“9-11…..

“Sea Eagle”, jane kohut-bartels, watercolor, 2001

9-11

 

That beautiful morning–

Teasing taste of early Autumn

The unthinkable happened

And our world stopped turning

I saw the plane, I saw the fire

I saw the smoke descend like

A blanket of blinding grief

Too late to spare those on the ground

The sight of Armageddon.

 

 

Mortar-grey people transformed

Into gritty moving statues,

Holding hands, blinded by smoke,

Move down streets where

Paper, bricks, metal, glass rained down

Like the Devil’s Ticket Parade,

Walked in silence towards the bridges,

Barely a moan heard,

An Exodus unexpected on this

Morning of such seasonal promise.

 

I saw worse.

I saw people jump

From the ledges, holding hands,

Some with briefcases

And all I could do

Was howl:

 

“I will catch you!

Jump into my arms

I will not drop you.

Do not be afraid,

Aim for my embracing arms,

With the last of my life—

I will catch you.”

 

That day of fire and ash,

Inexplicable funeral pyre,

Of brave souls rushing in

And frightened souls rushing out

And the ash, the ash, the ash,

Covered everything like a silent September snow.

 

Sixteen years later

Grieving when this day approaches,

I hear the words swell up in me:

 

“We will catch you!

Jump into our arms,

We will not drop you.

You will not be forgotten,

With the last of our breath–

We will catch you.”

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 9-11-2011-2016, (This poem, “9-11” was published in “Pitcher of Moon”, and can be purchased at Amazon.com. Published, 2014)

We will not forget.  For many (most) of us, this was the first clue as to terrorism on such a  scale.   Fred and I watched as the second plane hit that tower.  May those terrorists and all that support their actions roast in Hell.  We will not allow them, regardless their country, to destroy the US.

Just a note.  My only boyfriend in Princeton High way back when, told me after 9-11, that he walked through the city, (he worked there…) and it was an exodus of grey and gritty people, silent, only a moan heard rare…and he walked until he found himself on the New Jersey Turnpike….and got home to Princeton.  God, we don’t write these things without the experience, the direct experience of others.  That puts the blood in the veins of our poetry. Thank you, Jerry…wherever you have blown to.