By Robert Bové Compass (See Compass at National Review Online for first published version. A more recent version is at The Wall Street Journal Online.)
We marked four winds by an acrid smoke, Smoke first black, then white, Driven across East River and New York Harbor, Carried east across Brooklyn Heights, then south over Staten Island, Out over the Narrows, down Jersey Shore, then up Long Island and out to sea, Carried north over Central Park, over Harlem, Washington Heights, Over and into the Bronx, over and into Connecticut beyond, Carried west over Hudson, raking up and down Jersey Palisades, Fort Lee to Bayonne.
We saw it from a hill in Green-Wood, by Tiffanys tomb, Acorns, catkins, catalpa fruit littering the manicured grass, Along with charred memos, letters, and newsprint All covered, all covered with thankless ash
And what
is.
Upon the ashes of that work Is our work Begun when theres ended In smoke and ash,
When our towers, one after the other, Shuddered and collapsed, Exhausted.
Engine 205 (Also at Chiff and Fipple, superimposed on Tom Dowling pic.)
Know that this work is great love, Work done in the face of death In defiance, in respect, True work, true love, sacrifice Lives
for love, living for love.
Ladder 118 (First
published at A Small Victory.)
Whose hand grasped Axe to free trapped
Shafts
Or which hand Steered fatal jet
Or whose feet bore The weight of
Boots, belt, air tank And helmet
Stairs
and
Into the lighted Pyre.
Will the DNA tell us
Though he danced
Badlyor which Plotted to
Dance Speak once more, May I have The next dance?
Restless and Unsleeping I thought it raged somewhere else Twister hop scotching Kansas, Flood drowning Minnesota
Cloudless skies, down calm East Coast, As arsonist, as human
We got our answer to Where When he said, The fire is here.
The Blind Mans Guide There is no path; there is no road, That we have made, that leads away From doors in flame, from glass-shard floors
Guide dog no use but to stay close.
First to blind feet, then to scorched hands, Each step borne by that presumption
Descending an obscure staircase Long minute after long minute Until a familiar embrace, Merely imagined up to now, Saying you are home Brings you home.
To retrieve the fallen, To remove the wreckage, And leave? Leaving this field Better than we found it.
(The following five poems were first published at The Texas Mercury.) Harbor Out the office, hale and clean pressed Or broken limbed, ash covered Into waiting boat, one of hundreds Tugs, tankers, water taxies, ferries Evacuating under smoke, Going in by radar At high speed, Staten Island Ferry up to 800 rpm, 6,000 passengers one wayout Urgent, determined, clear
That nobody should be sitting down
Wed rather be.
Close down over harborDidnt know Whose they wereand on the Hudson, damn If it wasnt Half Moon Just sitting there in the haze Almost 400 years to the day Hudson first penetrated New York Harbor A replica with nothing to do On busiest day in harbor since Melville.
Her daydream:
Slowly moving from Manhattan, Leaving a lane between for her ferry, Heading in the opposite direction to terminal, Each barge pushed by a tug, Each tug with a wheelhouse, In each wheelhouse the same silent skipper chomping On cigar, eyes focused straight ahead, beyond The wreckage A memory of something Shed seen in the papers.
One told a magazine writer, At first, the barges were filled with rebar, Which always had some cement attached. There were crows and seagulls everywhere. I didnt know crows at cement. Ferryman He thought of going over to see how they were doing, The workers hed ferried in from Jersey Ants on a hill, digging digging digging.
Sucked out to sea.
Steamfitter Steamfitter says he used to line up piling he was driving With the Twin Towers. Harder now, that hard job, Harder
(The following poem was first published at Poets for the War.) Unabandoned To suffer loss is not to be At a loss. It is to be In loss. In it, there is no Distance any longer Between quick kiss And long goodbye. Such a lie, such a lie To deny this anguish, Prescribing more distance, Even deeper detachment To those severed
As we saw that day, In fear, in faith, Inch by inch Pushing back Gates of hell With their bodies.
Robert
Bové is an adjunct instructor in English at Pace University in Manhattan.
He is a widely published writer and editor and this is his first contribution
to Enter Stage Right. His web site can be found at http://home.earthlink.net/~rcbove/index.htm.
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