Wordy storm in a Cup

Poet Robyn Archbold won the Lismore Poetry Cup held at the Rous Hotel in Lismore last week with his poem The Falling Man. He joins a long list of worthy poets who have won the Cup and the cash. Dont spend it all at once, Archie.

The Falling Man

The Falling Man is calling me

Captured in a shutters blink

Suspended halfway from the 92nd floor of The World Trade Centre

Head pointing to the ground so far and near

He gives me time to think

He stands inverted

Posture slightly back with one leg raised

Foot beside opposite knee as if leaning against a wall

Just chillin on his coffee break

Outside frame the skyscraper burns

But The Falling Man doesnt seem to care

His universe stripped of all but air

Its like the camera has frozen time

He isnt coming

He isnt going

Hes just there

His surrender amidst the terror and chaos

Is the image that America cant bear to see

For its culture prefers homicide to suicide

There are no Americans strapping explosives to their bodies

Hes a cook in a restaurant on the 92nd floor but no nearer my God to thee

He aint thinkin about the good ol S of A

Not today

The scorch of death licks at the door

And the mortgage is not on his mind

The Falling Man seems so serene that my spirit pays attention

Then I realize he isnt falling

Hes flying

Hes free

He looked like an angel to me.


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