Paul Tylor MADE BLIND
September 11, 2001
Three giant birds: Heronasaurus Rex,
Confused and made blind by ambition,
Crashed headfirst into sturdy trees,
Up in which lots of happy children played
In tree huts they all had made by hand.
A fourth bird dove into a field.
All these crashes were so unimpeded
That the birds’ bodies turned inside out;
Their pink, tubular innards bared;
And their classic shapes so badly damaged,
Not even the day’s buzzards knew them.
And all the precious kids were killed.
Their familiar huts were disassembled,
Their confused parents will cry forever,
Wondering how well-made huts failed.
The ornithologists and bird-watchers
Frowned and shook their heads in disbelief,
Vowing to find out someday, “Why?”
Walter Hoelbling september 11
of hollywood nightmares
suddenly come true
a spectacular scenario
destruction and death
in real life
in brilliant colors
slamming into the tower
smoke fire debris collapse
suffocating clouds of dust
the smoldering rubble
five stories high
that was the world trade center
the unquenchable fire
at the pentagon
the hole in the ground
in a forest near pittsburgh
those who can
cry out in horror
and flee the scene
tens of thousands die
in unheard agony
echo around the world
to the potential of humankind
to wreak havoc
in cold blood
we become aware
more than hard
Martha Cinader The First War
Friday, September 14, 2001
We tread today the sacred ground
of the ancestors of this land
asking not what have we done
hearing not the bell which has tolled
but the endless grinding of a machine.
And now it rings beyond control;
its message beyond meaning,
its mold beyond repair.
Those who know intimately the story
will try to write the end;
preaching fire and destruction,
blaming the voiceless,
exhorting our basest instincts to rise.
But we walk among astral figures
entreating us to listen
to the piercing tones of love
shattering the void
to share our dinner with a hungry child
to plant and nurture a fruit bearing tree
to have the patience of the ages
to see before us
not a vision of vengeful hellfire
but the bright rays of hope
that shine both night and day.
Gabriele Pötscher SALLY
Sitting on the stained and dusty
Once pinkish, now slowly greying
Shag rug of this old man’s living room
Time to vacuum,
I fiddled with remote control
Wanting “Sally” and her guests
Or gouge their bright red fingernails
Down each other’s made-for-TV faces.
Instead of Sally on the screen
Cushioning like a pillow
From a tall building
Its dirty greyness
In stark contrast to the bright blue sky.
And then surprise.
From right to left
In perfect line
And undiminished speed
Arching itself towards a second block
Becoming on impact a plume of wondrous
Cries of shock
Waiting for Sally
Against my will
Pants legs fluttering
Ties blown upward
To lower Manhattan.
I peer at my own legs
Still anchored here
To the worn and scratchy rug
The old man I’ve come to see
At my back
What are we having to eat?
Turn off the TV
Pay attention to me.
They’ll be showing it all day anyway.