Artist captures feeling of 9/11, daughter's birth in poetry - WCIV-TV | ABC News 4 - Charleston News, Sports, Weather

Artist captures feeling of 9/11, daughter's birth in poetry

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Bluz performing in Charlotte (used with permission) Bluz performing in Charlotte (used with permission)

CHARLESTON, S.C. (WCIV) -- A spoken word poet in Charlotte, NC took to Facebook Wednesday to share how he explained the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001 with his young daughter.

In his post, Boris "Bluz" Rogers explained that his daughter, who was born just days before the attacks, asked about what happened and what it all meant.

"Being born on Sept 4, this day is like, for most born close to 9-11 prior or post, a looming shadow," he said. "I answered her the best I could but I felt like I didn't do her curiosity justice."

It's a challenge that faces many parents and this one put his feelings down on paper in the form of a spoken word poem, commemorating not just the tragedy of the attacks, but the birth of his baby girl.


there was a time in my youth,
some place
knee deep in my enormous innocence
that I thought,
no,
I knew that dragons were real
fireflies were made of actual fire, miracles and magic lived in everyone
and that planes made clouds
how the puffy white smoke would spout out of the jet engine
like some Dr Seuss cloud-a-matic invention
flown by two kids
that looked like me
except that they might be white
and from Whoville or what town or someplace city
but for a time in my mind
that was the truth

when you were born
planes clouded the sky with noise and smoke lines
leaving evidence of their departure from some destination
and on sunny days
clear days
you could find a patch of the coolest green grass
lay on your back, track their paths
make a wish to be in a first class seat to go wherever they're going
or to leave whatever they're running from
seemed easy
to do
because when you're born planes were everywhere
as abundant as birds and fireflies,
with the taste of freedom in their wings
steel grace
metal defying its weight and deciding to fly
it's a marvel and if it weren't for the science of it all
you would say it was a miracle or even magic
like you, when you were born
I looked at you with complete love and panic
and the first crazy train wreck of a thought rushed through the quiet town of my brain
what have I gotten myself into?
who are you?
what a little strange stranger you are
you should have a name,
I silently asked well what did God call you
clearly cliche
thinking you must be one of his angels
Gifted from heaven,
so he had to call you something blah blah blah
at the time, I was so high off the feeling of being a father for the first time
that I was waxing real poetic, almost to the point of vomit
but then the reality set in
this kid was mine,
like for real
this miracle, marvel of magic
was depending on me to get my life together
so I did, I got a job teaching kids
reading, writing, arithmetic
that's what old folks call math
numbers, digits, addition, subtraction and the like
and for the first 6 days I was like
this being dad thing is cool
I had a bunch of plans
a ton of things I would teach you
like how to ride a bike or tie a shoe,
how to properly make a righteous fist to fight injustice with
or punch a boy in the face if you needed to
you know, things a lil' girl living in this dangerous and hypocritical world would need
or at least as a much as an over protective father could conceive
but on day 7
on a clear day,
a sunny day
a few air traffic controllers, and several hundred New Yorkers traced the paths of planes
right into the Twin Towers of World Trade

it was not miracle,

it was not magic

it was metal remembering its weight and destruction
piercing a pentagon, scorching a field making ashes of heroes
reminding us
that it was not meant to fly,
peacefully
as if it were angry at our audacity
to believe we could be a part of the sky
we were reminded that we are fragile little humans
some of us passionate and pissed enough to fly planes into buildings
and I was reminded
on day 7 after you were born
heaven was going to be collecting for your arrival,
it was as if God gave you to me
but I failed to examine the fine print properly
so little angel,
little whatever your real name is
I know that there were days when planes left our sky blank and silent
as the day Picasso or Native Americans remembered it
before they decided to paint on a wall of earth or canvas
those were days I canvassed the sky
searching for noise
for the lines, for the evidence of departure to some destination
left for small fingers and imaginations to trace
to a place to escape
but there was no trace,
no imprint in the sky to say a plane had flown there
but I'm sure whispers of angel wings were everywhere
if we could only have been without enough sin to see it
instead we were wondering which kind of suicide those trapped in the building had to decide
either to burn alive
or take a leap of faith and try to fly..
hoping God would trace a path back to heaven

with Miracle or Magic

I believed in both
I believed God is an awesome miracle, promise keeper, and even better magician
master of the slight of hand
had me so focused on your birth that would never see death slip in
on a clear day,
a sunny day
I'm reminded of the give and take of this life
The snatch and switch
The sun and moon in combat with the clouds and stars
For position in an empty sky
Looking' to be noticed or wished on
Or believed in
like magic or miracle
You are what I believe in
Planes loaded with God
with a flight path to Heaven
Steel dragons from a fairytale, from my youth
are now a 9-11 bedtime story
that I tell to explain what this day means
So I start with
When you were born
I remembered how planes clouded the sky
like God
like dragons and fireflies
it was magic
it was miracle

~Boris "Bluz" Rogers

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