Carry On

Another country's dampness tumbles to the floor;
towels in a heap; fleece holds the scent of you.

A kind of violence removing
fresh-crumpled museum passes, sea glass,

the stone saved from the road where the wood pigeon startled.
(Still pokes its head now and then from under my socks.)

A shame to store it undefined with other bags;
after it crossed the border, witnessed so much buzz.

I will keep it unzipped, ravenous for another;
your original score pocketed in the top.


tk/January 2015


Back to normal in R.A.D.'s black and white world...

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Wanderlust

I return.  Two if by sea.

God-force without a compass.

Not for homesickness.

I have no real place.

The rail acts as stylus.

Dirty crackle.  Hiss of anticipation.

I board a north boat with lanterns.  

Gulls in my wake.

The edge of the world knows

the songs of my heavy-booted fathers.

Cliffs rise to welcome me.

Oceanic.  Colder than pewter.

Wyeth skies find a home

on the other side of the Atlantic.

I see an unknown soldier in the clouds,

covered with a greatcoat.  

He whispers.  Mainland.

Welcomes me with a wheelhouse.

Offers cake.  A pillow for my head.
Shows me the next bend in the road.

tk/August 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth, fresh from a wander in Shetland...

*photo: Yell Sound, Shetland, 2014, by R.A.D. Stainforth 

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The Morn's Night

An hour ago,

I was a child of fables,

pokeweed.

A tongue roller,

chewer of grass―

I could graft an oak from a twig.

Meanwhile, it's another o'clock;

acorns drop from grown trees.

The moon bellows baritone;

omits the chorus,

replaces it with zees.

Vitruvian sweetness finds me,

springing spreadeagle―

wheel of honeysuckle.

I forget sleep;

shake out the pillowcase,

wrap it around my head

for a babushka―

sound a klaxon,

hail a hackney carriage.

Get to Falkirk.

tk/June 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth adds a bit of magic... 

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*A Game of Patience, 1937 by Meredith Frampton 

Trains

The train stopped at a little station
and for a moment stood absolutely still.
The doors slammed, gravel crunched underfoot,
someone said goodbye forever,

a glove dropped, the sun dimmed,
the doors slammed again, even louder,
and the iron train set off slowly
and vanished in the fog like the nineteenth century.

Iron Train by Adam Zagajewski
translated by Clare Cavanagh


I have a thing for beautiful old passenger trains. You know the ones
I'm talking about; majestic, chugging massive pillars of smoke as they
depart the station, richly upholstered seats and classy dining cars.
David Lean loved to include marvelous train scenes in his films such
as Brief Encounter, Lawrence of Arabia, Doctor Zhivago and A
Passage to India, to name a few. Whenever I see a grand old train in
a movie, I am thrilled and make sure everyone else in the room takes
note. To hop aboard one of these beauties and set off for a long and
lazy romantic journey would be absolute heaven. It's a shame that
public transportation isn't what it once was in this country, at least
here in the Midwest.

And, speaking of trains, my daughter just sent me this picture, taken
as she waited for a train in Germany last week. The public transit
system is so convenient in Europe. Isn't this architecture in Dresden
stunning? She took this with her cell phone from a sidewalk cafe.
What a view! Sigh.