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Literature Text
On a commonplace Tuesday morning,
not unlike that Sunday morning
60 years before, destined for infamy
they held hands
as they fell
It was a working Tuesday
a date on the calendar
a morning like the morning before
but now they found themselves
standing on the window sill
of the 92nd floor
overlooking the city
and they felt weightless
They were not thinking
about the cause-and-effect history
of textbooks and CNN sound bytes
they weren't debating the geopolitical ramifications
leading up to that morning
he had decaf
she had a bearclaw and an espresso
and they talked about "Will & Grace"
then jets impregnated buildings with infernos
and now the fire was burning
and the smoke was rising
and it was getting hard to breathe
even after they smashed the window out
the inferno was swelling
it had reached their floor
their stairwells were gone
and the options now
were to burn
or to fall
when the human animal realizes death is inevitable
psychologists say we want control
over those final moments
choosing suicide over surrender is a healthy reaction
because we choose to accept our annihilation
rather than letting it choose us
So on one side
is unbearable heat
roaring flames
acrid smoke
and screams of the suffering
On the other side:
fresh air
suicide is the final act of free will
that keeps the consciousness intact
even as it is destroyed
but they were not thinking about psychology
they were not thinking about terrorism
the debate about responsibility,
retaliation,
wars, flags, and Patriot Acts
can wait until September 12th
this morning belongs to them
because they did not have a tomorrow
the true terror of that morning
is to know what they were thinking
as they decided then whether
to burn
or to fall
now, imagine having that conversation
with the stranger
sitting next to you:
The barricade at the door is on fire
the extinguisher is empty
we are blinded by the smoke
and on the windowsill of the 92nd floor
we wait until flames lick our clothes
before we lean forward
and choose that moment to fall
others who fell were scrambling
or screaming or on fire
but we held hands as we fell
survivors of falls from extreme heights report
that falls are slow-motion transcendence
and the experience is almost "mystical"
I don't know if they felt "mystical"
I know it takes
1 …
2 …
3 …
4 …
5 …
6 …
7 …
8.54 seconds
to fall 1,144 feet
just enough time to say a prayer
or regret a memory
or ask forgiveness
or say goodbye
or wonder how the sky can be so perfectly blue
on such a beautiful morning
Copyright 2003 © Christopher Fox Graham
not unlike that Sunday morning
60 years before, destined for infamy
they held hands
as they fell
It was a working Tuesday
a date on the calendar
a morning like the morning before
but now they found themselves
standing on the window sill
of the 92nd floor
overlooking the city
and they felt weightless
They were not thinking
about the cause-and-effect history
of textbooks and CNN sound bytes
they weren't debating the geopolitical ramifications
leading up to that morning
he had decaf
she had a bearclaw and an espresso
and they talked about "Will & Grace"
then jets impregnated buildings with infernos
and now the fire was burning
and the smoke was rising
and it was getting hard to breathe
even after they smashed the window out
the inferno was swelling
it had reached their floor
their stairwells were gone
and the options now
were to burn
or to fall
when the human animal realizes death is inevitable
psychologists say we want control
over those final moments
choosing suicide over surrender is a healthy reaction
because we choose to accept our annihilation
rather than letting it choose us
So on one side
is unbearable heat
roaring flames
acrid smoke
and screams of the suffering
On the other side:
fresh air
suicide is the final act of free will
that keeps the consciousness intact
even as it is destroyed
but they were not thinking about psychology
they were not thinking about terrorism
the debate about responsibility,
retaliation,
wars, flags, and Patriot Acts
can wait until September 12th
this morning belongs to them
because they did not have a tomorrow
the true terror of that morning
is to know what they were thinking
as they decided then whether
to burn
or to fall
now, imagine having that conversation
with the stranger
sitting next to you:
The barricade at the door is on fire
the extinguisher is empty
we are blinded by the smoke
and on the windowsill of the 92nd floor
we wait until flames lick our clothes
before we lean forward
and choose that moment to fall
others who fell were scrambling
or screaming or on fire
but we held hands as we fell
survivors of falls from extreme heights report
that falls are slow-motion transcendence
and the experience is almost "mystical"
I don't know if they felt "mystical"
I know it takes
1 …
2 …
3 …
4 …
5 …
6 …
7 …
8.54 seconds
to fall 1,144 feet
just enough time to say a prayer
or regret a memory
or ask forgiveness
or say goodbye
or wonder how the sky can be so perfectly blue
on such a beautiful morning
Copyright 2003 © Christopher Fox Graham
Suggested Collections
This poem was inspired by seeing a single image replayed on video the night of Sept. 11, 2001. Two people, presumably a man and woman, holding hands as they fell from one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City, I believe the North Tower.
It haunted me more than other images from the attack because of its premeditated rationality as opposed to a reactionary act of desperation.
As far as many people trapped in the building knew, a plane hit the building accidentally, especially those on the north side of the North Tower, who couldn't see the South Tower at all. They didn't know it was a terrorist attack, just a terrible accident. That high up, they also knew no fire engine could reach them.
I haven't seen the image since and sometimes wonder if I just imagined it.
If I knew their names and who they were, would it change the nature of the poem or my performance of it?
Feel free to pass this poem around, just please leave my name on it as the author. Perform it as you see fit. All that I ask is that aside from attributing me as the author as you hit the microphone, please keep in mind that this poem is apolitical. The poem is about the victims, not the politics. It should not be read at any partisan gathering, be it a Republican or Democratic meeting, an antiwar rally nor a patriotic event. There shouldn't be an American flag in sight.
The last thing these people were thinking was "I'm glad I'm an American" or "Now we can invade Iraq" or even "I hate al-Qaida/Osama Bin Laden." They were just hoping they wouldn't die.
That's the context the poem should be read to remember the victims.
It haunted me more than other images from the attack because of its premeditated rationality as opposed to a reactionary act of desperation.
As far as many people trapped in the building knew, a plane hit the building accidentally, especially those on the north side of the North Tower, who couldn't see the South Tower at all. They didn't know it was a terrorist attack, just a terrible accident. That high up, they also knew no fire engine could reach them.
I haven't seen the image since and sometimes wonder if I just imagined it.
If I knew their names and who they were, would it change the nature of the poem or my performance of it?
Feel free to pass this poem around, just please leave my name on it as the author. Perform it as you see fit. All that I ask is that aside from attributing me as the author as you hit the microphone, please keep in mind that this poem is apolitical. The poem is about the victims, not the politics. It should not be read at any partisan gathering, be it a Republican or Democratic meeting, an antiwar rally nor a patriotic event. There shouldn't be an American flag in sight.
The last thing these people were thinking was "I'm glad I'm an American" or "Now we can invade Iraq" or even "I hate al-Qaida/Osama Bin Laden." They were just hoping they wouldn't die.
That's the context the poem should be read to remember the victims.
Comments1
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your poem sounds like it's had time to age, and all I can even critique is your poetics. And only so far as: "What ARE your poetics?" "Do you change how you're writing depending on what you're talking about?"
AS it is, this poem is great, awesome! I can Feel for it, and it takes me some time to begin questioning it's greatness. --Time to overcome the moment of awe. I like that!
AS it is, this poem is great, awesome! I can Feel for it, and it takes me some time to begin questioning it's greatness. --Time to overcome the moment of awe. I like that!