Showing posts with label Wales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wales. Show all posts

Monday, January 29, 2024

At Paddington Station

At Paddington Station, in a tunnel
just off the platforms, you want to capture
images of faces & bodies with memory
not camera--the ancient pickling mode.
Impossible. Commuting workers

stride with purpose verging on menace.
Tourists--sluggish, confused, quarrelsome,
sweaty, laden. . . . The tunnel space
seems eager to ingest people (it has
seen them all already, the Alis and
the Bens, the Antonios, Angelikas,
and Vlads, the Prufrocks, Sukis,
Eriks, and Khans). Such tunnels

snake like arteries through urban
bodies, delivering toil to the maw
of the Economy, serving sweat-labor
and schticks of expertise, nutrients
of the perpetual Now. The proper

English woman's voice narrates
train-info ("with breakfast service
to Swansea"), a positive-thinking
pigeon head-thrusts into the mix,
content with crumbs. What a seething

thing is a big city, but every person
is still one person, loaded with duty,
aches, words, terrors, whole worlds
of thought hiding behind stoic faces. 
A mind among millions, holding on,
holding off insanity and defeat.

A large sign states WAY OUT. Its
message is a mirage. And so it is
if you're a certain you, you'll enter
stage-lit platorms to board a serpent-
snouted Great Wester Railway train
to Cardiff, from where you'll go to
Aberdare in search of dark grey

headstones and places where
the dead once walked, worked,
and wondered. They couldn't see
your present, the future. You can't
see their past, that present.
Ghost trains roll
by each other silently on tracks
laid down by Time. 

hans ostrom 2024

Sunday, October 1, 2023

Talk in Cardiff

 
Big crowded restaurant next
to Mermaid Quay & my wife
steps out to take a call & I
focus on total sound of voices
talking--a liquid aural sculpture
of what bubbles, bursts, and flows
out of minds onto tongues & lips
& teeth. Fricatives and sibilants,
bumped rhythms, syncs and
overlaps, high-lows, quick stops,
clicks, loud cackles, the symphonic
babble of us. These folks

talk about, these eager eaters
paroled from homes, & they talk
to talk, as talkers do and must
& it's just good to listen
to the rich chopped salads of sounds
severed from sense--a dense
space, a tide. My wife returns

& I say, "What was she calling
about?" She says, "Oh, she
just wanted to chat."

"Hello, Goodbye, Swindon"

Hello, Swindon, where one
train passenger gets off,
gray clouds let a shaft
of sunlight through, and aluminum
chairs are perforated like
sheets of postage stamps.

The detrained woman sits
in one of these, puts
an allergy sprayer in both
nostrils, combs her gray
hair, sighs, and waits.

How interesting it must be,
I think, to grow up and live
in Swindon--in any place
without famine, war, and other
acute violence. The train

keeps going through tunnels
of green trees and brush,
as if landscape were a private
matter. Breaks in the vegetative
wall show hedgerows
and pastures (the discipline
of farms). Guernsey cows

give green grass a close
reading. Sheep gather
in fluffy, passive gangs. Dark
green, black-branched
oaks give off a Druid vibe.
Goodbye, Swindon.

Monday, April 20, 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (11)

Kangaroos boppin and hoppin
through Aussie towns,
wild boars busting loose
in Barcelona, mountain
goats getting grub in Welsh
villages. O, come all ye
species into empty human spaces
the plague has opened up for you.

Smog clears, the moon's
asthma's under control,
and the sun can dispense
with its monocle. Baby
sea turtles samba down
an empty beach, sand to sea,
small and free.

Rabbits in suburbia rejoice
Eagles monitor impromptu
migrations from CEO chairs
set up on the wind. Pet dogs
and cats form revolutionary
cells, having caught some
scents of rising wildness
from outside.


hans ostrom 2020