The Cascade Effect

Written for the first anniversary of 9/11, this poem still resonates strongly. While I no longer jump at every loud bang on a city street, the sight of jetliners flying low or firetrucks heading out screaming, still make my heart race wildly. Somewhere, a deep little core of pain and wariness never quite leaves.


The Cascade Effect

Nuns, I saw nuns
floating up Third Avenue,
veils long down their backs, their faces framed
though hard to distinguish as they
drifted on the far side of the street
and became, suddenly, the schoolgirls
they really were, not nuns at all
and it was long black hair I’d seen, not veils.
But this was better than last week
when on a particular afternoon I left the
clean and cool and ordinary marble lobby
for the muggy sea of a 98 degree pavement,
and in my disorientation in the heat and glare
everyone approaching me was, in some manner,
maimed or limbless.
I could dispel them for moments at a time
but little by little that blonde woman
in the green skirt and the man sweating in Adidas
and the college girls in jeans all blurred into
an armless, footless mass
limping, pulling themselves along in
arcs of weird and frightening movement.
This is not the first time it has been hard to be here
in this city where life has gone
irrevocably askew.
Yesterday, a blue cloudless sky that mimicked
another beautiful day last fall, when a super on Varick Street
found a clavicle on his roof.
What kind of detritus is this?
My midtown haunts are an edificial romance
in glass and granite with plazas & fountains & sculpture
and it’s all banks – huge monumental paeans
to what we really admire.
But I am delusional and striving like everyone else.
I have seen a petrified, smoke enshrouded city
and I am still doing this.
Overhead, over my shoulder, fluttering pigeons
shadow the sidewalk – shadow phoenix, I think,
watching the white pavement that has become a moving picture
show of black wings and small heads
If it were not so bright, so blindingly bright
I could look up and see the iridescence
I know is hovering just above me.
Instead I’m driven indoors on a side street
where all they have conjured takes a seat
in a small formica booth with a chorus of black shoed waiters.
They have stuck tiny American flags everywhere,
“We are not Muslims, Syrians, Them! We are Greek!”

It was not till the end of September that
the street vendors returned to sell fruit and kabobs
“They are all Afghani’s,” said Raj, from Rawalpindi,
who sells soft drinks, cakes and aspirin.
“I thought the lamb guys were Egyptians,” I said.
“They are all afraid,” came the intonement.
It’s summer and we are still afraid
or if not afraid, then grave and chastened
each vulnerability constantly assessed.
Slowly the buildings have been fortifying themselves.
The old temple on 55th is barricaded at the street,
Citibank installed giant earth filled urns with trees,
the porters and concierges conscripted into security
as entrances are transformed into checkpoints.
Workers and executives chained
to photo ID’s around their necks.
Everything is a barrier and an obstacle
How we admire helmets and military hardware and
uniforms roaming the streets.
Passing through an armed and vested phalanx we are cool
and expressionless, our leaders painting a bloody path to
the East, glittering with words of right and retribution
Their pockets so weighted with gold, they’d
drown in the seas of our Gods.
Yes I am despairing. I am despairing that I have
lost the will or capacity to become angry enough to be a
different voice.
I dream with my beloved of small oases of peace and calm
that no one could want – that could never
be part of anyone’s master plan.

Some time ago, in the aftermath of a different
kind of disaster, I stepped into a life of God,
which I took up gratefully, if not tearfully, and with great
and continuing difficulty. I languished in a self-confining
grief that reminds me of these days catapulting us into deeper misery.
In the confessional I was mired in my own weeping
that I did not love God enough, love anyone enough.
“That is not even a sin,” said my confessor
sometimes gently, sometimes not
“Who loves enough? Not even the Saints.
Who do you think you are?”
It could have been a day, last September,
when the apples and chestnuts ripened heavy and lush in the trees
and the cicadas laid down a dense blanket of sound in the afternoon
It could have been that we passed through the day as our ordinary selves,
our quarrels and loves and routines in tact
our finite time barely recognized
our clothes laundered, our bellies full.
I, for one, clung like a child.
Bellowed like a lost goat.
Wept and wept as if all those taken were kin to me.
Not a hero or a heroine, just part of a numbed & silent city
of grievers, hollowed out
And still,
we mark the lingering misery here –
the dread underneath all the New York braggadocio
under all the spectacle celebrations and declarations.
September is on everyone’s mind.
And as that day of days comes upon us
the day that marks our before, and our after,
I pray there will be sweetness in the air.
I would ask for silence and circumspection and rational
minds bearing
the irrational hearts of good men and good women.
I would ask for the saber rattlers to fold their tents
and go home, for the fanatics to mind their babies
and their land.
And for the street vendors to sell their fruit and kabobs,
the bones of the day buried in our bones, for good.


4 responses to “The Cascade Effect

  1. God, this poem makes me shiver and weep and want to hug you at the same time. Consider yourself hugged 🙂

    Love all ways,


  2. Just read “The Cascade Effect” ,It was very touching and I am amazed at you ability to create such prose. I try to get over to your site every now and then and enjoy it very much. I will have to introduce my daughter in Seattle to it. Your opening line lines about the Nuns reminds me of a close friend (now dead) who was in France while in the Army. He would follow colums of small school girls between the school and church just to listen to them sing as they marched along. Not anything important but nice memory. Thanks for sharing ramblingbob

  3. love is lost in the city of men (who seek love the strongest). sometimes tears are shed. i love your words.

  4. I hardly ever speak of 9-11. I can’t seem to let those words come from my lips out in open air like somehow it makes it all disappear and maybe, just maybe I’ll get my loved ones back.

    I’ve often thought about Muslims in New York that had nothing at all to do with that day and how frightening it must be to be counted with killers simply because of religion. “you” look like “them” so “you” are “them.” that mentality breads nothing but hatred and cures nothing. I will not say that I’m not angry about 9-11. what I will say is that I refuse to hate a group of people based on what someone that looks like them or believes like them decided to do.

    I would think walking outside would be one major stressor for Muslims who want nothing but peace. I would liken it to the concern felt when I go on the “wrong side of town” …the worry that today maybe someone without reason won’t stop at angry words. I think that the tension in New York every Sept for quite some time will be heavy and for some unbearable. I assure you, however, had 9-11 not taken place citizens would find a different reason to hate those who live here peacefully (black, white, latin, etc)…the history of this country says so and for that I am sorry.


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