Los Voladores de Papantla


I saw the flying men of Papantla in the 1950s,
And then several times since,

The Tarascan Indians from inside Mexico
Playing flutes, some of them, the others answering

From the small platform at the top of a 50 foot pole,
Binding their ankles to the end of a rope.

It was the first time that stays with me,
Especially now.  Today it's neat and clean--

The ropes are checked and insurance forms signed. 
But the first time, people crowded right up to the pole,

And the men jumped without testing first.
Their ropes, anyone could see, were homemade. 

These men were not putting on a show.
They were painted, but were not clowns.

Their ropes were like fuses
And their thin, reddened bodies

Like penny firecrackers.
They were faith-jumpers,

And it was religion we were in the middle of. 
Religion with silver sweat and with yellow screams,

Whole audiences in thrall to blood that was real.
These were fireworks like any

But with the explosions, the green
And the blue, the rosettes of sparkle

Imagined, but easily, so clear was the next moment:
A man would jump.

At that moment in life and in the world anything could happen.
People clasped their hands together

In prayer, but as much in desperation.
With so many crowded in, it just sounded like applause.