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Travelling by Atlas

‘…I have seldom heard a train go by and not wished I was on it’
Paul Theroux

Across the darkened courtyards comes at night
the rumble of trains just passing through …

Travelling north between mountain ranges
I imagine smearing meat paste on dark bread
and knocking the caps off beer bottles on
nicked window frames like a local.
At the Polish border the guards push screwdrivers into the seats –
on to Katowice, Warsaw, Torun, Gdansk
and beyond lies the Baltic sea
which opens up suddenly like a thumb
on the ragged edge of a tin of sardines.

Or I could travel south where at Sturovo
the great cathedral looms over the Danube,
and down to Budapest, to Beograd,
to Thessaloniki where the station police won’t let you sleep,
down through parched and rocky mountains
sizzling in the summer heat,
spend a night in a goods wagon,
then on to Athens.

I shut my eyes,
knock back a shot of juniper snaps
to steel my degenerate, western nerves
as I climb aboard the Russian train,
which seals itself up like a submarine and rumbles east,
jars of sour pickles pop their lids,
sprats unwrap themselves from newspaper packages,
an American on crutches explains how to check for fake dollars,
two ladies from Minsk nibble on the corner of a slice
of processed cheese – who knew such things existed!
On to Kijev, to Moscow, to the Ural mountains
where on leaving Europe behind
the wolves of my own ignorance
race through forest alongside the train.
Ahead of us as the sun rises into our eyes
lies Vladistock and the Sea of Japan.

Finally travelling on from Bratislava and Westbahnhof, Vienna
I fall asleep to the lullabye sway of the Schlafwagen bunk
as the kind eye of the moon keeps watch over
train, towns, fields and farmhouses.
Brussels is waiting like a friend at the end of the journey.
Sleep well. Sweet dreams. Good night.

<< to Frances' poems

Railway Carriage Landscapes

Will they recall
How in the ‘Thirties photos colour-tinted
Gazed at from cushioned, broad compartment seats,
Faded from suns of far-off seaside treats,
Were taken down, deposed by wonderfully-printed
Landscapes worked by the brightest of trained men
Who only asked ten pounds a sheet back then?

Quiet, noble work...
Who in these latter times could ever hope to match
The oeuvres of Badmin, Squirrell, Hilder, Steel
Whose evocations caused the heart to feel
That underlying our old shoddy batch
Of hackneyed landscapes dwelt a realm so fit
That one who cared might care to die for it?

I see them now,
Sequestered from our days, their world so pure:
A Durham scatheless on her craggy flanks,
Kelso embowered by old Tweed’s bright banks,
Trinity Court, ancient, august, secure;
Rievaulx so picture-perfect in her dales,
And Abergele in the dusk of Wales.

They tell a truth -
One not reserved for existential eyes.
Their seat is deeper-driven, set apart.
In them we glimpse the Avons of the heart;
An actual Cornwall blows beneath their skies.
Who will discover in a latter age,
That rooted place, that shrugged-off heritage,

Or glimpse half-dozing from that slick express
The secret path that winds to Lyonesse?

<< to Colin's poems

Travel

Liverpool 1963
Drifting down the grade
with a freight from Walton on the Hill
we would hear the clank
of the engine, then the thrill
of the passing train
with 'love me do' playing
on the transistor radio again.

These were the sounds when life
seemed as solid and unchanging
as the embankment at the end of the garden
When we thought the slam of doors
and whistle of a train at the station
would never change in any way,
except, of course, Grand National Day:

Five miles to Aintree; and every few minutes
the signal would fall; that dull metallic sound
and still the birdsong for a minute more.
Then hiss, hiss, hiss, hiss, hiss, then a roar
of an express, thundering past, thirty yards away:
A swirl of steam and so suddenly gone.
The signal clinking back: And again the birdsong.

***
Cheshire. 1965

You could hear them
starting the climb three miles away
And we would stop our game
and zig-zag our bicycles down the lane
to the bridge where we flung our bikes
and would lean far over the edge
just as the engine would burst
slowly from that first bridge,
with a column of smoke
rising high in the air.
The beat of the engine
hammering towards us
until, enveloped in steam
we would rush across the lane
to see it round the curve
with the thump, thump, thump
of the oil tanks rumbling past
then slowly curving out of sight.
And Stanlow's flare waving to us
in the distance, above the willowherb.

Cheshire 1967

Sunday and Birkenhead
Away from New Brighton
and the wide brown river
was the railway shed -
Line upon line of oily engines
resting, hissing gently,
looming above us
black with grime and soot.
A wisp of steam; a dripping pipe.
Piles of ash and metal rods,
shovels, picks and wet rails.
The glow of embers
and the smell of coal smoke
and thick, transparent grease.
With 'Tranmere' chalked on a tender
We loved it and thought it would last forever.

***
Epilogue. Barry Docks 1969

In long straight lines
rusting and neglected.
A strange silence this.
And weeds growing
under the still wheels
Ragwort's yellow flowers
their last embers,
before the cutter's torch.

I Often Go On Journeys And Leave Myself Behind

Did I leave myself behind today, The me I used to be?
Waiting on the platform,
Waiting for the 8.43?

“Unattended baggage may be removed without notice!”
Announces the tannoy man
My unattended self I left bereft an hour ago
What will become of me I wonder?

Maybe this baggage is best left behind
And removed without notice
Maybe the moving me should carry on regardless
And travel onwards and onwards

But no, as usual when I return,
I’ll reunite with that patient me
Waiting where I left it
Or possibly filed away in “Lost Property”

Trainnosaurus Wrecks

(Thoughts on high speed trains and the Potters Bar train disaster)

Bestial howl of the train
Rushing by but feet away.
Close enough to breathe its breath,
The blood-black stench of its breath,
Leaves you scared and nauseous.

Safe whilst confined by the silvery rails,
Bars that contain its ferocious savagery,
But once it leaves the rails it reeks mayhem and death;
A chaotic, unconditional indifference to human suffering.

<< to David's poems

A Long Journey (with apologies to T S Eliot)

It was a long train journey Not the best time of the year
For a journey, and with a young child,
The connections difficult and the luggage heavy –
A fairly frustrating business!

Catherine was tired although she seemed happy
And only needed a piggy-back occasionally.
There were times I wished
I was back in Wiltshire
Doing the usual things – having elevenses –
Instead of rattling along the railway line
In a cheerless carriage with passive passengers
And a feeling of claustrophobia.

The cities were dreary, and the village stations
A blur of buildings and concrete,
The buffets dirty and charging high prices.
And then we arrived at Paddington.
We shared a taxi to Kings Cross
With another mother and her children
Paying jointly,
While a voice was ringing in my ears
Saying that this was all folly.

When we got to the station
It was enormous, smelling of tired people,
With cafeterieas, bookstalls and telephone kiosks
And twelve platforms.
We found the suburban train to Royston
Climbed on and sat down.

There were some soldiers on their way back to barracks
After a holiday; they played cards
And drank canned beer to pass the time,
But nobody talked to us. And so we arrived
And were met by our relatives
And went to their house; it was a relief.

All this happened on a Saturday in October
And I would do it again, but not for quite a while –
I mean it would have to be quite a while.
Why did we go all that way?
Was it to celebrate a birthday,
Or to satisfy a masochistic impulse?
It was Ben’s birthday certainly.
We brought him a birthday present,
Sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and blew out candles
And met a friend after a long absence.

We returned to Warminster on Monday
Glad to be back in our own beds again.

Tanka

Train of thought slows down;
I focus on fields of green
Variegated
Shades of light and dark, like life
Signalling me back on track.

<< to Margaret's poems

Travel Railway

Railway station dark,
Covered in cold white scarf,
Rails die in f(a)il(l)ed dreams.

<< to Alena's poems

Travel

I haven't travelled much,
So I have not got a lot to say.
There is a lot to be said,
For not going anywhere.
Why would one go away,
If one is happy here?

<< to Richard's poems

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