md
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August 2001
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Oct 3 13:33 UTC 2003 |
Indignities of city life, those rueful
retellings, with a smile that says still here
despite it all, are nothing like the sun
and wind that all but close my daughter's eyes
as she squints south, or tries to, on the roof
of the South Tower. Behind her to the north
the city is as dun as Babylon
itself, unearthed and dusted off. Who knew?
My son's gesture shading his eyes is fixed
in a military salute. Behind him, the too-big-
to-be-real mass of the North Tower lends depth
to distance-blurred streets below. The view is so-so,
we know, but who wanted to wait two stifling
hours on line at the Empire State Building?
So here we are, bracing against the wind
and trying hard to be impressed by these
unlovely structures nobody really likes,
doing a tourist thing we never thought
of doing when we lived here. Say goodbye.
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arianna
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response 3 of 3:
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Jan 15 01:41 UTC 2004 |
No. It was so sudden, though -- I think what I like about 'say
goodbye' is that it makes so much sense so immediately. My first read
through, I didn't like it, but then, you've set me up to feel that
pang of irritation, the way a child feels when he's playing with
cousins at Christmas and mom says, please put on your shoes, we're
leaving now. Then there's loss in the wake of the (short-lived)
irritation.
IMO, good poetry is made when what needs to be said is said just the
right way. In this case, ending the poem with those two words, you're
saying as little as possible to evoke a response, and that makes it
just right.
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