I'm trying to compose a poem in memory of September 11th, 2001.
Trying to convey the shock, horror, and disbelief of that day is almost impossible. And, I wasn't there!! Just watching it on television was traumatic. (Yes, I can't watch a lot of what passes for programming these days... it's simply too violent for me. But that's another post.)
This is one time that being telepathic would be useful. The emotions that rise within me are turbulent & overwhelming, even today. I don't feel that I have fully processed what happened.
The constant media coverage of the event was not a substitute for spending time alone, thinking about what happened, and what it means to us, both as individuals, and as a nation. I know, that today, trying to tap into my feelings about it, I remember the CEO of a firm on the upper floors breaking down on national television from the loss of so many employees, coworkers and friends.
This feels like a wound that only scabbed over, and never fully healed. And now, in trying to write this poem, I've caused this wound to begin bleeding. If I try to think about it, I start crying.
On some level, I know that I *have* to think about it, to put it behind me. But it has changed everything... physical , personal, political, and emotional landscapes are in some ways, no longer recognizable. Wiped as clean as Ground Zero.
I was born and raised in NYC, and only in the past several years relocated to South Carolina. So, seeing the carnage of places that I used to travel, hang out at, and work near, brings back memories.
I remember walking through the open space in front of the buildings, and going up to the observation tower, and shopping in the mall under the buildings. The towers were such a part of life in NYC, even the subways ran through there... I remember calling everyone that I had numbers for, because if they lived in NYC, they could have been there when it happened.
My best friend works in Jersey City, and lives in Brooklyn. And she saw the second plane crash into the tower. Thank heaven that she had enough sense to go through upper Manhattan to go home. Even though it took her over eight hours to get home, she was ok. So were my parents, and my husband. Everyone that I could get in touch with was okay, but I still felt that all those people who died were connected to me... it still hurts to think about it.
I am shaken by the strength of my feelings about this, after so many years have passed.
[Taking a deep breath] I'm getting chest pains... Thank heavens I have a few days to work on this poem. I don't know how professional writers do this. Separate their feelings from what they have to write about, I mean. Well, I'll write more blive, and maybe later I can do this without crying.
