Quotes about transit, page 6
In the Ravages of War
From the ravages of war
Imminent
The soul of the country has gone
Languishing
But the man who after thirty years
In his Italian suit
And crocodile skin shoes
Who apparently talked sense
Who was neither the idealist
The revolutionary
The mad man of masses
Nor a poet
Who lived in mansions
Who reappeared again
Who put his documents
With his youthful photograph
Who had gone old now
Not much
Who wanted his Mercedes to be allowed
To be imported
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poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Wall Street
On the wall of Facebook of uncertainty
your blog is written-
A Street that swirls to Capitalism.
What to occupy?
Anarchy, Crash, War, or a History?
JP Morgan, Daniel Drew, Jay Gould or the WTO?
Prairie farmers, urban workers middle sizes traders
denounced 'Money Trust';
ultimately trusted money.
Progressive Reformers charged the 'Devil Fish'
degrading democracy;
finally joined to loot the other people's money.
Working -class socialists welcomed the money street
as a transit route toward collective ownership;
now distrusted.
It is not a Chinese wall-street
that encircled the capital
It is an American firewall that
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poem by Vidyut Chakraborty
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The Airconditioner
as i sleep the airconditioner inside our room
hums a tune to my ear
sounding very much like your
poem recently posted at PH
last night when i arrived late
from the office
Monotonous like the Rural Transit bus
that takes you daily from the house to the city
then back
Silly like a nursery rhyme a la Jack and Jill or ba ba black sheep
There is no philosophical content whatsoever like a very dry well
No water in here no pebbles just plain dust and sand
There is no color like the blue skies and black birds
No motion for wings no notion of movement like our emotions
There is no odor (there is a little bit of rotten fish and wilting leaves of
mahogany, like some fertile humus in mama's backyard)
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Museum Of The City Of...III
What were they looking for, there,
so long ago?
a diplomat's corpse, bound, gagged and fish-mauled?
(for whatever it's current deficits, this city once had Edge,
and blossomed in the Deuteronium spritz of the Cold War,
til things...rent, got so expensive-Why?)
The soon-to-be end of a quest
cracked by a 'facilitated' confession in some precinct back room
under the kliegs,
by such means as would make New York Law And Order's look tame
and low-tech as a wrist watch,
from some Bond-type con with good legs,
sitting hands shackled behind him, erect in a swivel chair?
A chest of plutonium, lead-lined, of course?
A water-proof safe filled with numbered, stolen bills?
The crown jewels? And if so, who's?
Letters of transit issued to some Soviet spy?
dating from a time when America unabashedly bossed the U.N.,
as it should, no? ,
and people could travel with pride and impunity,
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Dead Man Walking
They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ...
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Get a Grip
This extraordinary trip,
Is going to involve backflips.
Upsetting what is 'normal'
With a normalcy perceived squeezed from it.
Bringing many to vomit.
And leaving many more quite sick.
However...
The awareness of what comes,
Is better than denying none of it comes to exist.
Get a grip!
There is no avoiding it.
Even magic applied will not disguise the ride.
It is going to deliver...
A bump to the rump of those already grumpy.
And lumps galore,
To the throats of those who had been bored.
This is not a tease to appease as before.
Get a grip!
You will witness there is no joking about this!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Never...never Before....
the shore never called me so near so close
never its wide range of varying hollowness
blinds my eager waiting to dive
the deserted dreams
side by the sea of airy fathoms
flows its instinct eros
transferring noisy anguish to detect the surface
pebbles never to adore an endearing tavern
the hell to hungry transit
low scale aroma lies behind its fiery apron
dusk to dawn
thousand seagulls can't feel the mast
a ship sails where unknown
thousand stringers never to peep
the propelling fits where water flows
shack to shack importunate capillary
told the sphere to grow more images
yet the shore
called so close to gulf the glittering
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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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An Eccentric II
Was she ever married? Surely you'll want to know.
Yes and no being the precise answer:
yes, to a man who died of colon cancer-
to him she proved a good and prudent wife;
but, no, it was all remedial. The real love of her life
was a viscount who vanished
during a bombing mission over the continent-
or was it the Pacific? T'was him lent
her life it's strange trajectory-
it's sad 'sic transit Gloria' quality.
No, she couldn't forget her lost aviator.
Wrote, you might say, till she was blue
the world over for a clue
to his whereabouts. Was he tortured?
Was he ever, mangled, found? Succumb to some
lonely impulse to leave his life behind-
including among it's jetsam, her?
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poem by Morgan Michaels
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(Better) Done Than Said
(better) done than said
the sounds between the lines
of the words i speak
reminds me of the lines
i spoke in thought and trials
and the lines
within the sounds of spoken word
touched mine heart
mine dreadlocks started skanking in joy
of the music in mine thought
but til done, i thought
next to mine were time and rhythm
for less than never it were missing
the sense to do than say
and mine legs kept me in transit
mine hands touched to pick a way
whence my eyes long seen
besides, talk were amass
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poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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Far Rockaway
"the cure of souls." Henry James
The radiant soda of the seashore fashions
Fun, foam and freedom. The sea laves
The Shaven sand. And the light sways forward
On self-destroying waves.
The rigor of the weekday is cast aside with shoes,
With business suits and traffic's motion;
The lolling man lies with the passionate sun,
Or is drunken in the ocean.
A socialist health take should of the adult,
He is stripped of his class in the bathing-suit,
He returns to the children digging at summer,
A melon-like fruit.
O glittering and rocking and bursting and blue
-Eternities of sea and sky shadow no pleasure:
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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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