platform

Cheryl Garner (2013)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So here I am in hope again,

Between the layers of sleep and thought,

The shade and space and hidden lights,

Between the shifting lines of doubt.

 

I sit in carriage four of five,

And drift through waking depths of dreams.

I wait for certainties of time

To close my eyes, or shake me out.

 

He sits on platform three and stares

Into an emptiness of clouds.

The train – not his – has mirrored glass:

He sees himself – he’s looking old.

 

I watch that world disintegrate:

What could have been and what was not.

 

Journal Entry (17/11/1998)

Writing does strange things with duration. Helene Cixous’ wish to write in the time of life is eminently manageable, if the time of life is flexible enough a concept to cope with the different durations.

Time isn’t all glimpses of magpies from speeding trains. For example, the magpie took about a second to pass from my vision, but at least ten seconds to write about. I’m still thinking about it, still revisiting it. Is it still in my mind? It was sat on a fence post, next to an orange traffic cone, next to a disused sports’ ground. Writing primacies the aspect, lends credence, not to a nounal world view, but to a “significant detail” world view. In the passing time of duration x, we are conscious through many durations. Writing is a stillness, not in contradiction with, but in compliment to, the rush of other durations.

 

Image by Cheryl Garner (2013)

Poem by thecheesewolf (2013)

Train Journal entry by Gavin Jones (1998)

 

station

Cheryl Garner (2013)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These autumn rains, these Hopper blues,

These destinations, stations passed,

These memories which have yet to form,

These tricks which gather up the night.

 

Each isolation – neon stained –

Is captured in its gleaming feint,

Is held, unique, in slow decent:

From state to state, from hope to spent.

 

And you: I wonder how you took

The morning – made it live again,

And glow again (if only once,

If only through electric eyes).

 

You took a crossing point in time,

And found a voice for rain and light.

 

Journal 16/11/1998

Every week day morning, for 34 minutes, the regime of the train. A single distance, a single mind? Pass that new factory, that new hill, that familiar supermarket: a unique aspect at each glance. But what “each glance”? There is only one.

Meeting unexpectedly someone you know. Get on at xxxx station… I know that person… do I…? where the hell from…? It’s (notice the bag she is carrying: Cockburn Street, Edinburgh). But what “each glance”? Face, hair, bags, face. Puzzled expression: mutual. This is not a film: no edits, no frame. Lots of discountings: this is background. I see the station, but concentrate on listening to the person speaking (by staring at her mouth and eyes). I am seeing words form.
The train is going to be late. Work can wait.

 

 

Image by Cheryl Garner (2013)

Poem by thecheesewolf (2013)

Train Journal Entry by Gavin Jones (1998)