Thursday, September 11, 2014

A Dreaded Anniversary—Murfin Rants and Poetry

It’s here again.  And with it all of the gut wrenching memories.  I dread it every year.  But it will not leave me or, I suspect, any of us alone.
But as horrible as those images etched indelibly in my mind are, is it wrong to say that I miss the days just after?  Remember?  For a little while Americans loved each other, found comfort in each other’s arms.  Divisions melted.  We were united by grief, and yes, even some righteous anger.  Even the world mourned for us.  Some of us even dared hope that the sense of oneness, community, and solidarity could change us.  Maybe even last.
Of course it didn’t weeks went by and we went charging off in different directions—drumming up wars on people who had nothing to do with the attack, cooking up wild conspiracy theories that confirmed our own personal demons and loathing’s, scapegoating the convenient and the weak, attacking the patriotism of anyone who did not wear a flag pin 24 hours a day.
And now, multiple wars later, a Depression, the election of a Black President, the ascent of a kind of political madness, and the rise of entitled oligarchy, Americans hate each other.  Really hate.  Can’t stand to talk with each other, be in the same room, breath the same air.  Rage is the order of the day.  White men strut through malls and fast food emporiums with military style weapons slung over their shoulder daring anyone to look cross eyed at them and in their heart of hearts hoping that someone will challenge them.  Looking for any spark to set off a Civil War.
Black kids who look like they could be trouble are pumped full of holes with monotonous regularity just because.  Busses of half-starved immigrant children are besieged by snarling mobs.  In some churches, mosques, and temples hate thy neighbor is the daily message.  We are sliced and dice apart every which way—by race, language, religion, politics, age, gender, and who we choose to love.
The once revered first responder heroes of 9/11 have been transformed into greedy union thugs by politicians.  Police departments have been transformed from serve and protect into little armies to quash the slightest suggestion of unrest or dissent.
And then to top it off, last night the President—my President, the one who I worked to get in office and in whom I have invested so many hopes—presented the country with a brand new shiny war against a new phantom and hoping against hope to enlist allies who will not turn out to be just as disastrous the boogey men we are fighting.
So much for my rant.
Looking back, I have grappled with 9/11 in my poetry more than almost any other subject.  And how that poetry evolved speaks to what has happened to us. 
This one was written for a one year anniversary program and included in my collection We Build Temples in the Heart.

The Dead of 9/11 Leave a Message on George W’s Voice Mail

The Dead cry out—

It is not lonely here!
            They come by the scores
                        and by the thousands
                        every day,
                        as they have always come,
                        each arrival here
                        a wrenching loss below.
            They come as they have always come,
                        each death the completion of a journey,
                        the closing of a hoop of life.
            And we welcome each of them.

But we are not lonely here.
            We do not wander silent corridors
                        our footsteps echoing,
                        yearning for a voice.
            We are not lonely
                        for we are the Dead
                        and we are everywhere
                        united in that last breath
                        and in eternity.

But You—

You make haste to fill the unfillable,
            to send us more,
            many more,
            out of their own time
            as we were out of ours,
            yanked here in violence and hatred.

Let them be.
They will come in their own time.

We who know death
            do not cry out for revenge.

We are not lonely here.

In 2007 came one of those serendipitous coming together of calendar occasions

September 12, 2007
The Day After 9/11—Ramadan and Rosh Hashanah

Wheels turning within wheels—
     an astrolabe,
          Tycho’s observatory,
               gears in some fantastic machine,

Today, just today—
     Point A on Wheel X, spinning urgently,
     comes to kiss Point B on Wheel Y,
     rotating on its own good time,
     for just a nano-second
     having just brushed by
     Point C on cog Z.

These precise events will come again,
    I suppose—
     you do the math if you wish.

But if I wore stars on a pointed hat,
    I might conclude that there was something
    beyond mere physics at work here.

Call it an omen, if you wish,
     or the flat hand of something Greater
     slapping us up side our
     merely mortal heads
     and scolding us—
               “Spin as you will,
                you spin not alone.”

On the tenth anniversary I was moved by reading that the dust from the Twin Towers was still orbiting the stratosphere and slowly, year by year, falling to earth.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
September 9, 2011, Crystal Lake, Illinois

The ash and dust, they say,
rose as high as the skirts
of the ionosphere.
Prevailing winds pushed it
            across oceans and around the world.

Most has sifted by now to the earth.
Some orbits still,
motes descending
            now and again.

My study is a cluttered mess.
Dust lays on any unattended
horizontal surface,
makes webs in corners,
balls in computer wire rats nests,
devils under bookshelves.

That speck, that one there,
            the one by the stapler,
            just might be what’s left
            of the Dominican cleaner
            who left her children
            with their Abuela
            and went to work
            in the sky
            only to be vaporized.

Hola, señora.
It is an honor to meet you.

Last year I recalled that 9/11 was etched in the memories of Chileans as the date of their own national catastrophe—the 1973 coup d’état that overthrew the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende and ushered in a brutal dictatorship.  The United States government was more than just complicit in that.

Two Anniversaries
September 11, 2013

I’ll ante my 3,000 vaporized on a crystal morning.
You’ll see me your 3,000 homeless ghosts.
I’ll give you my crumbling Towers and billowing ash.
You will call with the bombed rubble of La Moneda .

I’ll throw in a stack of terrorists with beards and turbans.
You’ll count out freckled faces, crew cuts, and black fedoras.

Let’s show our cards and see who loses.

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