The Train
They jerk backwards; as yet another unearthly beat is groaned.
White, knuckled hands twist around an oily pole.
The jagged strokes of wandering fingers are imprinted on a foggy window.
Drops of water melt from the strokes and crawl into cracks blackened with the ash of dead insects.
Across the dirty aisle sits a woman,
Her face hidden beneath the folds of her black wool scarf.
Legs crossed, lips pursed, eyes scanning the book in her lap.
The rattle of metal fills out the silence in the moving room.
A wrinkled lady in beige stockings sits with her handbag by her feet.
A damp cigarette perches upon her lips and trembles slightly, as her perfumed hands rhythmically wring out the cold.
Blue, aged eyes serenely gaze out through puffs of smoke, at the blur of passing trees, broken windows and abandoned apartments.
Another screech peels out from the hot metal, roasting beneath the ground.
The strangers tilt to the left, while their bodies stiffen in attempt to fight the pull.
Departing footsteps move towards the doors.
The old lady leans back, breathes a cloud of smoke through her rouged lips and heaves a sigh.
Strangers arrive, shaking off the rain.
The woman stiffens and shifts as a girl with wet black hair sinks into the chair beside her.
Her torn jeans just inches away from the ironed trousers of the woman's.
The woman fixes her eyes on a word on her page. Distracted and attempting not to notice the blurred reflection of the girl in the foggy window.
Impatiently, she swallows, clenches her jaw and waits for the doors to slide shut.
The girl stuffs a painted hand into her jacket and pulls out white headphones.
She closes her eyes, creaks within her plastic chair and exhales as the muffled sound of music drifts over the passengers.
A man curls and tightens his grip around the cold, greasy pole as the drumming of metal on metal slowly starts up again.
A raindrop sits upon his hand.
A silent reminder of the world beyond the wet, melting windows. A stranger.
Like a liquid pearl, it slips and falls as the train sets off again.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Sabbath - poetry
The Sabbath
With such cool ease, this ancient breeze
drifts over my head.
Passers by, pass on by,
their feet weighed down with lead.
They trail over the ancient earth
while down below the dead,
lowly growl and curse so foul,
within their holy beds.
Six feet above, how I do love,
the shade beneath the trees,
and unlike the dead, I drift off to bed,
like a stone against the breeze.
With such cool ease, this ancient breeze
drifts over my head.
Passers by, pass on by,
their feet weighed down with lead.
They trail over the ancient earth
while down below the dead,
lowly growl and curse so foul,
within their holy beds.
Six feet above, how I do love,
the shade beneath the trees,
and unlike the dead, I drift off to bed,
like a stone against the breeze.
Yellow From the Smoke - Poetry
Yellow From the Smoke
You used to tap me when I was little, to sleep, you thought Cigarette burning endlessly, the sixth of your perfectly painted fingers Jeopardy clapped and cheered on the telly, but I would lie awake with my eyes closed Pretending for you Waiting for that next gentle tap on my body I learnt early on never to mention his name around you It would make you raise your voice and point a scarlet nail “Your grandfather…” and it would go on for hours So I pretended not to know him and asked you again for a story The same three stories A bomb near the bus stop during the war, At bingo yesterday, you didn’t win a bloody pound, and my uncle who hasn’t bothered to call in months
He was different, quiet and gentle in his airy one room flat He would offer me a seat, so I sat and watched mum make us tea His eyes blue from blindness smiled at me behind his bottle glasses He would tell us about the lovely tree just outside in the garden The ghost that haunts the priory but he’s never seen it himself And I would laugh along with his deep laugh and mention your name by mistake “Nana? Oh you mean to say my wife?” Thirty years a part but he still called you his wife It was alright if I mentioned you, but he would look off, blue eyes skimming over memories Mum saw the metal springs that pierced their way out of the mattress and asked him why he didn’t get a new one. If I did, he said, there wouldn’t be enough money left to leave your mother when I die.
The candle on his coffin could burn nonstop for one whole week the minister said It was thick and oily like hardened fat But you weren’t there to see it flicker The day after he was put into the ground You bounced through the snow to the bank A skip in your Irish step Your cigarette was too soggy to light But it didn’t matter You were gleaming and ready for your money That day I lost Two My grandfather in the ground And you still in your smoky flat The walls stained yellow And the curtains red and heavy and I can hear your voice in my head, jabbering on the phone over the loud cheer of the telly Telling all your bingo friends of your latest win.
You used to tap me when I was little, to sleep, you thought Cigarette burning endlessly, the sixth of your perfectly painted fingers Jeopardy clapped and cheered on the telly, but I would lie awake with my eyes closed Pretending for you Waiting for that next gentle tap on my body I learnt early on never to mention his name around you It would make you raise your voice and point a scarlet nail “Your grandfather…” and it would go on for hours So I pretended not to know him and asked you again for a story The same three stories A bomb near the bus stop during the war, At bingo yesterday, you didn’t win a bloody pound, and my uncle who hasn’t bothered to call in months
He was different, quiet and gentle in his airy one room flat He would offer me a seat, so I sat and watched mum make us tea His eyes blue from blindness smiled at me behind his bottle glasses He would tell us about the lovely tree just outside in the garden The ghost that haunts the priory but he’s never seen it himself And I would laugh along with his deep laugh and mention your name by mistake “Nana? Oh you mean to say my wife?” Thirty years a part but he still called you his wife It was alright if I mentioned you, but he would look off, blue eyes skimming over memories Mum saw the metal springs that pierced their way out of the mattress and asked him why he didn’t get a new one. If I did, he said, there wouldn’t be enough money left to leave your mother when I die.
The candle on his coffin could burn nonstop for one whole week the minister said It was thick and oily like hardened fat But you weren’t there to see it flicker The day after he was put into the ground You bounced through the snow to the bank A skip in your Irish step Your cigarette was too soggy to light But it didn’t matter You were gleaming and ready for your money That day I lost Two My grandfather in the ground And you still in your smoky flat The walls stained yellow And the curtains red and heavy and I can hear your voice in my head, jabbering on the phone over the loud cheer of the telly Telling all your bingo friends of your latest win.
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