{"id":6890,"date":"2013-09-11T12:21:08","date_gmt":"2013-09-11T16:21:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.beliefnet.com\/beginnersheart\/?p=6890"},"modified":"2013-09-11T12:21:08","modified_gmt":"2013-09-11T16:21:08","slug":"in-memoriam","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/beginnersheart\/2013\/09\/in-memoriam.html","title":{"rendered":"in memoriam…"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"twin<\/a>There is little left to say about the tragedy of September 11, 2001. Except that many died, and we lost a kind of global innocence. When tragedy struck, I took refuge in poetry, ultimately. Because there is also little that human beings have not already done to each other, including tragedy.<\/p>\n

Auden is one of my favourite poets. He nails the grief and despair I felt — and sometimes still feel — after September 11th.<\/p>\n

This is for the victims — both then, and continuing. For the dead, their families. For the feeling that all Americans — even ones in hijab<\/em> <\/a>(I had female students run off the road into a bar ditch, just because of their dress) — were equal. And welcome. This is for the grief that must, still, haunt the survivors. This is for all of us. Because “All I have is a voice\/To undo the folded lie\/… There is no such thing as the State\/ And no one exists alone;\/…We must love one another or die.”
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

September 1, 1939<\/b><\/p>\n

~ W.H. Auden<\/p>\n

I sit in one of the dives<\/p>\n

On Fifty-second Street<\/p>\n

Uncertain and afraid<\/p>\n

As the clever hopes expire<\/p>\n

Of a low dishonest decade:<\/p>\n

Waves of anger and fear<\/p>\n

Circulate over the bright<\/p>\n

And darkened lands of the earth,<\/p>\n

Obsessing our private lives;<\/p>\n

The unmentionable odour of death<\/p>\n

Offends the September night.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Accurate scholarship can<\/p>\n

Unearth the whole offence<\/p>\n

From Luther until now<\/p>\n

That has driven a culture mad,<\/p>\n

Find what occurred at Linz,<\/p>\n

What huge imago made<\/p>\n

A psychopathic god:<\/p>\n

I and the public know<\/p>\n

What all schoolchildren learn,<\/p>\n

Those to whom evil is done<\/p>\n

Do evil in return.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Exiled Thucydides knew<\/p>\n

All that a speech can say<\/p>\n

About Democracy,<\/p>\n

And what dictators do,<\/p>\n

The elderly rubbish they talk<\/p>\n

To an apathetic grave;<\/p>\n

Analysed all in his book,<\/p>\n

The enlightenment driven away,<\/p>\n

The habit-forming pain,<\/p>\n

Mismanagement and grief:<\/p>\n

We must suffer them all again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Into this neutral air<\/p>\n

Where blind skyscrapers use<\/p>\n

Their full height to proclaim<\/p>\n

The strength of Collective Man,<\/p>\n

Each language pours its vain<\/p>\n

Competitive excuse:<\/p>\n

But who can live for long<\/p>\n

In an euphoric dream;<\/p>\n

Out of the mirror they stare,<\/p>\n

Imperialism’s face<\/p>\n

And the international wrong.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Faces along the bar<\/p>\n

Cling to their average day:<\/p>\n

The lights must never go out,<\/p>\n

The music must always play,<\/p>\n

All the conventions conspire<\/p>\n

To make this fort assume<\/p>\n

The furniture of home;<\/p>\n

Lest we should see where we are,<\/p>\n

Lost in a haunted wood,<\/p>\n

Children afraid of the night<\/p>\n

Who have never been happy or good.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The windiest militant trash<\/p>\n

Important Persons shout<\/p>\n

Is not so crude as our wish:<\/p>\n

What mad Nijinsky wrote<\/p>\n

About Diaghilev<\/p>\n

Is true of the normal heart;<\/p>\n

For the error bred in the bone<\/p>\n

Of each woman and each man<\/p>\n

Craves what it cannot have,<\/p>\n

Not universal love<\/p>\n

But to be loved alone.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

From the conservative dark<\/p>\n

Into the ethical life<\/p>\n

The dense commuters come,<\/p>\n

Repeating their morning vow;<\/p>\n

“I will be true to the wife,<\/p>\n

I’ll concentrate more on my work,”<\/p>\n

And helpless governors wake<\/p>\n

To resume their compulsory game:<\/p>\n

Who can release them now,<\/p>\n

Who can reach the deaf,<\/p>\n

Who can speak for the dumb?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

All I have is a voice<\/p>\n

To undo the folded lie,<\/p>\n

The romantic lie in the brain<\/p>\n

Of the sensual man-in-the-street<\/p>\n

And the lie of Authority<\/p>\n

Whose buildings grope the sky:<\/p>\n

There is no such thing as the State<\/p>\n

And no one exists alone;<\/p>\n

Hunger allows no choice<\/p>\n

To the citizen or the police;<\/p>\n

We must love one another or die.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Defenceless under the night<\/p>\n

Our world in stupor lies;<\/p>\n

Yet, dotted everywhere,<\/p>\n

Ironic points of light<\/p>\n

Flash out wherever the Just<\/p>\n

Exchange their messages:<\/p>\n

May I, composed like them<\/p>\n

Of Eros and of dust,<\/p>\n

Beleaguered by the same<\/p>\n

Negation and despair,<\/p>\n

Show an affirming flame.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

There is little left to say about the tragedy of September 11, 2001. Except that many died, and we lost a kind of global innocence. When tragedy struck, I took refuge in poetry, ultimately. Because there is also little that human beings have not already done to each other, including tragedy. Auden is one of…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":398,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[325,30,22,626,170],"tags":[173,11,1181,1187,262,1190,516,1327],"class_list":["post-6890","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-death","category-grieving","category-poetry","category-september-11","category-war","tag-auden","tag-beginners-heart","tag-britton-gildersleeve","tag-buddhism","tag-buddhist-blogs","tag-poetry","tag-september-1-1939","tag-september-11"],"yoast_head":"\nin memoriam... - Beginner's Heart<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"There is little left to say about the tragedy of September 11, 2001. Except that many died, and we lost a kind of global innocence. 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