1. Aftermath
There is an uncommon light in the sky
Pale petals are scored into stone.
I want to write of the linden tree
That stoops at the edge of the river
But its leaves are filled with insects
With wings the color of dry blood.
At the far side of the river Hudson
By the southern tip of our island
A mountain soars, a torrent of sentences
Syllables of flame stitch the rubble
An eye, a lip, a cut hand blooms
Sweet and bitter smoke stains the sky.
2. Invisible City
Sweet and bitter smoke stains the air
The verb stains has a thread torn out
I step out to the linden grove
Bruised trees are the color of sand.
Something uncoils and blows at my feet
Sliver of mist? Bolt of beatitude?
A scrap of what was once called sky?
I murmur words that come to me
Tall towers, twin towers I used to see.
A bloody seam of sense drops free.
By Liberty Street, on a knot of rubble
In altered light, I see a bird cry.
Sweet and bitter smoke stains the air
The verb stains has a thread torn out
I step out to the linden grove
Bruised trees are the color of sand.
Something uncoils and blows at my feet
Sliver of mist? Bolt of beatitude?
A scrap of what was once called sky?
I murmur words that come to me
Tall towers, twin towers I used to see.
A bloody seam of sense drops free.
By Liberty Street, on a knot of rubble
In altered light, I see a bird cry.
3. Pitfire
In altered light I hear a bird cry.
By the pit, tor of metal, strut of death.
Bird song yet. Liturgie de cristal.
Flesh in fiery pieces, mute sediments of love.
Shall a soul visit her mutilated parts?
How much shall a body be home?
Under these burnt balconies of air,
Autumnal duty that greets us.
At night, a clarinet solo I put on:
Bird song pitched to a gorge, a net of cries.
In the news, a voice caught on a lost line:
`We've even struck the bird's throat.
In altered light I hear a bird cry.
By the pit, tor of metal, strut of death.
Bird song yet. Liturgie de cristal.
Flesh in fiery pieces, mute sediments of love.
Shall a soul visit her mutilated parts?
How much shall a body be home?
Under these burnt balconies of air,
Autumnal duty that greets us.
At night, a clarinet solo I put on:
Bird song pitched to a gorge, a net of cries.
In the news, a voice caught on a lost line:
`We've even struck the bird's throat.
Color of Home
I met you by Battery Park where the bridge once was.
Invisible it ran between the towers.
What made you follow me, O ghost in black cutaways?
Dear Mr Lorca I address you,
filled with a formal feeling.
You were tongue tied on the subway till a voice cried out:
34th street, last stop on the D.
It's the Empire State, our tallest again.
Time to gather personal belongings, figure out redemption.
You leant into my ribs muttering:
Did you hear that, you seller of salt
and gatherer of ash just as your foremothers were.
How the world goes on and on.
Have you ever seen a bullfight?
What do you have strapped to your back?
Then quieter, under your breath:
Let's survive the last stop together.
I knew a Hindu ballerina once.
Nothing like you, a quick, delicate thing.
I walked with her by the river
those months when English fled from me
and the young men of Manhattan
broke cherry twigs and scribbled on my skin
till one cried out -- I am the boy killed by dark water,
surely you know me?
Then bolt upright you whispered:
Why stay on this island?
See how its ringed by water and flame?
You who have never seen Granada --
tell me, what is the color of home?
I met you by Battery Park where the bridge once was.
Invisible it ran between the towers.
What made you follow me, O ghost in black cutaways?
Dear Mr Lorca I address you,
filled with a formal feeling.
You were tongue tied on the subway till a voice cried out:
34th street, last stop on the D.
It's the Empire State, our tallest again.
Time to gather personal belongings, figure out redemption.
You leant into my ribs muttering:
Did you hear that, you seller of salt
and gatherer of ash just as your foremothers were.
How the world goes on and on.
Have you ever seen a bullfight?
What do you have strapped to your back?
Then quieter, under your breath:
Let's survive the last stop together.
I knew a Hindu ballerina once.
Nothing like you, a quick, delicate thing.
I walked with her by the river
those months when English fled from me
and the young men of Manhattan
broke cherry twigs and scribbled on my skin
till one cried out -- I am the boy killed by dark water,
surely you know me?
Then bolt upright you whispered:
Why stay on this island?
See how its ringed by water and flame?
You who have never seen Granada --
tell me, what is the color of home?
Kabir Sings
in a City of Burning Towers
What a shame
they scared you so
you plucked your sari off,
crushed it into a ball
then spread it
on the toilet floor.
Sparks from the towers
fled through the weave of silk.
With your black hair
and sun dark skin
you're just a child of earth.
Kabir the weaver sings:
O men and dogs
in times of grief
our rolling earth
grows small.
in a City of Burning Towers
What a shame
they scared you so
you plucked your sari off,
crushed it into a ball
then spread it
on the toilet floor.
Sparks from the towers
fled through the weave of silk.
With your black hair
and sun dark skin
you're just a child of earth.
Kabir the weaver sings:
O men and dogs
in times of grief
our rolling earth
grows small.
--Meena Alexander (1951-2018), Indian-American English professor at CUNY, essayist and poet, found at https://guides.loc.gov/poetry-of-september-11/selected-poems
The poems are read here in this video, read on the 20th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks:
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