The Names by Billy Collins

 

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.

A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,

And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,

I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,

Then Baxter and Calabro,

Davis and Eberling, names falling into place

As droplets fell through the dark.

Names printed on the ceiling of the night.

Names slipping around a watery bend.

Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot

Among thousands of flowers

Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,

And each had a name --

Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal

Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air

And stitched into the cloth of the day.

A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.

Monogram on a torn shirt,

I see you spelled out on storefront windows

And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.

I say the syllables as I turn a corner --

Kelly and Lee,

Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,

I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden

As in a puzzle concocted for children.

Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,

Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,

Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.

Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.

Names silent in stone

Or cried out behind a door.

Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.

A boy on a lake lifts his oars.

A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,

And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --

Vanacore and Wallace,

(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)

Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.

One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled into the skin.

Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,

The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in a green field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

*This poem is dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors.

Words. Images. Music. Easing my heart and easing my mind

http://yourdistinctiveinteriors.com/newinspirations.html

I had made up my mind weeks ago to allow this anniversary of 9/11 pass by quietly without trying to put into words how I might be feeling today.

I was a bit unprepared, I think, for exactly how I do feel today. 

Surprisingly  -  sadder than I expected with this wild commotion of feelings rolling around in my heart and in my mind.  And yes, still a bit of anger.

I have often used words to ease the feelings.  But I'm afraid if I start writing about these feelings,  I'll write forever.  Ramblings that won't make any sense and would eventually come to mean nothing because I'm just not able to find and form the words I need for this.  The feelings will still be the same feelings, momentarily eased but still living deep in my heart and in my mind to resurface.  Over and over they'll resurface.  I may be able to tuck them away, but only for awhile.  They'll live with me till the day I die.

Often during times of sadness I turn to music.  There are two songs connected in my heart and in my mind on this day.  I would like to think that these two men, given an opportunity, could have become friends.  Though their lifestyles may be miles apart, their hearts seem, to me, to live in a similar place.

http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/the_lipstick_chronicles/2011/09/this-day-to-remember/

And often I turn to images.

http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/the_lipstick_chronicles/2011/09/this-day-to-remember/

Words, images, and music.  Let them ease our hearts and minds.

http://flickrhivemind.net/User/slmiddleton/Interesting