From granite cubist benches
to thousands feet traversed stairs
a swelling chorus of screams
fills the tunnel’s air.
Not a cacophony,
but
an eerie chord
under the screech
of the train braking
one car into the station.
Steel wheel to steel rail slices.
The metal note silences.
Cries coda and fade,
marking that
a man
has died
today.
The piece was composed after a homeless man was killed by a Red Line train in the Downtown Crossing Station in Boston. It describes the sounds I heard. I do not know why the man was on the tracks. The title came from a statement a witness gave the investigating officers as I held the gate for EMT, Police, and Fire Department personnel. "The Pieces Just Fell out of Him" was originally published in _Poesy_ #15 (Winter 2001/2002) and reprinted in the anthology _Out of the Blue Writers Unite_ edited by Deborah M. Priestly and Timothy Gager (Cambridge, MA: Crooked River Press, 2003.) May be reprinted with permission of the author. It has been choreographed as a pantomime.
~*~ Alarming... Sad... Poignant... Descriptive. This Perfect Write Captures This Tragic Crushing Out Of A Man's Life With Poignancy. It Reveals Your Caring And Compassionate Heart Ian... You Have Honoured The Memory Of This Poor Man In Your Poem...~*~
~*~*~*~ Shivani... {Celestial Merlyn} ~*~*~*~
Reviewed by elois Masters (Reader)
Reviewed on July 25, 2003
Ian.
This is a fantastic poem. In response to Whitfields remark. I think the succinctness of this poem is quite apropos: A mans entire life was spent in a matter of seconds. It's about his death, not his life and who and what he was is irrelevant to the poingancy of his death and the fragility of life. Cries coda and fade,
marking that
I was on the train that day.
So to Whitfield...
It's not to late to write that book.
Thank you
Ian.
m.
In reply to Evan Whitfield's comment: While I was present when a man died violently under the wheels of a train, he was not a man I knew-- I could not write about who he was and what brought him to that point. I could only write about how he impacted on my life and the lives of all those who stood on the Red Line Inbound platform at Downtown Crossing: the sound of his death. Perhaps by distilling his death into a piece that can be uttered in but a few breaths seems unjust, but I did what I could do.
Reviewed by Evan Whitfield
Reviewed on January 12, 2003
Of course we can all say that this is a tender little poem...
But no man's life is equal to 5-10 lines of something that is a spur-of-the-moment thought.
I would've rather written a book.
A poignant story about letting go of a narcissist in your life. Have you ever been attacked FULL force by a narcissist? It's the closest thing to being stabbed over and over in the back.
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~*~*~*~ Shivani... {Celestial Merlyn} ~*~*~*~
This is a fantastic poem. In response to Whitfields remark. I think the succinctness of this poem is quite apropos: A mans entire life was spent in a matter of seconds. It's about his death, not his life and who and what he was is irrelevant to the poingancy of his death and the fragility of life. Cries coda and fade,
marking that
I was on the train that day.
So to Whitfield...
It's not to late to write that book.
Thank you
Ian.
m.
But no man's life is equal to 5-10 lines of something that is a spur-of-the-moment thought.
I would've rather written a book.
Sharon;)
We Liv e In a Sad & Sick Non-Caring (Hole In
The Wall ) World,i.e. Stop & Think__
___It( This) Could Have Been(Any Of) You...
TRASK