We Stand
Like Confetti, Pieces of Souls Rained Down
I thought I would have to visit it-
Ground Zero – so close – how could I not?
Once nearer though, I grew disenchanted
With the notion, decided I would not go after all
Quite by accident, I stumbled close to the site
Lost—again—on the Metro—surfaced, to get
My bearings; an elderly man urged me closer
With his cane, asked me – was I looking for it,
“the place”?
“No, no,” I protested, sounding weak and indecisive
In my own ears – hadn’t I come up less than a block
From the memorial? The old guy’s eyes glinted
In the sun as he stared at me, then said softly
“You wanna set a bit?” he patted the bench
Beside him and suddenly weary, I slid down
Resting my head on my overlarge suitcase
Smiling gratefully at him as he smiled back
“It was a purty day, much like this one, y’know—”
My bench-mate spoke so softly I had to strain
To hear him and it was unclear if he was
Speaking to me or just mumbling to himself
“Sky as clear as this until, like confetti, pieces
Of souls rained down …” I felt drops hit my hand
And in wonder, touched the wetness –
Then looked into his tear-filled eyes, felt my own
Sting, as he continued, “Imagine – I was passed
Out that whole day long, didn’t wake up ‘til late
Afternoon when everything was changed – them
Big ol’ towers were crumbled to dust and all those
Poor people—” We sat there in silence then,
Me, trying to imagine how that must have been
For him, and him, patting my hand, trying —
I don’t know what he was trying to do but whatever
It was, it worked: when I walked away from him
I felt revived in a way I’d hadn’t expected
Funny, but NYC’s always been kind to me that way …
S.E.Ingraham
March 2011
Exquisite photograph of intense emotional time… as always… BRAVO !
I remember this, and am still just as impressed by it.
I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, this one is excellent, Sharon.
Victims
The truth is, I don’t think about them
often.
I had my two degrees of New Jersey separation,
friends who were gone when the leaves started to turn
for funerals, memorials,
the running of hands through grey dust. I remember
one day of fascinated horror
buried in ten years of hate and hardship.
People in freefall are a pixel or two wide on TV.
Children torn to pieces in far-off deserts have faces.
Journalists weep. Prisoners are masked.
We lived through images
laced with bloody wire, all of it leading back to a heart
that does not beat, but collapses (twice).
When I feel like thinking about them, I walk down
to where the painted tiles sway in the breezes from cabs
hurtling down Seventh, clanking like
kitchen-floor birds, each one a name. Hello, and
how are you doing today, and
have you seen how big my daughter’s gotten:
the little things.
Ghosts live in the spaces of Manhattan fences.
They are not thugs with stars and stripes and warpaint,
they are not martyrs of a primitive tribe. They are
mothers, fathers, children and elders,
lovers and sentinels, the fearful and the frantic and
the ones at peace.
I face north. I wonder how they are doing, and I look
up the island that is seamless and whole, wondering
if they know what has been done
(whether we admit it or not)
in their names.
If we could tap them out in the right order, these tiles
would still sing.
If we look at the bow of Manhattan’s mouth, see where
two teeth were ripped out, bloodied, we can tell
it is remembering how to smile.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
This is wonderful and the last stanza is perfection.Love the wording of two teeth being ripped out, bloodied.
Twin Towers
Invisible memorials
One for him, one for her.
Marking the place her heart crumbled to ground zero
on an ordinary September morning.
She traces their fallen shadow in the sky
Then spreads her arms
And tries to fly.
8:46…9:03…10:03 a.m.
a sunny morning
nothing out of the ordinary
running late for work
putting on make-up
doing my hair
listening to the Today Show
the exact time is unknown
I didn’t look at the clock
but time was about to stand still
8:46
9:03
10:03
those aren’t the numbers I remember
the ones that stick in my head are
9 & 11
2011-04-09
P. Wanken
written for Poetic Asides poem-a-day challenge
Day 9: “time of day”
I wrote this one for the “falling” prompt in April:
towers
years later, they appear in my dreams,
just as I saw them then,
on the television screen
in real time–
falling.
other haunt me too—the faces on flyers
tacked up on every wall,
every fence:
have you seen our father?
my husband?
when grief becomes public,
so many faces,
so many lost,
the images pile up,
they overwhelm,
but still I see the them falling
and wonder
how much fire,
how much fear
would make me leap,
hoping that perhaps
just this once,
instead of falling,
I might fly.
Lovely work.
CONCRETE TOWERS: THE SHADOW OF MEMORY
I
t
w
a
s
Late summer in NY. A day like
any other; New Yorkers loved
days such as th ese. The sky
was clear; the air was crisp and
life went on as it usually did.Taxi
cabs jammed in traffic, and some
commuters were too. Pedestrians
on the pavement heading to their
nine-to-5 enslave ment. A sense of
urgency had gone unnoticed but that
was business as it usually was. Men
and Women head ed to work, or to
drop the children off at daycare. Today
is September 11th 2001 and all is right
with the world. The sun rises, casting
the Statue of Liberty in seductive and
glorious silhouette; a shadowed sentinel
set in the harbor to greet all travelers to
the “Land of the Free”. Like those folks on
that inbound jet and others like it. It holds
the hopes and dreams of all aboard, as it does for all below. The airplane’s
shadow is cast ominously across the expanse of concrete, metal and glass;
a close pass to the constructed mountains above. Most unusual on this usual
day. Nothing changes on usual days. Usually, but not today late summer in NY.
great idea to format like this
9/11
I was changing a diaper
when the world changed
right before my eyes.
I watched
as an unspeakable act
made me feel
something
something
something I later realized was hate,
and it frightened me.
As voiceless tears ran down my cheeks
I was grateful
I didn’t have to try and explain
to my baby twins
what happened to that other set of twins
because, to be honest,
I didn’t know how.
I still don’t.
###
Wonderfully written, RJ.
So much good material on this post. Wish I could comment on them all.
Robert, I enjoyed yours as well but couldn’t reply to it directly.
That Day
My brother worked at the Pentagon
(not that day, but it took us 8 hours to know it)
My belly was full of baby
(now almost 10 years old, little sister not far behind)
My heart was in my throat
(both aching, watching the very sky fall)
My country fell in pieces
(and rose to the occasion, beauty born of ash)
“fell in pieces…and rose to the occasion…” beautiful
Amen. Beautiful, my friend.
I agree.
Thanks so much, ladies.
There were many poems on this subject; these are some of them.
New York City 2001
From the bus I saw a plane circling
Tower Two where I was headed
to begin an ordinary September day;
in fact I was late. Walter, my Basset
hound, refused to come when called,
forcing me to take this later bus
on which we all sat, at the mouth
of the Battery tunnel, waiting for traffic
to move along, but something was wrong.
Orange flames, black billowing smoke erupted
before us. Why did the plane crash
into the building? Must be an accident,
but the sky was so blue, the view so clear,
as we sat, and sat, watching my building
crumble like a set of building blocks. Static
on the radio, the driver listening to the news
of an attack, a bombing, and our cell phones
were dead, so we turned in our seats
instead, in time to witness a second plane
crash into a high floor of Tower Two, lightening
speed, leaving fire in the wake of life,
clouds of ash, like a black magic show.
Relatives at home, sat, paced, not knowing
if we were alive. Four hours passed.
Passengers prayed until a signal came
for the bus to turn around, to bring us home,
shocked and silent. Only later could I cry.
Only later did I learn that my niece on the
thirtieth floor was safe. My dear friend remained
on the list of missing, to be declared dead
three weeks later. The phone rang, hysterical
family and friends, some of whom I had not seen
in a long time. One month later, grasping
my husband’s arm, I attended a funeral
of my dear friend, but there was only a picture.
————————————–
Whatever You Decided
Whatever you had decided
to do with your time,
I would have supported
you. If you needed me,
I would have been there
for you. If you had a joke
to tell, an insight to share
when I was not there,
I would have listened
to you. Whatever love
we had together, I will
remember–in fine detail,
as that of perfectly penned
calligraphy–although you
cannot.
You were my best friend
before a terrorist destroyed
you
and
me.
————————–
Towers
Dead
black
nightfall
in downtown
Manhattan, buildings
guarded, gated–too late for you.
Bomb blast blackened glassy blue skies
as city commenced
routine day.
Flames spit
red
death.
———————————
Sounds of 9/11
Beep!
drivers lean on horns
traffic at a stop
bus at mouth of dark
entrance to tunnel.
Zoom!
airplanes heading
straight for towers
tall and pale in
radiant sunlight.
Boom!
crash, fire, coal black
and orange jets
flaming, flowing;
we stare, helpless.
Nooo!
shrieks of disbelief,
sight of buildings
crumbling like toy
blocks, bodies falling
from a September sky.
———————————
Our Towers
I could not stop your fall from grace
as fires flamed I knew your face
was one I never could erase.
Trapped on a bus, I felt your ghost.
Our buildings, side by side, a heap
of rocks and broken bodies steeped
and shrouded in ashen sleep.
Trapped on that bus, I felt your ghost.
The world went on, they searched for you
but in my heart of hope, I knew
you’d gone, as your bare casket proved.
While trapped inside, I felt your ghost.
Sara… Vivid, powerful, personal…
So few of us can relate as personally as you can, Sara. My heart is full for you.
Oh, Sara. Heartbreaking, and beautifully portrayed. I’m so sorry.
PSALM FOR FLIGHT 93: IN VERDANT PASTURES
He gives them repose; a long journey ended
and all who had risen to the occasion knew
their rest was well earned. Not how they would
have wanted, but God never asked them
what they wanted. He gave them what He knew
they could handle. And so, brave and stoic,
extremely heroic they were at peace with
the decision that was made. Honor in their way;
on their terms. A rest well earned
and on that day they learned their limitations.
Strong enough to defend their nation.
In control on the command, “Let’s Roll”.
In verdant pastures, the Shepherd
snatched them up to rest peacefully.
They needed and wanted nothing more.
Wow. Thank you for this, Walt.
FIVE SIDES
There were five sides to every story,
in a place where glory was the prize earned
through valiant effort and selfless sacrifice.
It would have been nice to face your attackers,
but cowardly slackers destined to fail their main mission
sat in a position to cause as much damage as they could.
Would they have succeeded, we would have pleaded
for mercy. But we don’t play that way. The heroes
in New York and Pennsylvania had back-up
in the Nation’s capitol. On patrol and wresting control
back from the faceless assailant. Our own mission clear.
Do not lead out of fear. Defend out of honor and respect
of those who had given so much for the cause of many.
In any instance, there remains five sides to every story.
In honor and glory, they died for a cause,
earning our undying devotion and endless applause.
Thanks to Bruce for the suggestion and to Robert for actualizing… I wrote the following on my FB status today:
On this day ten years ago – the song “America” continued to play in my mind as a talisman, a mantra, a reminder… and so I wrote and never revised…. Ten years have passed and still the enormity of what occurred on that now proverbial bright sunny September morning is still surreal… and yet, we continue…hopefully with a renewed sense of purpose to never dilute the values upon which this country was founded…
America, america *
(this poem was written on 9-11-01 and originally published in the 9-11 Memorial Edition of the Adelphi Society for Psychoanalysis & Psychotherapy Newsletter of which I was editor for several years ).
Oh beautiful for spacious skies
cut deep by silver steel
For purple mountain majesties
above the
gaping
hole
American, america
heart cut
and bled and teared
Lift now
her face
from evil
brace
from al
that now
is feared
Told us they
did of
brotherhood
of hand held
fast and
strong
those purple mountains
majesty
above a rising
dawn
America, america
I gave my heart
to thee through bombs
that fell
and napalms
hell I held
you close to me
America, america
I marched and sung
and cried
for liberty, equality
for others lost and died
We learned of
pots of melted
walls
a land of one
for all
A special land
where freedom
rang a universal
call
A place where
free we all
could be
no crematorium
sweet stink
the evil
things that
happened then
too distant far
to think
And through it all
our self-control
belief in moral
might
a land that’s
free for all
to be whatever is
felt right
We didn’t always
get along
We didn’t all agree
But that we learned
was just the point
of sweetest liberty
And so our
buildings went
unscanned
our skies
unmanned
and free
our streets marched
through by many feet
for causes differently
America, america
I gave my heart
to thee
to noble
cause and
idealized flaws
in name of
liberty
It served us well
until this
hell unleashed
its heinous face
but never more
than here a door
to courage
rich embrace
It takes no
strength to fight
for right when
fear is far away
when babies cry
in distant lands
and others
starve and die
Our alabaster
cities now
agleam with
tears and dust
From this came
we to liberty
As then and now we must
American, america
I gave my heart to thee
gave my belief
a child of grief
to dream
of liberty
All children
of a certain age
remember
with crisp
pride
that we stood
so much
taller then
and that we did believe
American, america
it’s simple
to believe
when safe and
warm and tall
and strong
invincible we seemed
American, america
for oh so very long
we’ve mouthed
the words
without a test
of right against what’s wrong
America, america
you raised me in your
arms
So strong
and warm
and held so high
america is no lie…
*I think I was trying to differentiate between the country America and the inculcated values of an internalized america…
Thanks again for the forum Robert… will be back to read in the morning… I had just finished posting this long old poem from that hellish day …. and was considering asking members of a FB group if they would like to post 9-11 poems when I found this wonderful forum. Will be back in the morning to read and perhaps to write…
We went to bear witness
one or two days later
maybe three
counting was odd
in those melted clock days
Blocks away the strobe
lights lit the streets
and in my mouth and
nose I breathed in
the acrid ash of crematorium dust
Deeply…
Into the waiting arms of
black-eyed Susans
fell the sacred rain of
heroes
flinging seeds of
immortality
Collective Horror
I watched in horror as my country
ached when the point of the planes
pierced the soul of every American
Tearing our freedom into pieces
the moment steel touched steel
and destroying the symbols of
our power in minutes
On TV the falling bodies resembled
cinders until you saw their forms
flying downward to escape the flames
No one who saw the soot and dust covered
faces of the aimless bystanders wandering
the site and their occasional turn of the head
to watch objects sail toward the rubble already
collecting beneath them erased those images.
The towers crumbled and we
as a nation went into deep shock
where only the blood of our enemy
might soothe our fevered souls
And patriotism became a cherished
word so dear we once again hung
flags to show our love
Hundreds risked their health digging
frantically hoping to hear the sounds
of a living, breathing human – instead
they faced the constant dust and the
lethal concoction which destroyed
the strong bodies of the brave
first responders
Those images lay in our brains
Like old fashioned negatives
Indelibly pressed like a souvenir
of a nightmare – one we have
pushed so far to the back of our
minds hoping the memories would
disappear, fade into the dust of ten
years. But alas, memories such as
these have burned themselves
into our minds and will never disappear.
Now there is a force unleashed in
America that holds those memories
as a new gospel of fear and terror
A force who will use the event to
continue this oppression
for the sake of our safety
And we are a nation suffering from
PTSD collectively shuddering every
time we hear the hint of a breach of
security.
Beautiful Barbara! Goodnight
Thank you, Pearl. The images in your poem and in the others are so strong and remind me of that hateful day. I am continuing to read. Love your little poem with the black eyed Susans.
Oh thank you Barbara….that field of waving flowers will not leave my mind….
Morning TV
I was cautioned from
early childhood about
the threat of morning tv
turning intellect to mush
and so it always sat quiet
and dark, except for that
bright september morn at 8:45
when for some reason I
rebelled, lazily tuned in
and within a moment
sat in shocked stupification
in the mush of my mind
incapable of thought
stricken to stare
hour after hour as the
crystal blue sky
shattered into
crashing planes
falling towers
and ashen
people
running
in a loop
indecipherable
This is a re-post of a Fib I wrote in 2010.
nine eleven
sun
breath
blue skies
all is well
malevolence prowls
terror strikes New York City’s heart
and we all fall down
viscous skies
filched breath
stench
loss
As I read these postings, I am simply awed by your works. I am once again humbled and thankful to be among such greatness.
Marie, your poem says so much with so little words. You have such a gift. You belong here.
Awww! Thank you, Barbara!
Pingback: WISHFUL, YOUNG DREAMERS – PROMPT #20 « POETIC BLOOMINGS
THAT TUESDAY
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A neighbor cries easily now.
He tells us, “I cannot leave
my brothers resting there.
I will pick my way past
jagged steel and listen
for their whispers climbing
from the ruins.”
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A little girl kisses
the framed picture of
her smiling father.
She and her brother
want to know,
“When is Daddy coming home?”
In the other room Mommy gags
her tears into a handkerchief.
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A survivor races
from the fallen tower
like a grey statue come to life,
then races back to save
a stranger. “She was lying there,
dazed and bleeding,” he says.
“I carried her out but
she died in my arms.”
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A Tuesday-morning moment
changes our lives forever.
Now we question our own laughter,
we own up to our mortality,
and while the TV flashes
scenes from hell, you and I hold hands
to keep from feeling lonely.
#
As always, great work. Good ending stanza.
autumn leaves…
the silence
of remembrance
Marie….I absolutely agree…there are stunning words from full hearts and keen eyes that sensitively see and it is a balm to one’s soul to be one among such richness of spirit ….
AWAKEN TO A NEW DAY
(A Found Poem)
Today is September 11, 2001,
And all is right with the world.
A sunny morning.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
But the television changed its clothes today:
Crashing planes, falling towers, and ashen people
Running in a loop
Indecipherable.
People in freefall are a pixel or two wide on TV.
Twin Towers, Reduced
To a huge crematorium of jet fuel, concrete,
And superheated steel.
Burning unfathomable holes,
Marking the place hearts crumbled to ground zero
on an ordinary September morning.
And lest we forget,
They held no ill will
Standing still while liberty had shown the way.
Pieces of souls rained down;
I could not stop your fall from grace.
Voiceless tears,
And cries of anguish,
Never silenced.
Our vulnerability and grief,
Unspoken.
No chance
to say “I love you.”
Watching the very sky fall,
I wondered how much fire, how much fear
Would make me leap
Hoping that perhaps
Just this once,
Instead of falling,
I might fly.
Death and smoke, an unholy joke.
Thousands buried without ceremony or warning.
Counting was odd in those melted clock days.
Even the birds seemed to be grounded.
A band of stranger-heroes lifts the horn of courage,
Sounds it so we hear it
Clear across the country.
Strangers became family,
Angry, sad, and tired.
United in terror and pride.
Patriotism became a cherished word so dear.
We once again hung flags to show our love.
Love never dies,
We remind ourselves
In verdant pastures, He gives them repose.
Autumn leaves the silence of remembrance.
Normal has been redefined.
We pray to God, Jehovah, and yes, even Allah,
or whatever god or gods we think will listen.
Keep loved ones close.
Do not lead out of fear.
Defend out of honor and respect.
It takes no strength to fight for right
When fear is far away.
If we look at the bow of Manhattan’s mouth, see where
two teeth were ripped out, bloodied, we can tell
it is remembering how to smile.
Now we question our own laughter;
We own up to our mortality.
And some say darkness may have won
But tell me, can you quench the Sun?
(Sincere gratitude to Robert, Walt, LadyJai, Bruce, Iain, Daniel, cstewart, Taylor, Connie, Sharon, Joseph, De, Paula, Nancy, RJ, Sara, Pearl, Barbara, Salvatore, and Cara for your heart-felt sentiments … so beautifully and poignantly penned. I hope my little “found poem” does justice to your brilliantly expressed sentiments.)
That was pretty cool, M.E. You did a great job putting the lines together. I like it.
Ah Marie… You know how much I delighted in writing such ‘tapestries’…. Even more delighted to read yours…. and I quote you “so beautifully and poignantly penned” …. Thanks you for as you would have said “this labor of love.”
Marie, I am so honored to be part of your poem and to be in the company of fellow poets whose words and images are so strong they bring me back to that day in an instant. Thank you so much for including my sentiments here.
Amazing, Marie. Just beautiful. Thank you.
Thanks so much, ladies! I see some mistakes. Bummer.
I’m still looking for mine. I think I have in saved on the old laptop. I really need to get more organized.
…AND THE FLAG WAS STILL THERE
A principle was attacked amidst
tears and destruction; a surreal snapshot
of a day worth forgetting. But no one did.
How do you forget the sight; the sound?
How do you forget the faces; the screams?
How do you diminish the sacrifice?
The word ‘impossible’ was tailor made
for this moment in time. Despair and
disbelief would be usurped by anger
and determination to not allow those who
put it all on the line, go quietly into that good night.
It became a fight to rise each day to face
the insurmountable task one brick at a time.
As many bricks as there were tears shed.
As many shards of glass as there were screams
of torment and terror. But the greatest error
made by a faceless ideology was assuming
we were broken and defeated. But the foresight
of three brothers of the fraternity most depleted
showed we were not defeated. Through the rubble
it stood in defiance. A naked flagpole planted
among the girders and debris. A symbol; our banner
raised high. A declaration loud and clear.
We are still here. We will not go gently.
Together we stand, a shield for liberty.
You took your shot and failed. An American Tale…
and the flag was still there! America had been blessed.
“Ten Years”
After ten years, most memories go away,
But 9-11 still seems like yesterday.
I remember the first responders running in
And then seeing the towers burn and cave in.
I remember the heroism of those who fought back
Against the cowardly terrorist attack.
I remember feeling stunned disbelief,
And when my family was together, relief.
I remember volunteering at the Pentagon,
A big piece of which was incongruously gone.
I ended up driving around other volunteers
While trying to choke back my tears.
It’s wasn’t much, compared to what others gave,
Their fellow Americans to protect and save.
But that little bit was something I had to do,
And many others felt that way too.
My daughters were young and don’t really remember
What happened on that sunny day in September.
But for me, those feelings will never fade,
Even after another decade.
(For more, go to http://newsericks.com/tag/9-11.)
Reflection 9/11
In the distance,
Somewhere far away,
A trumpet was heard,
And a Broken Hearted Melody
Played innocently in the wind,
And dust was reformed -
In a place we imagine
But do not know.
By hands we feel,
But can not see.
And Lada Gaga sang
Into the mirror,
On the Edge of Glory,
For everyone else.
And The Beacons Reached Skyward
Across the pond, upon my Isle
I stand witness to the resurgence,
a ressurection of spirit and will.
It is a thrill to watch as the phoenix
rises to prominence and inching
back toward the dominance that
has prevailed e’er these many years.
World wide wonder offered up
for the masses as the Lady Liberty
extends her gratitude for not
giving in to terror. And in the nearby
distance as the fall of night draws nigh,
a shadow of memory rises skyward.
Beacons burst from the footprint,
through the Reflective Pools
of respect and remembrance to shine.
Once again they stand, if only as
towers of light illuminating; eminating
from the Ground Zero entombment,
releasing every soul long buried
to follow the path toward the heavens;
following the light homeward.
9/11 Haiku
two parallel beams
cut the night sky heavenward –
the ghosts of giants
Flight 93
I saw Jesus in a cloudbank
when I was 7 years old, flying
high above Canada,
hands spread in a benediction
over the earth.
Did those brave souls on
Flight 93 feel the same benediction
when they decided the better part
of valor lay in an isolated field in Pennsylvania,
when they gave up their lives in a mad rush to the cockpit
so that other targets, other Americans would survive?
And The Eagle Cried
She spread her wings and flew across the blue skies,
Rejoicing in the brilliance and freshness of the new day.
She swooped and swerved high over the towers below
Until the steel monster from the land of Hate flew beneath her.
She watched, not understanding, as the towers she teased
Burst into fire, and flames and smoke turned her world dark.
She found a perch and folded her trembling wings
As all that she stood for crumbled around her
And the Eagle cried.
She saw her land, her America, her land of freedom,
For which she so proudly stood as a symbol
Falling, falling, falling, into heaps of ash and debris.
More than that, she saw fear turn into abject terror.
She watched her people cry, scream, run away
From a scene only imaginable in horror films.
But she knew this was no movie from which
She could easily fly away. There was no escape here.
And the Eagle cried.
The personification of Evil sat across miles of ocean
And clapped his hands and laughed as the pictures of
Death and destruction came to him over the television.
He couldn’t have been happier: America was dying!
He was wrong. As Evil most often is.
They came from everywhere: the firemen, the police,
The doctors, the nurses, the people on the street.
They gave no thought to their own lives or safety
For they had a common purpose: to save those they could
Many of those everyman and everywoman also died today.
And the Eagle cried.
But America does not give in to those who exemplify hate,
Who would render God’s grace and love impotent.
America is one land, one nation, one people
Indivisible by those who spread Hate around the world.
Americans will join hands around this great country
And show the world the Courage, the Dignity, and the
Unity that we Americans are known for.
We wept today. We grieved today.
We will never forget today.
Today will join another and will live in infamy forever.
But we will be stronger, and we will be nobler because of today.
We are a grieving nation, but with that grief comes strength.
Our flags will fly higher and more proudly than ever.
Our tears will cleanse our souls, and God will hold
All of America in the palm of His hand, and give us solace.
And the Eagle will never cry again.
Mikki, I am SO glad you posted out here!
All, this is my friend Mikki. We “met” at the Institute of Children’s Literature. She does not consider herself a poet, but obviously she does poetry quite beautifully when inspired.
I forgot to say, this is a poem ( And The Eagle Cried) that I wrote on the night of September 11, 2001.
I finally found mine.
No Need for Translation
Alone in a hotel room in a foreign land I switched on
the television in the hope of finding some sort of
entertainment but discovered something else instead.
I couldn’t grasp every word but the footage
needed no translation. People all over the world
were witnessing an American tragedy unfold.
As I flipped through channels, the images of planes
flying into the towers repeated over and over again.
Each time the reality sank a bit deeper into my bones
until I felt old and aged, like my grandmother
as she rested in her wooden rocking chair,
her frail body riddled with arthritis.
In silence I sat watching one of the painful truths
of the human condition, knowing the doctor could
offer no relief from the aches of this malady.
These are beautiful — thank you all. Back after a week of no internet/phone/tv (thank you floods). Here is mine, an attempt at a sestina. I rewrite this every year, tweaking here and there. It is still not finished, but will it ever be? Peace…
IN MEMORIAM
Perfect day dawned in brilliant blue,
shocking canvas of contrast: planes
fly black against far-flung heaven.
Even unbelieving prayer
muttered with quiet resigned breaths
can not foretell or forestall stains
gouging ground, splintering sky, staining
steel, scuttled lives, exhaling blue,
imploding in hydraulic breaths
screaming through city, hill, and plain.
Common words, sweet sacred prayers
lip-synched by believers heaven
sent from hell to transform heaven
marked by the golden crescent, stain
of a singular god and prayer,
cloaked in cheap polyester blue,
costume of the West, boarding planes
inhaling, exhaling, one breath
holy comingling with all breaths,
lifting as one to make heaven
on earth, to be done, in the plane.
It is foretold, on pages stained
sepia older than time, blue
ink and red seeping in prayer.
Father, mother, children all – pray
the ancient songs with soft breaths,
for God cannot hear in this blue
twilight; sing who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name, thy love stained
by unseen portents, for the plane
is a steel-bound casket, the plane
pulses with souls insistent, prey
trembling, mortal flesh and smoke-stained,
metal-wrapped in a dragon’s breath.
For the meek, the blessed, to heaven
will float ashen to brilliant blue.
Blue sky trailed by white plane flumes
marking a heaven all pray exists;
God’s breath stained by metal and fire.
Sept 11
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
I remember where I was
the morning of Sept 11th,
when smoke billowed out of towers
and made faces at the Manhattan skyline
110 stories above God,
raining concrete and steel
glass and soft tissue
amid pavement, parked cars, and rooftops,
millions of tv screens the world over.
200 jumped to their deaths rather than
give in to the resulting fires,
hundreds more killed by the impact,
while the rest perished, trapped
by toxic smoke and debris
after the towers collapsed
just hours after the first plane hit.
This was the day
my humanity was ripped from me
by Al-Qaeda claws,
3000 plus dead
6000 plus injured,
innocents sacrificed on the altar of religion
and perception of American values
while the World took stock of their lives,
and I of mine.
Stunned, numbed, crushed, embittered
I held my breath and
lit candles for weeks,
unable to eat
unable to sleep
the television blaring 24/7
while a great city bled
and a great country grieved
in the arms of sympathetic great nations,
and everyone wondered aloud
how could Hatred be so charismatic?
And a President cautioned patience
and implored his countrymen not
to take revenge against his fellow
Muslim-American neighbor while
I nervously started locking my door.
I cried and raged and
lost my terrorist virginity
as Ground Zero became
the new Arlington cemetery
of our generation
and those still around me
the new casualties of war.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
In Shadows and Memories
I live in shadows of two great towers
and a national tragedy,
when two plane planes struck
ten years ago.
Great plumes of smoke
out of firemen’s reach
clouded clear skies
while inside me
a silent terror stirred,
questions of who would live or die.
All I could do was watch
when two towers fell,
and all I could do was listen
to silence of stilled thoughts.
When the world stopped for the day
under the weight of grief,
all I could do was turn to friends
to find my relief.
We talked about mysteries of life,
or talked about nothing at all,
unsure of the final toll,
when facing a loss
I still cannot understand.
The Work of a Devil
Silence fell upon the streets
It was hard to bare the excruciating heat
Flames filled with immense power
Burning harshly from the towers
A thick cloud of smoke quickly covers the city
There’s absolutely no time for pity
Firefighters and cops must jump into action
For they have not a second to waste, not even a fraction
People watch from near and far
And try to understand things as they are
Volunteers entered the belly of the beast
They were heroes to say the very least
People jumping from every floor
It was impossible to use the door
Others merely found their way
And barely managed to get away
We the people had to learn and embrace
And stare death right in the face
The building collapsed level by level
This surely had to be the work of a devil
People run as ash covers the streets
But it’s far too fast to beat
Cars, people, and buildings covered in black
It seems this country is under attack
Nearly impossible to breathe or see
Bringing people straight to their knees
Hoping and praying for a breath of fresh air
Trying not to look, trying not to stare
As they see the creation
Of a great devastation
Fiery doom in every room
Causing so many to take a dive
That will surely end their lives
As they plunge to the ground
Never to be found
The downfall of the towers
In those few short hours
Caused so many to be devoured
In the fiery ash showers
Ending much pain
Definitely not in vein
Laying many to rest
Those were the ones who were truly blessed
I am doing a portfolio for one of my classes. I picked the theme 9/11. I just wanted somewhere to share my work with others.
The Falling Man
There are people lying everywhere
This is really quite the scare
Death and destruction is all I can see
No hope in my future at all for me
There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to go
I might as well go with the flow
I quickly join the cluster by the window
Praying my wife won’t be a widow
The heat is becoming way too extreme
Far too vivid to be a dream
Smoke too thick to even breathe
I take one look down and heave
Oh my gosh! Look up they say
It’s a bird, it’s a plane
Not in anyway
It’s an innocent man falling to his death
Unable to catch his breath
It’s not the ground growing closer he saw
It’s memories of loved ones, real and raw
He said his goodbyes in his head
For soon he knew he’d be dead
He snaps to reality
Right before his fatality
And realizes, he is the falling man
As of right now, I have at least 10 more poems I’ve written. So, if anybody likes these ones let me know, and I will post some other ones.