The Alphabet of the Dead
written in 2002, on September 11
And the wind rose to kiss their lips
and the dust rose and whirled around them
and touched their shoulders and brushed
their cheeks. And the wind swirled to stroke
their foreheads and wipe their tears.
And they walked into the open-air
mausoleum, and the names read
became a poem, and the names became
a chant, and the names became a prayer.
And the dust blew in their eyes and the dust
blew into their mouths and dust blew
onto their tongues and into the crevices of ears
and spoke like no speech could ever speak.
And a circle of honor was set, a ring, in the center
of the open grave, like a hole in the earth,
like a place of resurrection, like an empty circus ring.
And from a distance, from the view of birds and gods,
a living wreath was formed, surrounding the ring
with those who mourned for those who died.
All the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children
and daughters, sons and cousins, aunts and uncles,
and the couples and strangers, hand and hand, descending.
And there were dogs, and cats, and birds,
the animals, the loyal pets who waited, and waited
and waited and died waiting.
And all the names, all ages, all sexes, all religions,
all strata, from many countries, from many states, from all
boroughs, all people, a family of strangers.
The dust of angels, of unsuspecting soldiers.
It is painful to listen to the list of names numbing
to listen to the names, necessary
to listen to the list of names. The names become
a poem, the names become a prayer.
And what have we learned from this
beyond that men can weep out loud in public
and embrace each other in grief and that
race means nothing? Beyond that people will still
talk on cell phones in the street, even while
the alphabet of the dead is read aloud? Beyond
that we must live for today but plan for tomorrow?
In this pit, all the living wear the same face, lips tight
with corners down, squinting between tears.
The living gather earth and dust into plastic bottles
what little they can take home.
The dust of angels now angels in a bottle, Genies
in bottles, wishes never to come true. Some pick up
pebbles, perhaps pieces of bone. Small relics
in this rubble, what little they can take home
along with a list of names. Music and poems
cradle grief. And the list goes on, a year later, repeated
surnames with such different faces, scrolling down
my TV screen tells me we are one. That all that is left
is dust tells us we are one. That we all cringe
with dust in our eyes tells us we are one
on this beach, desert, tightrope, consecrated ground.
Note: A version of this poem, with music by Steve Worthy, can be found on You Tube. Search The Alphabet of the Dead, 9-11, Mary Crescenzo
I don't get some of these 9/11 memorial events. I get that we have to remember. But I don't get why we have to be so weak-kneed about it. This is a raw day. I don't get why America has to go soft and make the day one of volunteering or sharing or diversity. I get those things. I don't get their connection to 9/11. At all. I don't get why there aren't memorial services throughout Muslim communities praying for atonement for a violent sin. I get pr ayer. I don't get its one-sided nature. This is their day reflect … our day to remember. I don't get why we're supposed to approach this day so passively. I get why it should be solemn. I don't get why we should pretend it's something other than what it is. This day is a national wound. I don't get angry … most of the time. But I get that anger is a human emotion. I don't get why this particular emotion is particularly bad. On this particularly bad day. I don't get why we're ordered to look away from reality. I get that it's harsh. I don't get why this day doesn't invite harsh reality. This day is real.
I don't get why politicians are sapping up the attention. I get their egomania. I don't get their lack of class. This day is not their day. I don't get why other groups rage at us. I get that lots of folks want to understand that rage. I don't get why our rage isn't understandable. This is a day to remember our rage. I don't get why some people hate us. But I get that we are. I don't get why we should ever care. This is a day to care about America. I don't get it when people tell me what I see isn't really what I see. I get that they have their opinions. I don't get that they have a right to our reality. This is a day of total clarity. I don't get people who think that weakness is a virtue. I get fear. I don't get wimp. This is a day for courage. I don't get why it's wrong to remember. I get why somethings are best forgotten. But you can’t forget all things. This day especially. Not ever. Aidan 9/11/12
through their own eyes true, that day bodies fell into my view. There is no better place, there is no worse. We seek that same face, betrayed though a verse. They hate us so, but I don't know why. That sound of death, forever nigh, shouldn't be stolen for a lie, or fleeting chance to say goodbye. ~me
Where Does The Pain Go Where does the pain go When no longer can you take hold When the fires devour hope When the moment claims life Where does the pain go When man annihilates man When terror rules reason and heart When the unspeakable defies God’s name Where does the pain go When the innocence is lost When suspicion and fear hover When trust is betrayed Where does the pain go When a life is saved When love holds a memory When grace touches the tearful heart Where does the pain go When spirit and soul awaken faith When destiny abides in God’s light When the silence offers guidance Where does the pain go When determination and resolve assemble When purpose and plan are set forth When in the name of God, life, beauty and love are called. Rose Marie Raccioppi Poet Laureate Orangetown, New York A link to a vocal rendition is posted on: APOGEE Poet: Where Does The Pain Go ~ 9/11 - http://www.apogeepoet.blogspot.com/2012/09/where-does-pain-go-911.html