To a frequent nocturnal bus rider in a big cold city where public evidence of warmth is always hard to find, this is quite moving -- while honesty forces one to hasten to add that the seat-back handles here are, of course, made of metal. The seats themselves, though, hard plastic covered with a sort of ugly synthetic carpeting, do retain, for moments anyway, some trace of the human... though many passengers seem loth to acknowledge it. And on the route I use (doubtless all other routes as well) there is a charming reiterated prerecorded announcement piped in, to the effect that one should be aware of one's surroundings at all times, watch out for suspicious occurrences, and report any untoward developments to the driver ASAP.
(One protection against danger on the late bus is the late bus not coming at all, which happens about 50% of the time.)
Still, the transitoriness, anyway. Though I do wish dear Conrad had not uttered the d-word, even parenthetically. Superstitious times.
When the notes that were the origin of this little poem were first jotted down (Athens, mid-70s), the handles were also metal but the populace was much warmer than it currently is, perhaps owing to the fact that the economy wasn’t in a meltdown and cold, naked statistics on increasing suicides were still figments of our imagination. Now—as Tom so graciously demonstrates in his link to my poem—chimeras seem to accompany us to wherever it is we are going. And this is where I get off--but first I must say thank you to my last two passengers.
Lovely!
ReplyDeleteThe very warmth of true transitoriness itself (even unto death)
A beautiful poem .. Read it first thing in the morning. Made my day!
ReplyDeleteSo glad you two decided to hop on board--thanks!
ReplyDeleteTo a frequent nocturnal bus rider in a big cold city where public evidence of warmth is always hard to find, this is quite moving -- while honesty forces one to hasten to add that the seat-back handles here are, of course, made of metal. The seats themselves, though, hard plastic covered with a sort of ugly synthetic carpeting, do retain, for moments anyway, some trace of the human... though many passengers seem loth to acknowledge it. And on the route I use (doubtless all other routes as well) there is a charming reiterated prerecorded announcement piped in, to the effect that one should be aware of one's surroundings at all times, watch out for suspicious occurrences, and report any untoward developments to the driver ASAP.
ReplyDelete(One protection against danger on the late bus is the late bus not coming at all, which happens about 50% of the time.)
Still, the transitoriness, anyway. Though I do wish dear Conrad had not uttered the d-word, even parenthetically. Superstitious times.
Those warm handles - a worry. Wonderful.
ReplyDeleteNow that Elisabeth -- always bringing us the human touch. A scandal!
ReplyDeleteBut then the bus was never going to be on time anyway. And ghosts are always chilling.
When the notes that were the origin of this little poem were first jotted down (Athens, mid-70s), the handles were also metal but the populace was much warmer than it currently is, perhaps owing to the fact that the economy wasn’t in a meltdown and cold, naked statistics on increasing suicides were still figments of our imagination. Now—as Tom so graciously demonstrates in his link to my poem—chimeras seem to accompany us to wherever it is we are going. And this is where I get off--but first I must say thank you to my last two passengers.
ReplyDeleteEven better for the passengers out here in the cold, this is the one ride that always comes on time.
ReplyDelete