When September Comes. Peter Jailall

      Listen to our roll call

      of those who died

      on that dreadful September day,

      following their American Dream:

      Patrick Adams

      Leslie Arnold Austin

      Rudy Bacchus

      Kris Romeo Bishundauth

      Pamela Boyce

      Annette Datarom

      Babita Guman Nizam Hafiz

      Ricknauth Jhagganauth

      Charles Gregory Jolin

      Bowanie Devi Kemraj

      Sarab Khan

      Amerdauth Luchman

      Shevonne Meutis

      Narendra Nath

      Marcus Neblett

      Hardai Parbhu

      Ameena Rasool

      Shiv Sankar

      Sita Sewnarine

      Karini Singh

      Rosham Singh

      Astrid Sohan

      Joyce Stanton

      Patricia Staton

      Vanava Thompson

      These are our dedicated,

      hard-working country people,

      who travelled from South to North

      to savour just a small bite

      of the Big Apple.

      We will always remember them.

When September Comes

      It was an ordinary September morning

      just before the Autumn leaves

      began to fall.

      I sat horrified, speechless

      in the privacy of my living room

      watching the twin towers

      fall.

      I watched half-naked, innocent people

       parachuting in panic, plunging

       to escape death

       only to splatter and sprawl

      like shot eagles.

      I watched brave, dedicated people

      selflessly swarm into danger,

      defying death

      then taken down one by one

      falling

      in the line of duty.

      This circumcision

      at our gate,

      this bleeding initiation into terror

      completed a crucifixion;

      painful double spear thrusts

      in our side.

      After witnessing

      wicked deeds of wicked men,

      I walked,

      escaped my living room

      for the green open park.

      I watched chipmunks and squirrels

      jump and fall so playfully

      up and about the maple trees.

      Clouds of white seagulls

      sailing, silently circling

      in our open, dangerous sky.

      My faith restored,

      I left the park

      inhabited by God’s harmless creatures,

      returned to the privacy

      of my living room

      to reflect and compose myself.

      And when September comes again

      just before the Autumn leaves

      begin to fall,

      I will remember.

My Ajah

      My Ajah, handsome, strong and proud,

      was an estate-bound, cane-cutting coolie.

      Banging juice for the white sahib,

      from sunrise to sunset.

      The hot morning sun glittered

      on his aluminum saucepan,

      filled with cold dhal, rice and bhajee,

      which he sanayed

      with his hard, cane-field fingers,

      pinching a red-hot tear-me-rass pepper

      as hot as the morning sun.