Monday, September 11, 2006
September 11 (poem)
This is a poem I wrote shortly after the disaster of September 11, 2001, took place. I thought of it again today, the anniversary of that terrible event that seemed to shake the very foundations of our civilization and culture and made us wonder if we were all about to be annihilated.
September 11
When it came,
that moment
of confused awakening
like an avenging angel
of dust and debris,
it swept us all before it,
this plague
of raging locusts
made of ashes and rock
and salt of human cells
and everything was suddenly transfigured
as in a blinding backwards alchemy,
the holocaust relit.
For days I listened and watched,
moved sluggishly
through the nightmare dream
trying to fathom the Mystery
unreal yet somehow familiar,
like the tapping across the wall at night,
the ghost unnamed which constantly
disturbs our troubled sleep.
Like many, I lived my life again
in retrospect
as if saying farewell
to all that had gone before,
and then revisited old happenings
to see what phase, which lost persona
I was pulled to now,
and which would be the final me.
When at last I ventured out
and entered the bookstore down the street
(my private temple/mosque,
stronghold of sanity and grace)
I roamed the aisles,
that comforting array
of consciousness
common project of unfolding time,
touching here, scanning there,
wondering which single word or thought
might bring comfort
at the last.
I stopped before a table spread
with recent works
and at first glance,
I thought I saw above the group
a banner inscribed “Altar of Books,”
which seemed to fit.
But then I saw it was in fact
some other phrase,
perhaps “All New Books,”
(though the first was also true.)
As I reflected on the scene,
the implications for us all came clear,
and then I knew what I was looking for,
why it was that I had come.
September 11
When it came,
that moment
of confused awakening
like an avenging angel
of dust and debris,
it swept us all before it,
this plague
of raging locusts
made of ashes and rock
and salt of human cells
and everything was suddenly transfigured
as in a blinding backwards alchemy,
the holocaust relit.
For days I listened and watched,
moved sluggishly
through the nightmare dream
trying to fathom the Mystery
unreal yet somehow familiar,
like the tapping across the wall at night,
the ghost unnamed which constantly
disturbs our troubled sleep.
Like many, I lived my life again
in retrospect
as if saying farewell
to all that had gone before,
and then revisited old happenings
to see what phase, which lost persona
I was pulled to now,
and which would be the final me.
When at last I ventured out
and entered the bookstore down the street
(my private temple/mosque,
stronghold of sanity and grace)
I roamed the aisles,
that comforting array
of consciousness
common project of unfolding time,
touching here, scanning there,
wondering which single word or thought
might bring comfort
at the last.
I stopped before a table spread
with recent works
and at first glance,
I thought I saw above the group
a banner inscribed “Altar of Books,”
which seemed to fit.
But then I saw it was in fact
some other phrase,
perhaps “All New Books,”
(though the first was also true.)
As I reflected on the scene,
the implications for us all came clear,
and then I knew what I was looking for,
why it was that I had come.
