The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Thursday and <lj comm

The Center of Attention
By Daniel Hoffman

As grit swirls in the wind the word spreads.
On pavements approaching the bridge a crowd
Springs up like mushrooms.
They are hushed at first, intently

Looking. At the top of the pylon
The target of their gaze leans toward them.
The sky sobs
With the sirens of disaster crews

Careening toward the crowd with nets,
Ladders, resuscitation gear, their First
Aid attendants antiseptic in white duck.
The police, strapped into their holsters,

Exert themselves in crowd-control. They can't
Control the situation.
Atop the pylon there's a man who threatens
Violence. He shouts, I'm gonna jump--

And from the river of upturned faces
--Construction workers pausing in their construction work,
Shoppers diverted from their shopping,
The idlers relishing this diversion

In the vacuity of their day--arises
A chorus of cries--Jump!
Jump! and No--
Come down! Come down! Maybe, if he can hear them,

They seem to be saying Jump down! The truth is,
The crowd cannot make up its mind.
This is a tough decision. The man beside me
Reaches into his lunchbox and lets him have it.

Jump! before he bites his sandwich,
While next to him a young blonde clutches
Her handbag to her breasts and moans
Don't Don't Don't so very softly

You'd think she was afraid of being heard.
The will of the people is divided.
Up there he hasn't made his mind up either.
He has climbed and climbed on spikes imbedded in the pylon

To get where he has arrived at.
Is he sure now that this is where he was going?
He looks down one way into the river.
He looks down the other way into the people.

He seems to be looking for something
Or for somebody in particular.
Is there anyone here who is that person
Or can give him what it is that he needs?

From the back of a firetruck a ladder teeters.
Inching along, up up up up up, a policeman
Holds on with one hand, sliding it on ahead of him.
In the other, outstretched, a pack of cigarettes.

Soon the man will decide between
The creature comfort of one more smoke
And surcease from being a creature.
Meanwhile the crowd calls Jump! and calls Come down!

Now, his cassock billowing in the bulges of Death's black flag,
A priest creeps up the ladder too
What will the priest and the policeman together
Persuade the man to do?

He has turned his back to them.
He has turned away from everyone.
His solitariness is nearly complete.
He is alone with his decision.

No one on the ground or halfway into the sky can know
The hugeness of the emptiness that surrounds him.
All of his senses are orphans.
His ribs are cold andirons.

Does he regret his rejection of furtive pills,
Of closet noose or engine idling in closed garage?
A body will plummet through shrieking air,
The audience dumb with horror, the spattered street . . .

The world he has left is as small as toys at his feet.
Where he stands, though nearer the sun, the wind is chill.
He clutches his arms--a caress, or is he trying
Merely to warm himself with his arms?

The people below, their necks are beginning to ache.
They are getting impatient for this diversion
To come to some conclusion. The priest
Inches further narrowly up the ladder.

The center of everybody's attention
For some reason has lit up a butt. He sits down.
He looks down on the people gathered, and sprinkles
Some of his ashes upon them.

Before he is halfway down
The crowd is half-dispersed.
It was his aloneness that clutched them together.
They were spellbound by his despair

And now each rung brings him nearer,
Nearer to their condition
Which is not sufficiently interesting
To detain them from business or idleness either,

Or is too close to a despair
They do not dare
Exhibit before a crowd
Or admit to themselves they share.

Now the police are taking notes
On clipboards, filling the forms.
He looks round as though searching for what he came down for.
Traffic flows over the bridge.


I'm sure I've mentioned Hoffman before; he was one of my poetry professors at the University of Pennsylvania, a warm and generous man as well as a wonderful poet.

wednesday100: "Not Taken", for the time challenge. Yesterday I wasn't even in the mood to see what the challenge was, and when I looked this morning I discovered that it had been posted late anyway, and I had an immediate bunny. Time works like that. *g*

I am afraid to mention what perkypaduan, agentirish and I are planning to do today because every time we make plans to do this, something comes up, but with any luck I will report on it later. perkypaduan also had a brilliant idea based on my post of last night: "Strip Fighting Sail!" Now I have a very small bunny involving Stephen losing the clothes off his back in a card game -- c'mon, think Paul Bettany in A Knight's Tale, I'm amazed no one has done this yet. I wonder what Jack would make him do to get his clothes back. Heh.

Have I mentioned that it is thoroughly stressful and demoralizing not to have any idea where my editor is or when he might resurface? If I knew that he was coming back at a specific time, even if it seemed like an outrageously long time to be away, I could deal more easily than not knowing anything at all. Thanks, y'all, for putting up with my moods these last couple of weeks.

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