Jen Besemer

Yesterday as part of its round-the-clock crisis coverage, NPR aired a brief segment in which Terri Gross, host of the show "Fresh Air" (which I always thought of as NPR's "arts and leisure" section) interviewed Billy Collins, the current Poet Laureate, about his reaction to events. Her initial question was something along these lines: "As a poet, do you have any specifically poetic response to the current crisis?" What I heard in this question--and what Collins himself paraphrased back at her--was a different question, or more specifically a question and an underlying desire. The deeper question was "Have you written a poem about this?" and the unexpressed desire was this: We regular folks are having a hard time expressing our feelings and thoughts about this horrible day's events, and we wonder if you might be able to reassure us with an eloquence of which we are incapable. The fact is (and Collins said as much in his reply) that poets are regular folks too. That nobody is eloquent in the face of these stunning, appalling, devastating events. That this is an unfolding, life-changing, *world*-changing turning point and that writing a poem requires a certain distance, something of which it seems nobody in the U.S. is capable right now.

I would add, *nor should we be*. Because what makes a poem meaningful is, in large part, the empathy with which it was written. And that's also what makes people rush headlong into dangerous rubble and smoke to pull total strangers to safety. It's what makes lines at blood donation centers stretch around the block. It's what makes nurses and EMTs from Cleveland get into the car and drive all night to offer their aid. It's what makes us human. Compassion. Empathy. Not only the stuff of written poetry, but of the poetry that is *life*.

Terri Gross' questions reminded me of the time about a year ago when I was obsessed with figuring out why non-poets read poetry. I think at that time I was trying to get a sense of the value of (some of) what I do in the larger, global sense. Trying, maybe, to determine if it was worth the risks, the unceasing effort, the sheer impracticality, the frequent lack of understanding and support. I remember being very surprised by the answers I got to my own question on this issue. I remember feeling a great surge of hope--perhaps a similar hope to the one someone might feel in reading a powerful, compassionate poem in a time of great tragedy.

Language and words are vexing things--but they do have a great power to heal, to comfort, to encourage and transform. Also to hurt, to abuse, to destroy. In this vulnerable time I try to choose my words even more carefully than usual. No, I haven't written any poems yet either about these unfolding events. I can't say now when or whether I ever will. But I now have an understanding of the possible value of any poem I might write on the theme of compassion and hope. And I have a renewed sense of the essential nature of words themselves, "poetic" or plain, to offer connection, solace and community to those who may be alone, hurt, afraid and alienated. They are a way to serve the human cause, the core of human life which goes beyond nation, religion or ideology. They remind us of who we are and what we are, in the face of events designed to make us forget those very things. We're not really westerners, or capitalist pigs, or blue-eyed devils, or ugly Americans. At the core we're just people. We're all just human people.

SOME THOUGHTS ON THE TRAGEDY JOURNAL ENTRY: SEPTEMBER 12, 2001

	Yesterday as part of its round-the-clock crisis coverage, NPR aired a brief segment in which Terri Gross, host of the show "Fresh Air" (which I always thought of as NPR's "arts and leisure" section) interviewed Billy Collins, the current Poet Laureate, about his reaction to events. Her initial question was something along these lines: "As a poet, do you have any specifically poetic response to the current crisis?" What I heard in this question--and what Collins himself paraphrased back at her--was a different question, or more specifically a question and an underlying desire. The deeper question was "Have you written a poem about this?" and the unexpressed desire was this: We regular folks are having a hard time expressing our feelings and thoughts about this horrible day's events, and we wonder if you might be able to reassure us with an eloquence of which we are incapable. The fact is (and Collins said as much in his reply) that poets are regular folks too. That nobody is eloquent in the face of these stunning, appalling, devastating events. That this is an unfolding, life-changing, world-changing turning point and that writing a poem requires a certain distance, something of which it seems nobody in the U.S. is capable right now. I would add, nor should we be. Because what makes a poem meaningful is, in large part, the empathy with which it was written. And that's also what makes people rush headlong into dangerous rubble and smoke to pull total strangers to safety. It's what makes lines at blood donation centers stretch around the block. It's what makes nurses and EMTs from Cleveland get into the car and drive all night to offer their aid. It's what makes us human. Compassion. Empathy. Not only the stuff of written poetry, but of the poetry that is life. Terri Gross' questions reminded me of the time about a year ago when I was obsessed with figuring out why non-poets read poetry. I think at that time I was trying to get a sense of the value of (some of) what I do in the larger, global sense. Trying, maybe, to determine if it was worth the risks, the unceasing effort, the sheer impracticality, the frequent lack of understanding and support. I remember being very surprised by the answers I got to my own question on this issue. I remember feeling a great surge of hope--perhaps a similar hope to the one someone might feel in reading a powerful, compassionate poem in a time of great tragedy. Language and words are vexing things--but they do have a great power to heal, to comfort, to encourage and transform. Also to hurt, to abuse, to destroy. In this vulnerable time I try to choose my words even more carefully than usual. No, I haven't written any poems yet either about these unfolding events. I can't say now when or whether I ever will. But I now have an understanding of the possible value of any poem I might write on the theme of compassion and hope. And I have a renewed sense of the essential nature of words themselves, "poetic" or plain, to offer connection, solace and community to those who may be alone, hurt, afraid and alienated. They are a way to serve the human cause, the core of human life which goes beyond nation, religion or ideology. They remind us of who we are and what we are, in the face of events designed to make us forget those very things. We're not really westerners, or capitalist pigs, or blue-eyed devils, or ugly Americans. At the core we're just people. We're all just human people.