“I like trains. I like their rhythm, and I like the freedom of being suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I know where I am going.”
~ Marianne Wiggins
the rails always culminate in a destination but the decision of choosing one train can alter your reality. the unseen connections they form; the embodiment of the rubber reality we live in
the poem (following) written by Riddhi and Shreya is an eight-way symmetry poem idealizing the metaphysical nature of trains. you can read it any way you like - as separate columns, alternating, left to right, right to left zig-zag, left to right zig-zag, criss-cross, backward, and any other way you can fathom.
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Check out Shreya's cool site:
rail(ways)
Shreya & Riddhi
a directionless direction
veering off path,
this dusty, forlorn track,
kicking dust into my eyes.
​​
the further I walk,
the wind weaves its way
on broken rails and stop signs -
realize, realize the art of creation.
​
it’s an antique: like the antiques within,
nail by nail
The dim entrance, criss-cross on the elevator,
awakening the conscience
to the futures to come.
of journeys past,
and a screech of whistles.
the monotony of rails
of journeys past,
Maybe -
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I’d like to know mine.
stepping out rusted doors
with feet hitting the ground,
lost in the shuffle --
with gravel around.
blinded
I leave the dust behind,
trudging on to marvel at creation and
imagining a world on squeaky wheels.
fleeting but permanent,
a fading remembrance of the past.
hammered into everlasting.
an echo of old choo-choo trains,
and slipping in the glistening oil.
a hidden world
a sense of belonging
of romances, reunions, and rendezvous.
destiny exists.
​
​I’d like to know mine.
january
1800
f a c e s
to be a leaf swaying
through the wind
to be a pedestrian
falling on the street
to be a mayfly amongst
butterflies.
to try to understand the
imperceptible power
pervading the world;
to be a smile on the
face of a girl
and shine in her memory
as a moment saved
without planning
"We are the music makers, we are the dreamers of dreams"
Roald Dahl
threads
spiders in the attic crawl
into your body
weaving your heartstrings into
cobwebs, trapping flies.
complicated symmetry
tragically magic, leading from
ambiguity to death;
the smooth passage.
excelling at pulling strings
amidst the violence
looking for silence.
to the caterpillar - end of the world
to an artist - the beginning of a masterpiece:
a butterfly.
a spider consuming all beauty
but weaving its own
delicate lace intertwining with grace
a consummate force of patience.
an innocuous corner for her masterpiece
the museum of nature.
