this diary is dedicated to all who suffer because of war and other disasters
we honor courage in all its forms
cross-posted at DailyKos, Booman Tribune, European Tribune, and My Left Wing.
two images and poem below the fold
Firefighters carry the bodies of six men, who had been blindfolded, shot and dumped, into a van at a sewage plant in southeast Baghdad, Iraq, Saturday Dec. 31, 2005. Two more U.S. soldiers were killed in Iraq as the year wound down, putting the American military death toll at 841 so far, just five short of 2004’s lost lives despite political progress and dogged efforts to quash the insurgency. Violence continued on Saturday. Gunmen raided a house near Iskandariyah, 50 kilometers (30 miles) south of Baghdad, killing five members of a Sunni family, according to police sources, and a roadside bomb exploded in Baghdad, killing two policemen, officials said.
(AP Photo/Hadi Mizban)
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.
the poet reads his work
– – –
put a meaningful magnet on your car or metal filing cabinet
read Ilona’s important diary at MLW – Returning Vet PTSD – One Soldier’s Story as well her comprehensive series on PTSD and Iraq War vets.
view the pbs newshour silent honor roll (with thanks to jimstaro at booman.)
take a private moment to light one candle among many (with thanks to TXSharon)
support Veterans for Peace
support the Iraqi people
support the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC)
support CARE
support the victims of torture
remember the fallen
support Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors – TAPS
support Gold Star Families for Peace
support the fallen
support the troops
support Iraq Veterans Against the War
support Military families Speak Out
support the troops and the Iraqi people
read This is what John Kerry did today, the diary by lawnorder that prompted this series
read Riverbend’s Bagdhad Burning
read Dahr Jamail’s Iraq Dispatches
read Today in Iraq
witness every day