I had the rather humbling honor of reading three of my poems at St. Paul’s Chapel at 200 Broadway, nicknamed the 9/11 Chapel, with the Trinity Bach orchestra and choir, under the direction of Julian Wachner, on Boxing Day. The chapel was at overflow capacity, with balconies and even floors and doorways completely filled with Bach devotees, visitors to the shrine, congregants, tourists, and, to my delight, some young poets who came out for it. I reproduce my short set list below.

You may purchase a superb recording of Julian Wachner conducting the Trinity orchestra performing Bach’s seven motets. “The motets represent the continuation of a long and distinguished tradition of vocal composition, dating back to the late medieval works of Dufay. They represent the apogee of the genre and are Bach’s most demanding vocal works. The present recording is the first in a new series with the musical forces of Trinity Wall Street, conducted by Julian Wachner. It was released in observance of the tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001.” Wachner is heroically staging the complete Bach cantatas! Click on the album cover to purchase this exclusive recording.

Ernest Hilbert Reading "Yggdrasil" at St. Paul's 9/11 Chapel, Boxing Day, 2011

Ernest Hilbert Reading "Calavera for a Friend" at St. Paul's 9/11 Chapel, Boxing Day, 2011

Ernest Hilbert with Chester Johnson, Poetry Director at St. Paul's

“Yggdrasil” by Ernest Hilbert

A Bach cantata slurs to static
On the stereo as a hurricane
Rumbles through our attic.

Barrages of quicksilver rain
Machine-gun aluminum.
Darkness drags around the lawn.

By afternoon, skies foam
To white. Air is washed clean.
The bright grass is strewn

With debris like a battle scene.
We round the house to discover
The chimney down, but intact,

Like some primitive ziggurat.
We kick leaves, find a pool cover,
Plastic bags, limbs storm-cracked,

Spilled out like roasted bird flesh with twists of fat.
A TV aerial needles up like the mast
Of a wrecked schooner. Beyond it,

We find the tilted apple tree.
What appeared, in the past,
So permanent is now split

Down the middle, pulled free
From its base by the storm.
Lumps of sweating soil spread

Where dendritic root protrudes into
Damp air, the tree’s capillary form
Capsized, not entirely dead,

But dying by parts where it grows.
A truck and great chain will haul
It from this earth, leave a hole

We’ll someday fill, a socket of mud
Where our tree once seemed so tall,
Now a den black like a vein of coal

Or splash of parched ancestral blood.

“Tutorial” by Ernest Hilbert

When you’ve got no looks to lose,
You won’t worry about losing them.

If you get no taste for booze,
You won’t feel bad for boozing.

If you get no inheritance,
You’ll have nothing to squander.

Unburdened, there is less to burn,
No load to lean under, no grace to learn.

“Calavera for a Friend” by Ernest Hilbert

Día de los Muertos

When your heart is scorched out, the unruly world
Will seal around you as a dark ocean
Behind a ship at dusk—the wake will fade
And spread wider, until fully unfurled.
Love reserved for you will slacken. Your portion
Of commerce ends with the last deal you made.
A stranger will take your job, buy your home,
Maybe wear your shirts and shoes, and the books
You cherished will be thumbed by new readers.
Young tourists will roam everywhere you roamed.
Some small items might remain, artifacts,
Footnotes, fingerprints, cuff links, little anchors,
Small burrs that cling: initials carved in a tree,
Your name inscribed where no one will see.

The author posing contemplatively (not insouciantly, as it may seem) in the cemetery behind St. Paul's facing the former site of the World Trade Center.