Amidst the bulkheads of life,
What is it that we search for?
Are we looking for
The seeds of a crowd?
Am I looking for you, who is not me here—
Or you looking for me, who is not you?
Forgetting that very moment,
We simply gaze out the train window.
The Han River comes into view.
It feels as though I hear the voices of the crowd.
The long, groaning sound of the subway echoes:
"Clack-clack, clack-clack."
Where on earth
Am I right now?
"The next stop is Sungshin Women's University,
Sungshin Women's University Station."
"Passengers for getting off
Please use the right-hand doors."
My knuckles are raw from the cold subway pole,
and the guy next to me smells like damp wool and cheap coffee.
He’s staring at a cracked phone screen,
his thumb scrolling past headlines, dinners, divorces.
We don’t talk.
Nobody talks here.
But under his heavy black winter coat,
somewhere behind his lint-covered tie,
a small fist of muscle is slamming against his ribs.
Thump.
It’s a clumsy, desperate noise,
like an old radiator knocking in a basement.
It keeps time against the black tunnel outside the window,
a persistent thudding negotiation with the dark
that just asks for enough time to get to Tuesday.
We walk around pretending we own the sidewalk,
worrying about the rent, the teeth that need fixing,
the text message left on "read."
Every wet breath is a lease renewal
signed in the dark without our permission.
I look at the girl across from me,
her eyeliner smudged from a long shift.
Her chest rises.
The cold world looks the other way,
indifferent,
and lets her have another minute to figure it out.
It’s not a grand design.
It's just a truce.
A messy, fragile truce,
kept alive by a pound of red meat
stubbornly refusing to stop hitting the wall.
Crowded streets awaken,
Coffee cups clutch tight,
Shoes tap a morning rhythm.
Rush hour, red lights
Glare down, impatient.
A sea of faces waits.
Greenlight, then a surge,
Let’s go!” the crowd exhales,
Pushing, never touching,
Horns a symphony
Metal snakes inch forward.
Wide chorus line forms,
Moving to the beat,
The subway doors hiss open.
Bustling atmosphere,
Shoulders brush, a glance,
Words lost in the murmur.
Serious or smiling,
Eyes locked on glowing screens,
Lost in private worlds.
Arms jostle for space,
The air, thick with exhaust,
The city hums its song.
Yellow light’s slow brake,
Another wave arrives,
The crowded street churns on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The subway tunnel exhales
as the train rushes through.
For one suspended instant
between stations,
a stranger's eyes lock yours—
centuries fold into a flicker
of recognition. Then darkness
swallows the moment whole.
Only the rails keep humming.
One day I took the subway
and I went around the world
From one car to another
a new nation’s flag unfurled
The train took off from Brooklyn
and I hopped on at Times Square
and by the time that I got home
I’d been most everywhere
The couple that spoke Yiddish,
and hurried on their way
were deep in conversation
which she ended with, “Oy vey.”
And then I heard some talking
that turned out was Portuguese
At first I thought was Spanish
might as well been legalese
Rushing through the last three cars
so packed, I had to squeeze
I heard an “Arigatou”
which I know is Japanese
“La vita non è facile”
I smiled because I knew
The woman spoke Italian
and the meaning came right through
Then right before I exited
the girl who dropped her toy
Said “Shukran,” as she took it
from the little Arab boy
There aren’t many places
you can hear a language mix
After work, around the world
and still be home by six
• A subway ride home from work
• Such a relieving time
• It's good to know the boss ain't here
• To make you into his mime
Going with the flow,
Even if it seems so slow,
To subway below.
Life is a subway,
Sometimes people get on and,
Sometimes they get off.
Morning, 8 AM.
Kyoto Subway Station.
A single gaijin,
a foreigner surrounded
yet standing out in the crowd.
The train clips along,
slows down, stops, starts up again
repetitively.
Whilst humanity surrounds,
one can still feel so alone.
The escalator keeps descending;
Seemingly, it’s never-ending,
Taking riders deep into
The bowels of the earth.
Everyone around pretending
That they’re fine, of course, depending
On their circumstances and
Just what their time is worth.
When the platform’s reached, there’s waiting.
Scrolling signs are indicating
When the closest train will come –
That is, if you’re in luck.
Minutes tick by, generating
Lots more people congregating
But you’ve made your choice and now
It seems that you are stuck.
Finally, a revelation –
See the train approach the station.
As the doors glide open, people
Rush to get inside.
Find a seat or resignation
Will stay ‘til your destination.
Then at last you exit,
Having taken it in stride.
Drove for thirty minutes to subway station, took a train for forty minutes, got into another for only ten minutes, reached Queen's Park. People were rushing to work-places. I found a seat beside the window, and looked at all the grim faces in the compartment.
I carried a book about art history. How many people read art history in the subway? I did, in between scanning all the faces I had never met before, and probably would never meet!
I headed to a hospital where they treat cancer-patients!
Staff was so kind probably knowing some of us won't be around for long.
A volunteer picked me up the next day - she seemed shocked - "You are from India? Do Indians get cancer! I hear they spice food with turmeric every single day!”
Twenty-five days were gone from my life! But I really enjoyed the ride in the subway!
I seldom take a book with me
more reading entertainment
watching others turn their
pages, body-language a literary
giveaway
the positioning of their heads
how torsos are tilted right or
left, perhaps Representative of
one's politics – foreign occupation
by written words
of another
one can't tell a book by its cover
but a whole lot revealed by the
measure of pages read...lack of
conversation
and how eyes
avert....
A lady on the subway
Breaks down
and cries from someone drawing her portrait.
I guess, she has never seen how beautifUl she is before.
She is art, just like you...
Tears or not,
when you see your reflection.
Realising you're a masterpiece
is just the start..
The Subway
By LoLa
Waiting for never
Bathing in silence
Protected from weather
Where silence is violence
Forever we roam
Eternally aligned
This box car is home
Suspended in time
Lights flicker with hope
This feels like a dream
Unspoken ways to cope
Pain that happens in between
Wayward souls wander
Destinations still unknown
Welcome echos pull us under
feeling that we're not alone
Strange vibrations illuminated
No time exists between trAin stations
In Destinations of the fated
Misguided words of adoration
Prophets read from torn pages
Mindless faces lose their way
Disllusioned, in their Cages
Telling more than Words could Say
A Disembodied voice declares
I have seen this day Before
I see the light, and it is fair!
Desparate cries to end a war
Past and present seen as one
Urgency in wandering eyes
Letting go; i come undone
And Leave behind things I'll deny
Whip, click, clip, umbrellas flatten near the stairs
Stomp, slap, clap, echo footsteps here and there
Rumble, rattle, honk! goes the subway along the tracks
“Hey”, “Wait”, “No!”, voices shouting are just the facts.
Scrape, screech, hiss, loud noises of metro brakes
Clack, shudder, ping! sounds the electric doors make
Clamp, clomp, pound, as the people stamp inside
Whoosh, whisk, hummm, as we take our subway ride.
10/26/2021
Onomatopoeia
Sub Categories
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