In Transit

[hillwalker]

IN TRANSIT

Leaving home.
Leaving those familiar rooftops,
geometric fields and hedges,
flat ground budding green and greener in the distance.
Leaving shabby souvenirs
of dead-brick walls
and soot-brushed stone
and splintered gravel grey as tombstone.

Now the sudden dive as chasing ground falls into deepest valley;
crossing viaduct
deceleration as we bridge the chasm
watch our shadow keeping pace below.

In the distance
skeletons of trees poke beggars’ arms into the watery skyline.
Flashing gorse flares yellow through the smoking grass fires;
low horizon turning quickly blue,
hills decked in wind-bent boughs and tilted rocks.

Close at hand a heap of weathered slate,
a carcassed whale
with veins of white, scrubbed grass
and purple foxglove.

Then
decaying town spreads everywhere:
high-water mark above the mire,
a rusty stain, a bruise upon the peach.

Half-built, chimney-smoking, hollow-windowed bungalows.
Pastel-painted, red-tiled, black-roofed terraces.
Middens,
mud slides,
disused branch lines.

And all the time the snorkelling wind;
the pulling, pushing, skull-thumping clatter of wheels.
Rasping exhaust.
Unsure rhythm of tripping-up tracks.
Shape and after-shape.
Flashing foreground of fence and bank.
Up.
Down.

Hidden places
where timber is stacked,
where tanks drip oil,
where cars await new headlamps,
where roof tiles are sawn,
bricks are dumped,
cinders cool down,
where rolls of musty felt are stored,
tarmac grows grass,
polythene bags hold stagnant puddles of rainwater,
where turf is chewed until black,
fence-posts rot,
drums of paint leak colour onto a lifeless canvas,
where corrugated sheets rust,
tyres warp,
paper turns to mulch,
pipes crack,
where windows become smeared with faces staring back at you
like ghosts riding a tornado.

Then unexpectedly
you get to watch your own smile fly past in a blurring microsecond,
a painter’s careless brush-stroke as another train hurtles by
dragging your reflection
home.

H

[Pete Ak]

It's impossible not to be impressed by the imagery concocted by your wordplay/phraseology. Excellent stuff, especially, "skeletons of trees poke beggars’ arms into the watery skyline." in fact I love that whole stanza.
Nevertheless, this piece is, in essence, a list. A narrative is encouraged very skillfully by the use of transit so we're carried along the poem via the series of images; till the last stanza. Whether or not this is sufficient to 'resolve' the poem is probably a matter of taste and my particular preference is unimportant... it is a quite brilliantly put ending - including the choice of the word "dragging". In my mind's eye the other train would have been moving in the opposite direction, back from where you have been; I wonder if the more simple 'taking my reflection home' would be more apt; as "dragging" implies reluctance on your part.

[cafolini]

Loved it. Best line: like ghosts riding a tornado. Crack me up to bellyache.

[Charles Darnay]

The last stanza in particular is incredible!

[miyako73]

Now this is the kind of long poem I want to read. In the end, I feel rewarded as its reader. More of this, Hill. Unrestrained thoughts and images. For some reason, I feel this poem can be an impetus for a good short story.

[firefangled]

H, the language in this poem is astounding in places, and read aloud, the sounds are equally amazing: from the heart of the poem:


Half-built, chimney-smoking, hollow-windowed bungalows.
Pastel-painted, red-tiled, black-roofed terraces.
Middens,
mud slides,
disused branch lines.

And all the time the snorkelling wind;
the pulling, pushing, skull-thumping clatter of wheels.
Rasping exhaust.
Unsure rhythm of tripping-up tracks.
Shape and after-shape.
Flashing foreground of fence and bank.
Up.
Down.

In S5, I would put "Then" on the same line as "decaying town..." The same in S6 "Middens, mudslides" sound so good together, I would have them on the same line. I enjoyed reading this. It made me think of The Wasteland."

"snorkelling wind" Wonderful!!

[hillwalker]

Thanks everyone - unfortunately I can't do justice tonight to your careful responses (packed and away for a long weekend's carousing).

All I'll say for now is that the cadence of the piece was intended to mimic the motions of an actual rail journey.

Thanks again for reading and the feedback.

H

[Hawkman]

My first reaction to this piece was to want to take shelter from the relentless barrage of imagery. The density of descriptive writing was a feature of your earlier pieces on the forum, but more recently you've been using a lighter touch. Of course, it is purley subjective as to whether one revels in the description or would prefer a more impressionistic sketch with lighter strokes, but personally I feel there are enough descriptors in this piece for several poems.

"Half-built, chimney-smoking, hollow-windowed bungalows.
Pastel-painted, red-tiled, black-roofed terraces.
Middens,
mud slides,
disused branch lines."

a hint of Dylan Thomas here? Actually, I really like this verse, despite its being a list of descriptors, and wondering why the half built bungalows would have smoking chimneys. But after ploughing through all the other descriptors which preceded it I was suffering from overload.

There are some peculiar expressions dotted through the piece, e.g.

"Leaving shabby souvenirs
of dead-brick walls
and soot-brushed stone
and splintered gravel grey as tombstone."

Why souvinirs? Has the narrator left behind a collection of bricks which were keepsakes of his point of departure?

Not too keen on, "Stone" and "Tombstone," either as the repetition jars a bit.

"Now the sudden dive as chasing ground falls into deepest valley;
crossing viaduct
deceleration as we bridge the chasm
watch our shadow keeping pace below."

I have issues with the linebreaks in this stanza.

"Now the sudden dive
as chasing ground falls into deepest valley;
crossing viaduct deceleration
as we bridge the chasm,
watch our shadow keeping pace below."

Would be better I feel.

S3, "Then" doesn't need to be on its own line.

For the rest of it I keep wanting to drop excessive description. Does one really need skull in front of thumping? Rather than being in transit I almost feel trapped in a specific moment as I read this. There is lots to see and hear but little movement. This is quite clever for a train journey though. The impression that one remains in one place, the carriage, and rather than the train moving, it is the world which passes by outside. That certainly comes across. But it's such a long journey...

Live and be well - H

PS. Something else which struck me about this piece is the terrible sense of isolation. There is no humanity in this poem. All the description is levelled at things; houses, landscapes, machines. It's as if the the narrator has the train to himself. Where are the poeple? Given the Thomas influence, I'd have expected to find them punctuating the scenery with little cameos of observation.

Just a thought...

H

[hillwalker]

Hi Hawk

The relentless barrage of imagery was intentional - mirroring the images that flash by on a train journey (one particular journey as it happens). And well spotted - it's an older piece resurrected and given a quick polish before posting.

Line breaks in v2 - agreed, the separation of 'dive' from what follows is more effective , which is partly why I also left 'Then' on a line of its own.

A long journey indeed, and focussing entirely on the inanimate - those things hidden behind the places we normally inhabit. Places we only see from the windows of a passing train.

Thanks for reading.

H

[Haunted]

At first I thought it was an overhead flight but then the details would be impossible and soon enough, I was able to "hear" the wheels on the tracks. Familiar things we see (some paradoxical), all captured here so deftly. I particularly like these lines: the pulling, pushing, skull-thumping clatter of wheels; tarmac grows grass; polythene bags hold stagnant puddles of rainwater.

But of course, me being me, can't help but read more into it: a symbolic journey, leaving decay behind and going for a "greener" future. But then the ending would be a bit ironic because it's pulling it all back. But, thankfully, it's not going in reverse even when the reflection seems to suggest, but just something written as good as a piece of art. When they say poetry in motion, they must have this in mind.

[hillwalker]

Thanks Haunted - trying to pull me back home, indeed. But I'm resisting. A metaphorical journey as much as a real one. And no. I never went back.

H

[Bar22do]

The language, here, is wonderful. The whole "returning adventure", so involving! I love all this poem but especially the astounding last S describing the narrator's reflection in the other passing train... it's a masterpiece, well, one of yours.

[hillwalker]

Thanks so much.

H