These are all new now.
The first one is from Beirut, again.
There were a lot of car bombs when we were there.
If the cars all stopped, if a car
stopped in the middle of the street, everyone would stop.
And all the people would run from their cars
with the engines running because people were afraid
that one of the cars was going to blow up.
When the car bombs went off, as now, the ambulances would come.
And then another bomb would come off
to kill the people who had come to rescue.
This poem is called "In the Cinema of the Place des
Martyrs."
The Place des Martyrs in the center of Beirut.
And it was an area of the city that was completely
destroyed and uninhabited except for one street, which
was gleaming, and shiny, and perfect, and untouched.
It was the street where all the banks were.
"In the Cinema of the Place des Martyrs."
That morning, they lifted above their heads
what appeared to be a doll in a christening gown.
And we stood in the blasted haze waiting for plumes
to stanch the fires quickening through carpets and bedclothes.
And we did not turn away.
Nor did we photograph the child, except at the moment of its
being raised.
But later walked to the Place des Martyrs,
where a stillness had been created entirely
by small-arms fire that so blistered walls and blackened
shops that no one remained in that part of the city.
And we stood before the ruined movie house
that had lost all but its blank screen, where
once all manner of figures had shown--
wavering, composed of light, their speech subtitled,
passionate, inane--
with nothing to say to the audience we had become.