No raised glasses, no speeches, As a missing person makes the world lighter, Leaves everyone with a kind of debt.
A name that has no-one floats away Like a dropped holiday photograph Of no-one waving from lost blue seas.
A ghost's bedroom is guarded like a prince's, By mothers, wives, and soldier ranks Of empty suits and empty shoes. A ghost has an answering machine but no home,
The parabolas of jets and bombs, Lead to a new geological age, to fossil lives. They leave no place, no centre, for love to go to; Love can just catch trains of half-remembered conversations That lead only to pictures of a ghost.
Firemen, soldiers, the inquiring spades that probe as shrapnel, Police dogs. These are guests at a kind of wedding Where ghost and man fuse.
Behind Police Line Don't Cross tapes, A policewoman with his wallet blots out the sun.
--Michael Brett (1934- ), British poet, first published in Heroes: 100 Poems from the new Generation of War Poets
<"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,
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.
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.
The steel tsunamis will froth back upwards And become solid. The planes will be pulled out like javelins And slide backwards, swallowing their vapour trails.
Tomorrow, everyone will be fine.
Tomorrow, everyone who died will come home. They will sit again at the tables of home And rejoin life's fellowship, its snapshots, tea And picnics.
Tomorrow, all will be well.
Everyone will sleep as babies do under mobiles, Untroubled by strange sounds, of aero engines Flying too low and shadows over the streets.
Tomorrow, mobile phones will be just toys again.
The sky will be clear, blue, unbroken.
-Michael Brett (1936- ), British poet, published on 12/31/2009.
and I had a cell phone, I'd have called my sister and brother and told them I'd loved my life, loved them, always would, and to thank everyone for being so good to me and to take no avenging actions, nor support the avenging actions of others, but to let me die with the dignity of my faith. Then I'd step out into the air, something opening beneath me, the last fall of my life. It's hard to say what I'd be feeling, surprise, mystification, terror, glory, but I'm sure I wouldn't be angry. In the last moments there's nothing to fix, no protest against the speed of the fall. I imagine I 'd be filled with something beyond terror, a feeling which is (from where we stand) intolerably bright.
I Here is an architecture of air. Where dust has cleared, nothing stands but free sky, unlimited and sheer.
II Smoke's dark bruise has paled, soothed by wind, dabbed at and eased by rain, exposing the wound.
III Over the spoil of junk, rescuers prod and pick, shout into tangled holes. What answers back is aftershock.
IV All land lines are down. Reports of mobile phones are false. One half-excoriated Apple Mac still quotes the Dow Jones.
V Shop windows are papered with faces of the disappeared. As if they might walk from the ruins - chosen, spared.
VI With hindsight now we track the vapour-trail of each flight-path arcing through blue morning, like a curved thought.
VII And in retrospect plot the weird prospect of a passenger plane beading an office-block.
VIII But long before that dawn, with those towers drawing in worth and name to their full height, an opposite was forming,
IX a force still years and miles off, yet moving headlong forwards, locked on a collision course.
X Then time and space contracted, so whatever distance held those worlds apart thinned to an instant.
XI During which, cameras framed moments of grace before the furious contact wherein earth and heaven fused.
--Simon Armitage (1963- ), British poet, professor, lecturer, playwright, musician, disc jockey, and former probation officer, Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom as of 2019. This poem was written in 2005.
