MANHATTAN by Chard deNiord


“I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city.”

From “Manhatta” by Walt Whitman

This irony of multitudes in arrays

of desultory immense particulars,

here, there, now amassing in a throng 

of different looks, ethnicities, politics,

histories, but one, teaming, ascending, 

descending the walks and stairs as denizens, 

citizens, souls that have reified from eons 

ago, but are bustling now, alive, here, moving

among each other on the stairs and streets

and stations— modern, insouciant 

in the crowds, ambling, hurrying, slowing 

down in the steady flow of traffic 

that blurs in the roll and din of cars 

and trucks coming and going with lights 

all around and above like so many eyes 

staring down from their sockets on wires 

and poles, illuminating the world inside 

the world at large that extends beyond 

its walls and into souls and sky; that stands 

for now on this chthonic isle of schist 

and marble and earth that forms Manhattan Prong 

on which seven million thrive in a medley 

of colors, languages, and dreams to a chorus 

of honks and whistles and cries around 

the clock in a paradox of multitudes 

and a single child whose eyes gaze out 

from a picture on a wall from inside 

an apartment somewhere, lost for now, 

but whose likeness there is that of the city’s soul 

that is so immense she stands for all, 

a child who shines as a cynosure divine, 

just there, in a borough that is a “scurvy 

and disastrous place” for irony’s sake. 

“What I assume you shall assume,” he said 

because we must assume in order to see 

with eyes that are as large as clouds 

if we are to live as one in this place, 

to know just what we are thinking and feeling 

so differently but also the same because 

we are the residents of almighty New York, 

both lost and found, passing each other 

on the streets and boulevards as strangers 

as if we had known each other as brothers 

and sisters from the start.