Out of the Blue by Simon Armitage
September 6th 2006 04:38
Sunday Times published “Out of the Blue” a poem by Simon Armitage, Britain’s “unofficial poet laureate” this Sunday. Armitage is known for making politically blunt, or blasé, comments depending on whether you read the poem from left to right or right to left. But this poem is intentionally not political but “commemorative or elegiac".
It’s a long poem. It begins with a man waking up to his daily breakfast and follows his every step. A little later, he is there on the 80th floor looking down on America and feeling the exhilaration. He has arranged around his desk, the clutter of memories. The towers are standing. All is set.
Then, the poem segues into a long, slow-mo shot of the attacks : the initial “thump”, the rush of the people to phones, their desperate talk, the heat and the smoke, the distant rush of fire engines and then, the fall. But, before disappearing completely everyone needs that death clarity moment, you know the one where you are just a zillionth of a second away from dying and everything becomes clear to you as it never was. I don’t know because I never died before. But, the man has the moment where the clutter of memories flashes before his eyes like a cartoon strip and it ends.
Like this:
what false alarm can be trusted again?
What case or bag can be left unclaimed?
What flight can be sure to steer its course?
What building can claim to own its form?
What column can vow to stand up straight?
What floor can agree to bear its weight?
What tower can vouch to retain its height?
What peace can be said to be water-tight?
What truth can be said to be bullet-proof?
Can anything swear to be built to last?
Can anything pledge to be hard and fast?
What system can promise to stay in place?
What structure can promise to hold its shape?
What future can promise to keep the faith?
Is this any different from those countless poems or novels that you have read before? You know the ones where the hero starts his day with an erection, I mean the sensation of his own power, and before long, he collapses into something or something collapses into him (like being shot by a robber who is a good man but is just hungry) but there is a collapse and look he is not so erect now. How dare you, you purveyor of money and trade and capitalism, feel conscious of your own power? Do you not know it is all dust ashes and smoke (or smokescreen)?
You can read the poem and the poet's interview here.
It’s a long poem. It begins with a man waking up to his daily breakfast and follows his every step. A little later, he is there on the 80th floor looking down on America and feeling the exhilaration. He has arranged around his desk, the clutter of memories. The towers are standing. All is set.
Then, the poem segues into a long, slow-mo shot of the attacks : the initial “thump”, the rush of the people to phones, their desperate talk, the heat and the smoke, the distant rush of fire engines and then, the fall. But, before disappearing completely everyone needs that death clarity moment, you know the one where you are just a zillionth of a second away from dying and everything becomes clear to you as it never was. I don’t know because I never died before. But, the man has the moment where the clutter of memories flashes before his eyes like a cartoon strip and it ends.
Like this:
what false alarm can be trusted again?
What case or bag can be left unclaimed?
What flight can be sure to steer its course?
What building can claim to own its form?
What column can vow to stand up straight?
What floor can agree to bear its weight?
What tower can vouch to retain its height?
What peace can be said to be water-tight?
What truth can be said to be bullet-proof?
Can anything swear to be built to last?
Can anything pledge to be hard and fast?
What system can promise to stay in place?
What future can promise to keep the faith?
Is this any different from those countless poems or novels that you have read before? You know the ones where the hero starts his day with an erection, I mean the sensation of his own power, and before long, he collapses into something or something collapses into him (like being shot by a robber who is a good man but is just hungry) but there is a collapse and look he is not so erect now. How dare you, you purveyor of money and trade and capitalism, feel conscious of your own power? Do you not know it is all dust ashes and smoke (or smokescreen)?
You can read the poem and the poet's interview here.
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