In a message dated 6/26/02 1:34:00 PM, [log in to unmask] writes:

<< Travelling Out

        1.

By the Monument everyone,
as if they didn't, saw
the invisible man.  Sprawled  [very engaging opening]
on the Metro steps, legless
on cider and wine, trying
to say, *Change, spare any
change.* Poor bastard, needing
what we all need, money to die.  [ouch]



        2.

As you get onto the platform
there ought to be a jukebox -
free, like in The Trent -
with the 45s that bring our lives, [very good phrasing our lives/neon lit,
towards us]
neon lit, towards us,
and here each lyric can be held
like the white chrysanthemums [wow what a great simile!]
this Japanese woman carries,
wet in their cellophane,
gripped below a calm face.



        3.

Waiting in silence
with good-looking students,
mums holding satchels and toddlers,
a man with a leather suitcase,
and the illuminated sign saying:
*North Shields, 2 Minutes,*
as a pigeon hurtles past  [great imagery here]
from darkness to darkness -
the sound of its wingbeats,
its expressionless face -
nobody moves.


        4.

The double carriage
like a coffin on a catafalque  [maybe reverse the simile and the first line?]
slowly rumbles in, squeals,
pauses as we get on, trembles,
then mechanically sways out.
Counting change, we sit quietly.
Is it really like this?
Someone reads The Chronicle,
someone opposite stands,
then sighs while disembarking
in heaven or Chillingham Road.  [perfect ending]
[Perhaps look at your gerunds and see if you can change the ings to something
else]

Bob Cooper >>

Your poem has that stop gap in time that a great painting sometimes portrays.

kol tuv, Ryfkah