Prayer Service for National Day of remembrance of US Indian Boarding Schools

 

Prayer Service for the National Day of Remembrance

of US Indian Boarding Schools

September 30, 2023, 6:30 pm

Diocese of Missouri- Indigenous Ministry

 

Gathering Prayer                              from A Native American Liturgical Resource Book[i]

Creator, we give you thanks for all you are 

   and all you bring to us for our visit within your creation. 

In Jesus you place the Gospel in the center of this sacred circle 

   through which all creation is related. 

You show us the way to live a generous and compassionate life. 

Give us your strength to live together with respect and commitment 

   as we grow in your spirit. 

For you are God, now and forever. Amen.

 

First Reading               “Indian Boarding School: The Runaways, “by Louise Erdrich[ii]

Home’s the place we head for in our sleep.

Boxcars stumbling north in dreams

don’t wait for us. We catch them on the run.

The rails, old lacerations that we love,

shoot parallel across the face and break

just under Turtle Mountains. Riding scars

you can’t get lost. Home is the place they cross.

 

The lame guard strikes a match and makes the dark

less tolerant. We watch through cracks in boards   

as the land starts rolling, rolling till it hurts   

to be here, cold in regulation clothes.

We know the sheriff’s waiting at midrun

to take us back. His car is dumb and warm.

The highway doesn’t rock, it only hums

like a wing of long insults. The worn-down welts   

of ancient punishments lead back and forth.

 

All runaways wear dresses, long green ones,

the color you would think shame was. We scrub   

the sidewalks down because it's shameful work.   

Our brushes cut the stone in watered arcs   

and in the soak frail outlines shiver clear

a moment, things us kids pressed on the dark   

face before it hardened, pale, remembering

delicate old injuries, the spines of names and leaves.

Second Reading                                                              Jeremiah 31:15-17

Thus says the Lord:
A voice is heard in Ramah,
    lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
    she refuses to be comforted for her children,
    because they are no more.
¹⁶ Thus says the Lord:
Keep your voice from weeping
    and your eyes from tears,
for there is a reward for your work,
            says the Lord:
    they shall come back from the land of the enemy;
¹⁷ there is hope for your future,
            says the Lord:
    your children shall come back to their own country.

 

The Gospel                                                                        Matthew 5:1-10

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then Jesus began to speak, and taught them, saying:

     ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

     ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

     ‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

      Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

     ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

     ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

     ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

     ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, 

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

 

Remarks                                                                The Rev. Leslie Scoopmire

                                   Missioner for Indigenous Engagement, Diocese of Missouri

For generations, Native children as young a four were forcibly removed from their families and their homelands and sent to 408 boarding schools  in 37 states in an attempt to strip away their indigenous language, culture, and identities. By 1926, nearly 83% of Native children, over 60,000 children, were in boarding schools.[iii]Often operated by so-called Christian missionaries, both Catholic and Protestant, the stated purpose of the Boarding School policy was education and assimilation. Children were punished severely for speaking their birth languages or for persisting in any cultural practice- even to the removal of their names. 

 

These schools often were hellscapes of physical punishment and abuse, degradation, and disease. Although, as of 2022 at least 500 children are verified by the U.S. government to have died from neglect, abuse, or disease, the bodies were rarely returned to their families. The Interior Department acknowledges that the actual number of deaths is in the thousands, possibly as many as 40,000. Thus far, 53 burial sites for Indigenous students at these schools have been identified.[iv] Those children who did survive bore the trauma of their experiences throughout their lives with devastating effect, affecting generations.

 

The Episcopal Church operated at least nine boarding schools, and Episcopalians financially supported many more, often in the mistaken belief that the children were being educated for independent lives in mainstream American society, “unshackled” from their pasts. This stated goal willfully ignored the persistence of discrimination and racism against people of color that still persists in American society. At General Convention 80 in 2022, the Episcopal Church formally resolved to form a fact-finding commission to research the church’s involvement in the Boarding School system and to hear and respond to the stories of survivors.

 

We gather today to affirm and lift up that work, and confess our grief over the pain and damage that still walks among us and our kindred who still suffer from these policies and actions, committing ourselves to learning the truth and learning from the truth of this assault on our Indigenous kindred and their lifeways.

 

A Litany of Hope           adapted from A Native American Liturgical Resource Book[v]

Leader:    Let us pray to our creator in the name of Jesus Christ our brother, saying, “Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole:”

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    We give thanks that we can gather together to remember our faithful ancestors who taught us compassion, respect and humility in the face of division and pride:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    We remember all our relations, those nearby and far away, those who suffer and are alone, those alienated and torn from family during the Boarding School era, and those who bear burdens too large to carry:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:     We give thanks to that You have brought us to this place where the sin of before is washed away and all beings are made new, as we take responsibility to remake frayed relationships:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    We ask that You come with power in our midst that your presence might be known to all through our own lives:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    Renew us with Your spirit, that we might soar as on eagles’ wings, loving each other as we love ourselves, as we all are one:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    Give us strength that we might help restore all relationships and bring peace and justice to all peoples; that we might hear and acknowledge the pain of children, families, communities, and nations torn asunder by the US Indian Boarding School policies:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    Endow us with Your vision so that we might see your healing in every broken place, and be willing to work for healing where harm has been done in our name:

All:         Lord, through us, make this sacred circle whole.

Leader:    Grant us grace that this circle might be a sign for us, to our children and to the seventh generation, that we have committed ourselves to be a witness to God's love by word and action, through Jesus Christ our Friend and Brother.

All:         AMEN. May it be so. AMEN.

 

The Lord’s Prayer        adapted from A Native American Liturgical Resource Book[vi]

O Great Spirit,

You are our Shepherd Chief     and the Most High Place,

whose home is everywhere       even beyond the stars and moon.

 

Whatever you want done          let it be done also everywhere.

Give us your gift of bread day by day.

 

Forgive our wrongs                    as we forgive those who wrong us.

Take us away from wrongdoings.

Free us from all evil.

For everything belongs to you.

Let your power and glory shine forever. Amen.

 

Dismissal

Most Holy God, send us forth from this time and this place determined to walk in paths of healing, reconciliation, and peace. Make us brave in acknowledging the pain that has come before us, and in answering it by action, with humility and love. In the name of Jesus Christ the Great Healer, who abides with the Creator and the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

--Assembled by the Rev. Leslie Scoopmire, Indigenous Missioner for the Episcopal Diocese of Missouri, prayed at 6:30 pm on September 30, 2023 in the chapel of St. Martin's Episcopal Church.

Citations:

---

[i] “Gathering Prayer,” found in found in the Episcopal Council on Indigenous Ministry of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, A Native American Liturgical Resource Book.

[ii] Louise Erdrich, “Indian Boarding School: The Runaways,” from Original Fire: Selected and New Poems, 2003.

[iii] See the National Native American Boarding School Healing Coalition, Healing Voices Volume 1: A Primer on American Indain and Alaska Native Boarding Schools in the U.S., 2^nd edition: June 2020, at https://boardingschoolhealing.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/NABS-Newsletter-2020-7-1-spreads.pdf

[iv] Deena Zaru, “Report outlines federal ‘abuse’ of Native children at boarding schools,” May 11, 2022, at ABC News, https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/report-outlines-federal-abuse-native-children-boarding-schools/story?id=84631918#:~:text=Hundreds%20died%20over%20the%20course,years%2C%20the%20Interior%20Department%20found.&text=More%20than%20500%20American%20Indian,according%20to%20a%20new%20report

[v] “A Litany of Hope,” adapted from the Holy Eucharist, The New Jamestown Covenant, November 1, 1997, found in the Episcopal Council on Indigenous Ministry of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, A Native American Liturgical Resource Book.

[vi] Taken from the Institution Service for Native American Missioner, November 21, 2004, Nez Perce, found in the Episcopal Council on Indigenous Ministry of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, A Native American Liturgical Resource Book.

Sycamore Gap

You’re history, said the tree to the wall;
the last crumbling remains of empire.

You are the invader, replied the wall.

I am the conqueror, said the tree to the wall;
sending platoons of seeds across my territory.

I stand alone, replied the wall.

I chose this valley, said the tree to the wall;
stretching my roots under your scored foundations.

I belong here, replied the wall.

I am growing taller, said the tree to the wall;
you’re a lonely stone sentry outstripped by a sapling.

I remain, replied the wall.

I am a survivor, said the tree to the wall;
I host the resurrection of each turning season.

I endure, replied the wall.

You’re the one they blame, said the tree to the wall;
insensate barrier, stone-deaf to the rough bark of liberty.

You cannot know, replied the wall.

--Zoe Mitchell, British poet and academic, published in The Guardian online, 27 January 2020. On September 28, 2023, the approximately 300-year-old tree was deliberately felled with a chainsaw and left lying atop Hadrian's Wall; a 16-year old teen and a 60-year-old man have been arrested in connection with the cutting down of the tree. The felling of the tree onto the wall also damaged the wall, it has been discovered.

There is, however, hope that in the spring, the tree's root system will send up shoots, and that, with time, the tree will again rise.

To the Holy Bible

O book! Life’s guide! How shall we part,
And thou so long seiz'd of my heart!
Take this last kiss, and let me weep
True thanks to thee, before I sleep.
Thou wert the first put in my hand,
When yet I could not understand,
And daily didst my young eyes lead
To letters, till I learnt to read.
But as rash youths, when once grown strong
Fly from their Nurses to the throng,
Where they new Consorts choose, & stick
To those, till either hurt or sick:
So with that first light gain'd from thee
Ran I in chase of vanity,
Cried dross for gold, and never thought
My first cheap Book had all I sought.
Long reign'd this vogue; and thou cast by
With meek, dumb looks didst woo mine eye,
And oft left open would'st convey
A sudden and most searching ray
Into my soul, with whose quick touch
Refining still, I strugled much.
By this milde art of love at length
Thou overcam'st my sinful strength,
And having brought me home, didst there
Shew me that pearl I sought elsewhere.
Gladness, and peace, and hope, and love,
The secret favors of the Dove,
Her quickning kindness, smiles and kisses,
Exalted pleasures, crowning blisses,
Fruition, union, glory, life
Thou didst lead to, and still all strife.
Living, thou wert my souls sure ease,
And dying mak'st me go in peace:
Thy next Effects no tongue can tell;
Farewel O book of God! farewel!

— Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), Welsh metaphysical poet, devotional writer, author, physician, and royalist during the Commonwealth period.

We Will Remember

When we are weary and in need of strength
When we are lost and sick at heart,
We remember him.

When we have a joy we crave to share
When we have decisions that are difficult to make
When we have achievements that are based on his
We remember him.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring,
We remember him.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn,
We remember him.

At the rising of the sun and at its setting
We remember him.

As long as we live, he too will live
For he is now a part of us,
As we remember him.

--from the Yizkor (May God Remember) service (Jewish memorial service), explained at My Jewish Learning. Prayer originally found at Eat Pray Love Liturgy.

A Prayer at the Start of a Stewardship Campaign

My church is composed of people like me.
I help make it what it is.

It will be friendly,

      if I am.
Its pews will be filled,

     if I help fill them.
It will do great work,

     if I work.
It will make generous gifts to many causes,
     if I am a generous giver. 

It will bring other people into its worship and fellowship,
     if I invite and bring them. 

It will be a church of loyalty and love, 

of fearlessness and faith,

and a church with a noble spirit,
     if I, who make it, am filled with these same things. 

Therefore, 

with your help, Lord, 

I shall dedicate myself to the task 

of being all the things that I want my church to be.

Amen.

Found at https://stboniface-lunenburg.org/a-stewardship-prayer

Prayer for a Stewardship Campaign

Gracious and loving God, as we prepare to build the future in addressing the needs of our growing parish, give us your strength for the work of our hands. Without you we labor in vain, yet with you we can do great things and bear much fruit, fruit that endures. Bless our efforts to build a faith community of caring people on a firm foundation, with Christ as our cornerstone and the Spirit as our binding force. Amen.

--found at https://church-development.com/stewardship-in-scripture/

Ellam Yua Worship Service (Alaska)

 ELLAM YUA WORSHIP SERVICE

Prepared by the Rev. David Blanchette

Episcopal Diocese of Alaska

 

Call to Worship

         Words of Assurance and Promises of Pardon

 

Hear what comfortable words our Savior Christ saith unto all that truly turn to Him: Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

 

Hear also the words from St. John's Gospel: God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

 

Hear also these words of Scripture:

 

The Lord is gracious, and full of compassion;

Slow to anger, and of great mercy.

 

The Sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;

A broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.

 

If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

 

As the heaven is high above the earth, so great is His mercy toward them that fear Him. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.

 

Like as a father pitied his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.

 

Jesus said: Be of good cheer; thy sins are forgiven.

 

A Call to Holy Silence

 

The Lord is in His holy temple:

Let all the earth keep silence before Him.

 

Calls to Worship and Praise

 

O come, let us sing to the Lord:

let us make a joyful noise and to the Rock of our salvation.

Let us come before His presence with Thanksgiving,

And make a joyful noise unto Him with psalms.

 

O praise the Lord, all ye nations:

Praise Him, all ye people.

For His merciful kindness is great towards us:

And the truth of the Lord endureth forever.

Praise ye the Lord.

 

O be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands:

Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.

Know ye that the Lord, He is God;

It is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves;

We are His people,

And the sheep of His pasture.

 

The Lord is good:    His mercy endureth forever;

And His truth endureth to all generations.

This is the day which the Lord hath made,

We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Enter into His gates with thanksgiving,

And into His courts with praise.

O magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together,

For with Him is the fountain of life, and in Him shall we see light.

-- from the Rev. Debbie Royals, ed.  A Sampler: Native American/Alaska Native and Native Hawai’ian Liturgies, Prepared for the 76^th General Convention of the Episcopal Church, July 2009, Anaheim, CA

Psalm 114

When Israel came from Egypt’s coast,
   And Goshen’s marshy plains,
And Jacob with his joyful host
   From servitude and chains;

Then was it seen how much the Jews
   Were holy in his sight,
And God did Israel’s kingdom choose
   To manifest his might.

The sea beheld it, and with dread
   Retreated to make way;
And Jordan to his fountain head
   Ran backwards in dismay.

The mountains, like the rams that bound,
   Exulted on their base;
Like lambs the little hills around
   Skipt lightly from their place.

What is the cause, thou mighty sea,
   That thou thyself should shun;
And Jordan, what is come to thee,
   That thou should backward run?

Ye mountains that ye leaped so high
   From off the solid rock,
Ye hills that ye should gambols try,
   Like firstlings of the flock?

Earth, from the center to the sod
   His fearful presence hail
The presence of Jeshurun’s God,
   In whom our arms prevail.

Who beds of rocks in pools to stand
   Can by his word compel,
And from the veiny flint command
   The fountain and the well.

--Christopher Smart (1722-1771), English poet and forerunner of the Romantic movement, of varied religious background who had a conversion experience after a mental breakdown, who struggled with alcoholism and mental illness, from his A Translation of the Psalms of David.

Scripture reference: Psalm 114, Easter Vigil, and Proper 19A track 1

Out Of The Blue

"Out of the Blue," a poem-video on the 5th Anniversary of 9/11, read by Rufus Sewell

1.

All lost.

All lost in the dust.
Lost in the fall and the crush and the dark.
Now all coming back.


2.

Up with the lark, downtown New York.
The sidewalks, the blocks.
Walk. Don't walk. Walk. Don't Walk.

Breakfast to go:
an adrenalin shot
in a Styrofoam cup

Then plucked from the earth,
rocketed skyward,
a fifth a mile
in a minute, if that.
The body arrives
then the soul catches up.


3.

That weird buzz
of being at work
in the hour before work.

All terminals dormant,
all networks idle.
Systems in sleep-mode,

all stations un-peopled.
I get here early
just to gawp from the window.

Is it shameless or brash to have reached top,
just me and America
ninety floors up?

Is it brazen to feel like a king, like a God,
to ge surfing the wave
of a power trip,

a fortune under each fingertip,
a billion a minute, a million a blink,
selling sand to the desert,

ice to the Arctic,
money to the rich.
The elation of trading in futures and risk.

Here I stand, a compass needle,
a sundial spindle
right at the pinnacle.

Under my feet
Manhattan's a simple bagatelle, a pinball table,
all lights and mirrors and whistles and bells.

The day begun.
The sun like a peach.
A peach of a sun.

And everything framed
by a seascape dotted with ferries and sails
and a blue sky zippered with vapour trails.

Beyond this window it's vast and it's sheer.
Exhilaration. All breath. All clear.


4.

Arranged on the desk
among the rubber bands and bulldog clips:

here is a rock from Brighton beach,
here is a beer-mat, here is a leaf

of a oak, pressed and dried, papery thin.
Here is a Liquorice Allsorts tin.

A map of the Underground pinned to the wall
The flag of St George. A cricket ball.

Here is a calendar, counting the days.
Here is a photograph snug in its frame,


this is my wife on our wedding day,
here is a twist of her English hair.

Here is a picture in purple paint:
two powder-paint towers, heading for space,

plus rockets and stars and the Milky way,
plus helicopters and aeroplanes.

Jelly-copters and fairy-planes.
In a spidery hand, underneath it, it says,

"If I stand on my toes can you see me wave?"


5.

The towers at one.
The silent prongs of a tuning fork,
testing the calm.

Then a shudder or bump.
A juddering thump or a thud.
I swear no more

than a thump or a thud
But a Pepsi Max jumps out of its cup.
and a filing cabinet spews its lunch.

And the water-cooler staggers then slumps.
Then a sonic boom and the screen goes blue.
Then a deep, ungodly dragon's roar.

In the lobby, the lift opens up,
and out of the door
the tongue of a dragon comes rolling out.

Then the door slides shut and the flames are gone.
Then ceiling tiles, all awry at once.
Then dust, a soft, white dust

snowing down from above.
We are ghostly at once.
See, there on the roof,

the cables, wires, pipes and ducts,
the veins and fibres and nerves and guts,
exposed and loose.

In their shafts, the lift-cars clang
and the cables are plucked,
a deep, sub-human, unaudible twang.

And a lurch.
A pitch.
A sway to the south.

I know for a fact these towers can stand
the shoulder-charge of a gale force wind
or the body-check of a hurricane.

But this is a punch, a hammer blow.
I sense it thundering underfoot,
a pulsing, burrowing, aftershock

down through the bone-work of girders and struts,
down into earth and rock.
Right to the root.

The horizon totters and lists.
The line of the land seems to teeter
on pins and stilts,

a perceptible tilt.
Then the world re-aligns, corrects itself.
Then hell lets loose.

And I knew we torn
I knew we were holed
because through that hole

a torrent of letters and memos and forms
now streams and storms
now flocks and shoals
now passes and pours
now tacks and jibes
now flashes and flares
now rushes and rides
now flaps and glides...

the centrefold of the New York Times
goes winging by

then a lamp
a coat
a screen
a chair

a yoghurt pot
a yucca plant
a yellow cup
a Yankees cap

A shoe falls past, freeze-framed against the open sky.
I see raining flames.
I see hardware fly.


6.

Millicent wants an answer now.
Anthony talks through a megaphone.
Mitch says it looks like one of those days.
Abdoul calls his mother at home.


Christopher weeps for his cat and his dog.
Monica raises her hand to her eye.
Lee goes by with his arm on fire.
Abigail opens a bottom drawer.

Raymond punches a hole in the wall.
Pedro loosens his collar and tie.
Ralph and Craig join an orderly queue.
Amy goes back to look for her purse.

Joseph presses his face to the glass.
Theresa refrains from raising her voice.
Abdoul tries his mother again.
Bill pulls a flashlight out of his case.

Tom replaces the top on a pen.
Peter hears voices behind the door
Abdoul tries his mother again.
Glen writes a note on a paper plane.

Gloria's plan is another dead-end.
Paul draws a scarf over Rosemary's face.
Arnold remembers the name of his wife.
Judy is looking for Kerry and Jack.

Edwardo lights a cigarette.
Dennis goes down on his hands and knees
Stephanie edges out onto the ledge.
Jeremy forces the door of the lift.

Dean gets married in less than a month.
Peter is struggling under the weight.
Sue won't leave without locking her desk.
Mike lifts a coat-stand over his head.

Elaine is making a call to a school.
Claude won't be needing this anymore.
Rosa and Bob never stood a chance.
Josh goes looking but doesn't come back.


7.

Go up go down. Sit right for now. Or move. Don't move. It's all in hand. Make a call on the phone. Stay calm. Then shout. Stay calm. Then SHOUT. Come back. I think we should leave but not in
the lift. This staircase closed. This stairwell black. Keep cool. Keep your head. For fuck's sake man this telephone's dead. Get low to the floor. Who bolted this door? Try the key, try the code. Hit nine one one. Come away from the glass. Keep back from the heat. Heat rises, right? Go down. Go south. That exit locked. That lobby blocked. That connecting corridor clogged with stone. The lights go out. Come on. Go out. A fire alarm drones. Come away from the edge. Hit nine one one. Call home call home. Come here and see, we made the news. Try CNN. Try ABC. They say it's a plane. So bung it with something to stop the smoke. Or we choke. Use a skirt, use a shirt Rescue
services now on their way. What with. With what - with a magic carpet? A thousand foot rope? Stand back from the door. They're saying it's war. Don't break the glass - don't fan the flames.
Outside it's sheer. A wing and a prayer. Go up. Go north. Get out on the roof. No way. Call home. Call home. It's daddy, ask mummy to come to the phone. Get mummy, tell mummy to come to the
phone. Just DO AS YOU'RE TOLD. this glass, like metal. If we step out there...if we stay in here. This glass, like metal. Just DO AS YOU'RE TOLD. Get mummy, tell mummy to come to the phone.
It's daddy, ask mummy to come to the phone. Call home. Call home. Get out on the roof. Go north. Go up. A wing and a prayer. It's air. Outside it's sheer. Outside it's air. Don't break the glass -don't
fan the flames. They're saying it's war. Stand back from the door. What with? With what - a magic carpet? A thousand foot rope. Rescue services now on their way. Use a skirt, use a shirt. Or we
choke. So bung it with something to stop the smoke. They say it's a plane. Try ABC. Try CNN. Come here and see, we made the news. Call home call home. Hit nine one one. Come away from
the edge. A fire alarm drones. Go out. Come on. The lights go out. That connecting corridor clogged with stone. That lobby blocked. That exit locked. Go south. Go down. Heat rises, right? Keep back
from the heat. Come away from the glass. Hit nine one one. Try the key, try the code. Who bolted this door? Get low to the floor. For fuck's sake man this telephone's dead. Keep your head. Keep
cool. This stairwell black. This staircase closed. I think we should leave but not in the lift. Come back. Then SHOUT. Stay calm. Then shout. Stay calm. Make a call on the phone. It's all in hand. Don't
move. Or move. Sit tight for now. Go up go down. Sit tight for now. Go up. Go down.


8.

Fire as a rumour at first.
Fire as a whisper of wolves,
massing and howling

beneath the floor,
clawing and scrabbling,
tongues of flame licking under the door.

And smoke like fear.
Smoke as a bear, immense and barrelling,
horribly near.

Then furious heat.
Incensed.
Every atom irate and alive with heat.

And air won't arrive.
Un-breathed, an ocean of sky
goes sailing past on the other side.

Now heat with its nails in your eye.
With its breath to your face.
With its hands in your hair,

its fist in your throat.
So the window shatters,
the glass goes through.

Crane into with void
Lean into the world.
It's not in my blood

to actually jump.
I don't have the juice.
But others can't hold.

So a body will fall. And a body will fall.
And a body will fall. And a body will fall.
And a body will drop

through the faraway hole
of vanishing point,
smaller then gone,

till the distant hit and the burst of dust.
The shock. the stain
of fruit and stone.

9.

I was fighting for breath.
I was pounding the glass
when a shape flew past…

A snapshot only.
The shape of a cross, as it were.
Just a blur.

But detail. Fact.
An engine. A wing.
I sort of swayed, sort of thing,

sort of swooned, that fear
when something designed to be far
comes illogically near.

Then it banked. It scooped. It was tipping.
Not dipping away, but towards.
On the turn.

Then the groan and the strain
as it turned.
I see it now, over and over,

Frame by frame by frame.
Then everything burned.
And I thought – how crazy is this –

this can't be the case.
I actually thought there's got to be some mistake:
they'll wind back the film,

call back the plane,
they'll try this again.
The day will be fine,

put back as it was.
Because lightning never strikes once,
let alone twice,

and no two planes just happened to veer
through mechanical fault
or human error

one after the other.
It must be a mirage.
It must be mirror.

That thought didn't last.
That thought was a lie
which darkened and died the second it formed.

Then it dawned.
What else is a plane but a flying bomb.
A man with his arm in his hand, in a mess, mumbles "this is so wrong."


10.

We are spinning a web.
We are knotting a net.
These are delicate threads.

These are desperate times.
We are throwing out lines
so subtle and slight

they are lighter than air.
We are spanning the sky
with wireless wires

too faint by far
for the naked eye,
untraceably thin, imperceptibly fine.

But they carry our breath.
We are making our calls.
They are tightropes, strung

from the end of the phone
to a place called home
so our words can escape,

our voices trapeze
for mile after mile
or in my case traverse

the width of the sea.
My beautiful wife,
sit down in the chair,

put the phone to your ear.
Let me say.
Let me hear.

We are spinning a web.
But such delicate threads,
the links so brittle,

too little, too late.
Not one can save us
or bear our weight.


11.

Then enormity falls.
Then all sense fails.

The strings are cut
and the world goes slack.

The tower to the south,
holding on to the moon by its fingernails

now looses its fix
and drops from view.

The tower to the south
now looses heart,

now sieves itself through itself.
Just gives up the ghost.

All logic and fact on the slide.
Through a crack in the sky

for a second or so…
a river… and land on the other side.

Then the image lost
to uplift of ash and an inrush of dust.

Then the overwhelming urge to run.
The impulse to pump with the arms and fists,

sprint hell-for-leather up seventh or fifth, a wish
for the earth to be solid and not to give,

for concrete or tarmac under the feet,
to sprint for the light at the end of the street,

one last race, the utmost desire
to be downing litres of smokeless air

and to run and run and run and run,
and break the finish line, burst a lung.

I watch sirens and lights,
the soldier-ants

of vehicles wearing emergency red
all filing this way,

And the people…New Yorkers flowing away,
a biblical tide of humankind, going north, going safe,

the faces of women and men
looking up at the nightmare of where I am.

Looking back at the monstrous form I've become.
They turn and run.

And through the blitz of that awful snow,
the only colours:

mile beyond mile
of traffic lights changing. Stop. Wait. Go.


12.

You have picked me out.
Through a distant shot of a building burning
you have noticed now
that a white cotton shirt is twirling, turning.

In fact I am waving, waving.
Small in the clouds, but waving, waving.
Does anyone see a
soul worth saving?

And when will you come?
Do you think you are watching, watching
a man shaking crumbs
or pegging out washing?

I am trying and trying.
The heat behind me is searing, searing,
but the white of surrender is not yet flying.
I am not at the point of launching, leaving.

A bird goes by.
The depth is appalling. Appalling
that others like me
should be wind-milling, wheeling, spiralling, falling.

Are your eyes believing,
believing?
Here in the gills
I am still breathing.

But tiring, tiring.
Sirens below me are wailing, firing.
My arm is numb and my nerves are sagging.
Do you see me, my love. I am flagging. Flagging.


13.

What reveals itself once night has cleared?
What emerges by day,

what fragments, what findings,
what human remains?

The steaming mound like a single corpse:
stony tissue, skeletal steel,

and not matter alone
but ideas as well:

concepts torpedoed
and theories trashed,

refuted schematics,
a carcass of zeroed numbers and graphs.

The gleaners arrive to pick and prise,
to rummage by any and every means:

claw and spike.
hook and crane,

bucket and spade on hands and knees.
Some use the phrase "a fruitless search,"

some fall and weep, some gag and wretch,
some report that death has the scent of a peach.

Neither here
nor there

the will-o-the-wisp of a welder's torch,
two right-angled girders raised as a cross.

The numbers game.
The body count.

Then part of a body is stretchered out,
carried by bearers, clothed in a flag.

The rest is boated and trucked,
strewn in a field to be raked and forked,

to be sifted and bagged,
numbered and tagged.

What comes to light are the harder things:
eternity rings,

necklaces, bracelets, identity cards,
belt-buckles, cufflinks, ear-rings, combs,

hair-slides, hip-flasks, running shoes,
bones.

Watches are found still keeping time -
the escapement sound, the pulse still alive

but others have locked at ten-twenty-eight.
Others like mine.

And here is a rock from Brighton beach,
here is a beer-mat, here is the leaf

of an oak, pressed and dried, papery thin.
Here is a Liquorice Allsorts tin.

The flag of St George.
A cricket ball.

Here is calendar, counting the days.
Here is a photograph snug in its frame,

this is my wife on our wedding day,
here is a twist of her English hair.

No ashes as such, but cinders and grains
are duly returned,

sieved and spooned and handed back

in a cherry-wood urn in a velvet bag.

All lost.
All lost in the dust.
Lost in the fall and the crush and the dark.
Now all coming back.

Five years on, nothing in place:
the hole in the ground

still an open wound,
the gaps in the sky still empty space,

the scene of the crime still largely the same…
but everything changed.




Five years on
what false alarm can be trusted again?
What case or bag can be left unclaimed?
What flight can be sure to steer its course?
What building can claim to own its form?
What column can vow to stand up straight?
What floor can agree to bear its weight?
What tower can vouch to retain its height?
What peace can be said to be water-tight?
What truth can be said to be bullet-proof?
Can anything swear to be built to last?
Can anything pledge to be hard and fast?
What system can promise to stay in place?
What structure can promise to hold its shape?
What future can promise to keep the faith?


Everything changed. Nothing is safe.

--Simon Armitage (1963- ), British poet, professor, lecturer, playwright, musician, disc jockey, and former probation officer, Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom as of 2019. 

The Names

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.


-- Billy Collins (1941- ), poet laureate of the United States 2001-2003. Collins was poet laureate at the time of the attack, and a year later published this poem after reading it for a join session of Congress on he first anniversary of this day.