Glad to have a new poem by Berlin-based poet Alistair Noon this Saturday.
Kurswagen
There goes the clanking carriage
in its blue and white livery,
a stretched-out sans-serif,
an image that slices the mild evening,
striking out on a south-east passage.
It leaves from the Healthy Springs,
the system’s northern terminal,
setting off to discover Kiev
once daily. Along its sides
are four tongues in two scripts
that passengers at minor stations,
deaf to the slamming doors,
might catch and select
to name the one-night barracks.
Between the old formations
flies the well-aimed arrow
heading for squeaking beds, busses
in depots for lack of fuel,
monks and tunnels and candles,
and a flag striped blue and yellow.
Tomorrow timetables the change
when moustaches and some decent coughing
knock the Western wheels out,
wielding long hammers
while passengers flip their pages.
A man with a cap uncouples it
in the dark, and like a lunar module
it splits, while drunks and dogs look on,
and the resting crew are nudged
awake by a gentle shunt.
poem by Alistair Noon
Kurswagen
There goes the clanking carriage
in its blue and white livery,
a stretched-out sans-serif,
an image that slices the mild evening,
striking out on a south-east passage.
It leaves from the Healthy Springs,
the system’s northern terminal,
setting off to discover Kiev
once daily. Along its sides
are four tongues in two scripts
that passengers at minor stations,
deaf to the slamming doors,
might catch and select
to name the one-night barracks.
Between the old formations
flies the well-aimed arrow
heading for squeaking beds, busses
in depots for lack of fuel,
monks and tunnels and candles,
and a flag striped blue and yellow.
Tomorrow timetables the change
when moustaches and some decent coughing
knock the Western wheels out,
wielding long hammers
while passengers flip their pages.
A man with a cap uncouples it
in the dark, and like a lunar module
it splits, while drunks and dogs look on,
and the resting crew are nudged
awake by a gentle shunt.
poem by Alistair Noon
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