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9/11 Essay by Abby Ellin MUNICH: I was heading into the crematoriums at Dachau, the German concentration camp, when news of the attack on the United States first reached me. "There's been an accident at the World Trade Center, a plane crash!" a young German boy cried running toward me. "Both buildings are destroyed."
I stared at him blankly. Clearly, something must have been lost in translation. The World Trade Center? Destroyed? He must have misunderstood. This was America 2001, not Germany 1945.
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Autumn in New York & Other Poetry by CB Follet of Runes, A Review of Poetry i used to live there below the dry bronx, somewhere
between the rivers when the chrysler and the empire state
were landmarks in the still air, and at night were lighted
like art deco necklaces of the well-heeled and exclusive. we were demi goddesses – fresh from college – our futures
written on our sleeves, our tight, narrow walkups
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Closed Eyes by Brandy Reed
PATTERSON II by Whitney Pastorek of Pindeldyboz
Just the very most basic items, that was all Patterson had packed in his bag, just the very most basic items. Patterson was a thinker, after all. People had told him so. But all that thinking, such a waste, because the bag lay behind him, in his living room, in his house, in the city, which was in flames.
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ORANGE RIBBONS: September 12, 2001 by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Kids in the Dunsmuir High School cafeteria
spend lunch hour, home room time
with scissors, tiny gold pins and yards
of narrow orange satin ribbon.
When the simple loops
pile up like tangerines
in a tropical marketplace
they take handfuls, stuff pockets,
fill a pretty basket, head into town.
DOWN PAST CHINATOWN by Anastasia Ashman "goeasylady"
advises an obstacle
gawker elbows out
as resident struggles past
bag-laden from far-off shops
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9/11 Essay by Lisa Lipkin
Ever since our president implored American citizens to become “volunteers” in our struggle against terrorism, I’ve been trying to do the right thing. But has anyone tried to volunteer their services in New York lately? Altruism in this city is so competitive it requires cunning and connections more than it does a good heart.
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After the World Trade Center Disaster by C.E. Chaffin of The Melic Review As poetry seeks to express the inexpressible, I first wrote a poem about the World Trade Center Disaster (hereafter in this column known as WTCD). Acronyms can desensitize us to causes, but I doubt any acronym could diminish our grief over this tragedy.
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REMEMBRANCE by Freada Dillon of Burning Word Literary Journal
Come forth, pain made flesh birthed from a dust-choked subway tunnel
into fractured twilight. Concrete particles mask the dimmed autumnal sunlight.
Rise like a mythic bird from depressive ashes,
try to deny the rubble only hoped imagined.
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SIGNS OF (NIGHT) LIFE by David Wallis New York City—September 12
Like the Irish who throw wakes instead of funerals or the jazz musicians of New Orleans who play for the people after the death of one of their own, on the night after the attack some New Yorkers partied and mourned at the same time.
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A View from The Sidewalk by Alex French I sleep not to rest, but to forget. In the morning, when I wake, I know nothing. I am lying down on a couch in a room where the curtains that hang above the open windows are motionless, corpse like. I am sweating; my mouth is dry. A television, a coffee table, and a copper lamp resolve through shrinking pupils.
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September 11th. by Lorissa Shepstone of All Things Girl
September 11th. Amazing how just two words, “September eleventh” makes my stomach churn. The words themselves mean nothing special. Apart, I quite like them. September is my birthday month and eleventh has quite a nice ring to it.
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Petty Fingers And Other Poetry by Janet Buck
My fingers feel petty today
tapping under a sky of blue chalk.
Somewhere else, across
a stately mountain range,
body bags are catching limbs
and a Brooks Brothers Store
is doubling for a morgue.
Rubble is a hailstorm
that violates the autumn flesh.
Inconceivable and firm,
set fast on sorrow’s acreage.
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Amerika Im Krieg by Joseph Young
I remember my elementary school very vividly. What I remember most are the mornings before school began. Whether it was winter, spring, or fall, I recall the patience with which I waited in the gravel school yard for the bell to ring. When the rusty looking bell over the iron and glass door did ring, I remember the pleasure I felt as I went inside, the excitement that came from knowing this was another day to read, experiment, play with my friends.
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YOU, WALKING OUT OF THE ASHES And Other Poetry by Susan Terris of Runes, A Review of Poetry
A gray specter, you're picking your way out of the ashes
and asking me to dance. (Why is the metaphor always dance?)
My skirt is singed, heavy with smoke and my hair soot-black,
but I reach out, taking the ash-silvered rose from your hand,
clenching it between my teeth so I can angle my body
close to yours while we glide one more tango.
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Ground to Zero by George Prochnik
After the Trade Towers fell, we stopped worrying what we looked like when we ate or what we ate. The gash behind the black rust beams gave off foul orange curtains.
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Monday Morning Coming Down by Paul A. Toth
The paper came streaming down the day after Monday like confetti on New Year's Eve. The paper spun and twisted and floated and drifted to earth. Some sheets flew like paper airplanes, others tore and shredded at the edges of the fire.
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Where the sun, 9/11 by Joseph Faria of Painted Moon Review
Estranged in this blue velvet dawn, I stand with my son along the banks of dust and rubble where a gray mist escapes the gaping wound and hugs the edges of our shoes.
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Entreaty by Shelly Reed
May you see red white and blue
in every breeze
When blind convictions vacillate
may strangers lovelier than you can imagine
medicate your collective soul
and wrap it in soft gauze
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Slightly Off Spring by Felicia C. Sullivan I remember waking to the sound of furniture being dragged from one side of the room to the other in the apartment overhead. My roommate in the other room groaned. The time on my alarm clock glared, 7:00AM. I rolled out of bed, gathered my clothes that I had laid out the prior evening and stomped to the shower.
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Stories from the land of The Time Sink: Numb...
Dan Bowman Numb (WTC+1): That's a good word. ...and how I spent some of my day yesterday. ...in that autopilot mode I learned so many years ago when I joined the fire service.
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Reichstag Burn by Tantra Bensko
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