All the stations full of cracks tilted along the way
The telegraph wires they hang from
The grimacing poles that gesticulate and strangle them
The world stretches lengthens and folds in like an accordion tormented by a sadistic hand
In the cracks of the sky the locomotives in anger
And in the holes,
The whirling wheels the mouths the voices
And the dogs of misfortune that bark at our heels
The demons are unleashed
Everything is off-key
The broun-roun-roun of the wheels
We are a storm under a deaf man’s skull…
‘Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?’
Hell yes, you’re getting on my nerves you know very well we’re far away
Overheated madness bellows in the locomotive
Plague, cholera rise up like burning embers on our way
We disappear in the war sucked into a tunnel
Hunger, the whore, clings to the stampeding clouds
And drops battle dung in piles of stinking corpses
Do like her, do your job
‘Tell me, Blaise, are we very far from Montmartre?
Suicide by train is also popular in many developed countries. Without ready access to firearms, suicidal people often turn to trains. —Der Spiegel, July 27, 2011
Once it happens you can’t remember
how you started out: innocent,
barreling into the tunnel,
shooting out at each station
like a dolphin out of a dim green pool.
Pneumatic doors inhale open, puff shut,
lock with a solid thump.
Up and down the line, fifty times a day,
it’s a long slow song. You
feel the rumble as much as hear it.
In your dim green trance
the words retain wonder:
Vorsicht, Türe werden geschloßen.
Caution, the doors are closing.
Then the first time:
someone decides darkness will answer,
hides out in the tunnel,
steps out in front of the train
like he knows where he’s going,
steps out at you, dying at you,
knowing you can’t stop in time.
Now each time the doors close,
they seal you in. You are a human bullet
shot into the tunnels, hoping no one
will block the light far ahead,
each station one minute’s reprieve.”
― Karen Greenbaum-Maya
“Trains tap into some deep American collective memory.”
“THE BARROWIn this high field strewn with stones
I walk by a green mound,
Its edges sheared by the plough.
Crumbs of animal bone
Lie smashed and scattered round
Under the clover leaves
And slivers of flint seem to grow
Like white leaves among green.
In the wind, the chestnut heaves
Where a man’s grave has been.
Whatever the barrow held
Once, has been taken away:
A hollow of nettles and dock
Lies at the centre, filled
With rain from a sky so grey
It reflects nothing at all.
I poke in the crumbled rock
For something they left behind
But after that funeral
There is nothing at all to find.
On the map in front of me
The gothic letters pick out
Dozens of tombs like this,
Breached, plundered, left empty,
No fragments littered about
Of a dead and buried race
In the margins of histories.
No fragments: these splintered bones
Construct no human face,
These stones are simply stones.
In museums their urns lie
Behind glass, and their shaped flints
Are labelled like butterflies.
All that they did was die,
And all that has happened since
Means nothing to this place.
Above long clouds, the skies
Turn to a brilliant red
And show in the water’s face
One living, and not these dead.”
— Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree”
Six Feet Under
“A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.”
Occasional Sleet and Snow
“The storm starts, when the drops start dropping When the drops stop dropping then the storm starts stopping.”
“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”
Poetry – A window to my Soul
My Fictional Self
from Gwendolyn Hoff
I have a friend and she is me, though at times I have my doubts,
that if reality has anything to do, you see.
My fictional self may be unable to discern the ins and outs,
of a common condition some call reality.
A life lived lonely is not wished on the least,
lest someone is visited by an overly fertile imagination.
And a man with a social address of dbag21, with me to the East,
of Iowa, Bumstumble to be sure somewhere in the nation.
I am believed to be stalked from a desktop,
a non-transportable computer in his parent’s basement.
Where young Danny has stumbled upon my blog-spot,
“Writing is Fun-damental” catching his eye lacking any coherence.
Within my WordPress world seeking to restore good grammar,
he has seen this and that having to do with my life.
Perhaps I should not have posted that photo, causing a stammer,
but is it my fault when I meant not to make strife?
I went to his town curiously named Bumstumble,
to set the record straight about my age and his intent.
This not so little girl searched the sleepy Midwest Berg,
as an anonymous stranger to find the source of his bent.
From the bottom of the town well to the top of its tallest,
I talk to a him and a her; their fuzzy things or others.
A consensus forms in a line that has to be the longest,
that Danny Bagman would be a last choice given their druther.
But this is not at all real, not leaving my office warmly appointed,
for Iowa or anywhere containing an admirer amidst my fog.
Snap out of it Gwenny the thought of someone mythically anointed,
having the slightest interest in you, your blog or your big yellow dog.
I have a friend and she, she is me
So back in my office I ponder
If I really need to embellish what people see
With someone, something, somewhere out yonder.
Copyright c 2012 WRITING IS FUN-DAMENTAL,. All rights reserved. The content of this WordPress Blog is meant to be shared, but not reproduced for commercial gain.
Publisher: Gwendolyn Kim Hoff
Gwenny’s Author website: http://www.gwendolynhoff.com