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Former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky reads his poem, "9/11," commissioned by the Washington Post for the September 11 anniversary.
We adore images, we like the spectacle Of speed and size, the working of prodigious Systems. So on television we watched
The terrible spectacle, repetitiously gazing Until we were sick not only of the sight Of our prodigious systems turned against us
But of the very systems of our watching. The date became a word, an anniversary That we inscribed with meanings-who keep so few,
More likely to name an airport for an actor Or athlete than "First of May" or "Fourth of July." In the movies we dream up, our captured heroes
Tell the interrogator their commanding officer's name Is Colonel Donald Duck-he writes it down, code Of a lowbrow memory so assured it's nearly
Aristocratic. Some say the doomed firefighters Before they hurried into the doomed towers wrote Their Social Security numbers on their forearms.
Easy to imagine them kidding about it a little, As if they were filling out some workday form. Will Rogers was a Cherokee, a survivor
Of expropriation. A roper, a card. For some, A hero. He had turned sixteen the year That Frederick Douglass died. Douglass was twelve
When Emily Dickinson was born. Is even Donald Half-forgotten?-Who are the Americans, not A people by blood or religion? As it turned out,
The donated blood not needed, except as meaning. And on the other side that morning the guy Who shaved off all his body hair and screamed
The name of God with his boxcutter in his hand. O Americans- as Marianne Moore would say, Whence is our courage? Is what holds us together
A gluttonous dreamy thriving? Whence our being? In the dark roots of our music, impudent and profound?- Or in the Eighteenth Century clarities
And mystic Masonic totems of the Founders: The Eye of the Pyramid watching over us, Hexagram of Stars protecting the Eagle's head
From terror of pox, from plague and radiation. And if they blow up the Statue of Liberty- Then the survivors might likely in grief, terror
And excess build a dozen more, or produce A catchy song about it, its meaning as beyond Meaning as those symbols, or Ray Charles singing "America
The Beautiful." Alabaster cities, amber waves, Purple majesty. The back-up singers in sequins And high heels for a performance- or in the studio
In sneakers and headphones, engineers at soundboards, Musicians, all concentrating, faces as grave With purpose as the harbor Statue herself.
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