
The bus shelter at the end of our street
grinds its teeth at night.
Sometimes I sit with it, hold its hand, listen to its tale
of drunks and suicides,
of lycanthropes baying at the full moon,
of lost Lotharios weeping in their fists
I talk to it too about my problems
Of the jig-saw days when pieces don’t fit
Of the times when your heart races
Like a wildebeest on the veldt
But latches onto nothing.
After a while we both settle
and I head off home
beneath a lopsided moon.
sketch courtesy of Yofukuro on Pinterest: Yofukuro is a Japanese artistic duo, the brothers Selichi and Daisel Terazono
I love this one John. It speaks so much – sad and yet comforted somehow. Lovely.
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thanks, Worms: I’m planning a chapbook of surrealist poems and am thinking of making this the book’s title and leading poem —
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Great idea!! I still haven’t sat down to figure bout what a chap book is.
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A chapbook — I’ve got a few in front of me now — is a 24 page book of poems, in this instance, unified by a theme or style. So Surrealist poems would fit 🙂
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Aaaah. Thanks. Good to know. Do you have a publisher?
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I do; if I come up with 24 pages of top notch poetry 🙂 it will take time —
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Fantastic!
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thanks Worms; easier said that done but I’ll give it my best shot 🙂 already got a few poems lined up —
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Love this John. The image of a ordinary bus stop as a shelter for the fragility of being human. Just brilliant.
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thanks very much, Ulle: you explained it eloquently 🙂
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Love it. Never thought much about bus stops before but now you have my brain racing…
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bus shelters are very lonely places at night 😦
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Now…I’m thinking of all the possible people visiting these places…interesting thought for stories…
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you could do something really interesting with a bus shelter story: up your alley 🙂
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Will try something. 😁
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if anyone can do it, Shaily, you can !
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Great stuff. When you need a shoulder to cry on, you can’t beat a good bus stop!
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you got that one right, Hobbo: they have witnessed the full spectrum of what it means to be human, to our desperate unravelings
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Indeed!
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very nice!!
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thanks Michael; good to hear from you 🙂
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The grinds of life and somehow we come to get through them and accept them. Perfect art choice for this one
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‘the grind of life ‘ indeed, Beth: well said; it all unravells at lonely bus shelters late at night: they are like confessionals 🙂
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So good!
The bus shelter at the end of our street
grinds its teeth at night.
What a great line!
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I knew when I had that line, Bob, I had my poem 🙂
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Jig-saw days when pieces don’t fit: that’s a beautiful phrase. You really captured uneasy aspects of the human condition with this poem.
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thanks, Neil: I gave this one my all 🙂
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It’s the imperfections that make for beauty, the crooked moon or teeth, the assymetry of someone’s smile. Much enjoyed, John.
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you’re absolutely right; it’s the little imperfections that make for beauty: something about the imperfections inserted in Persian carpets —
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Thought this was so lyrical, John. Beautiful.
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yes, it works well; one of my favourites 🙂
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Everyone has already said it, John. We have seen or been beneath that shelter one time or another. 💙
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thanks Elle: it’s a handy metaphor 🙂
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You’re welcome. 🙂
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“Jig-saw days” is a wonderful expression, John!
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thanks Becky 🙂
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I much prefer the train station
where all the rattling is inane 😎
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too much inanity though, David, so my therapist told me, can lead to insanity 🙂
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