BTW, there is a long passage about 9 lines long adorning the wall in the tunnel on the L line, between 3rd Av and 1st Av stations. I tried for the longest time to read that one. but the trian never slows down enough for me to do it.
What is sad is that the Keith Haring drawings alongside the tunnel to the Manhattan Bridge (IND Side) will no longer be seen for a long while due to track diversions.
Subway tunnel is
very dark; I fear I have
many syllables.
1, 2, 3, and 9.
They are the pink line; Broadway
They stop at Times Square
I write bad Haikus
About mass transportation
In the Big City
Hmmm, I wonder how much it costs to put up a poem like that. I’m thinking there are a few of us here that might be willing to kick in a few bucks to see some T. S. Eliot or something in the subways. You know, something that would be worthwhile, and public domain.
Ike, I’d imagine that in new York City, there’s probably a handful of people that have nothing better to do than oppose the use of Ezra Pound due to his politics. Probably not worth it as an act of charity.
Oh, I think ol’ Ez came around to more liberal democratic ways of thinking in his later years. A few weeks in a monkey cage’ll do that to you.
And if you want me to PAY to put up poems, rather than just complain about the poems other people pick, I’m gonna want my OWN poetry posted!
Let’s see…we’ve had limericks and haiku…how about some clerihews?
The Honorable Rudolph Giuliani
Must think life is fonny.
While the city goes to the dogs
His ex-wife performs in THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES.
The Reverend Al Sharpton
Is constantly harped on.
Though he’s used to the media glare
Nearly everyone laughs at his hair.
The art of Keith Haring
I find rather wearing.
But because he’s dead as a door…(nail)
He can’t produce any more.
At midnight, in a subway dreary, while I waited, weak and weary
Knowing that no train would show…then at once, four
While I waited, bored and grumping, suddnly there came a thumping
Thumping just like people jumping, jumping on the subway floor.
“Tis the janitors”, I mutterered “Thumping on the subway floor.
Only this…and nothing more.”
It was an ad-man I discover, hamm’ring up 'neath plastic cover
Posters/Adverts of some poems, pasted from the roof to floor.
Eagerly I read his copy, hoping they would make me happy
“Oh, but these are really crappy!”- “They’re Crap!” I cried, and cried once more-
For the rare and beautiful poems not advertised by this bookstore-
Quoth Barnes & Noble: “Buy some more!”
Edgar Allen Fenris
or
In the Subways of Big Apple
'Neath the shining Chrysler building
Hung are posters of the poets
Maudlin ‘Rod McKuen’ poets
Posted there by Barnes and Noble…etc
Henry Wadsworth LongFenris
Ukelele Ike
Knows what he doesn’t like,
Poetic treacle,
In his subterranean vehicle.
Two fellows, Finagle and Fenris
Write poems that are really sui generis.
Some mistake 'em, I’m told
For giants in Das Rheingold
But, rather than wealthy, they’re penurious.
Not that penurious. I’d have done it for Freia.
Ike, I’m with you. The drivel that passes for high culture, or even regular culture for that matter, is enough to gag a maggot. Having produced open mic’s that featured poets among the musicians I will say that there is some good poetry out there. That said, some slams I’ve attended were more pretentious than a rhinestone cowboy.
I’m not sure what it is that prevents people from instilling depth in their work, but most of it is just plain dreadful.
Wait, wait, wait.
I’m not attacking live-mike poetry nights, poetry slams, or modern poetry.
I’m attacking the crappy choice of poetry excerpts that get put up in the NYC subway system. That’s all.
Heck, I LIKE poetry slams.
The Gulf Stream smells of blood
As it breaks on the sand of Iona
And the blue rocks of Canarvon.
And all the birds of the deep sea rise up
Over the luxury liners and scream,
“You killed him! You killed him.
In your God damned Brooks Brothers suit,
You son of a bitch.”
– Kenneth Rexroth, “Thou Shalt Not Kill: A Memorial for Dylan Thomas”
Midnight, in a metro dreary, while I waited, weak and weary
Waiting for the train that was supposed to come at 12:04
While I waited, nearly snoring, suddenly there came a roaring;
It vibrated through the flooring, through the platform’s granite floor.
“Tis the train at last,” I muttered, “that doth through the tunnel roar;
Only this…and nothing more.”
This took place, I recollect, at metro station Joliette,
And no westbound train had yet disturbed the silence the air bore;
Eagerly I wish’d to be rolling to Place-St-Henri
Where at home awaited me dinner warm and bed in store;
A larder full of victuals and a comfy bed in store;
At that point I wish’d no more.
And the truly hideous styling metro Joliette reviling
Made me want to flee the urine-yellow walls and hideous floor;
So that now to quell the violence of the hues, I closed my eyelids
And awaited the train’s pilot’s ingress and the opening door;
The ka-thunk that doth accompany the opening of the door;
This I wanted, nothing more.
Presently the roar diminished, but my wait was not yet finished;
For no metro train stood waiting, and by this time I was sore;
“Truly,” muttered I in summing, as my fingers started drumming,
“Longer is this train in coming then my third boyfriend Igor,
Who would leave my wrist exhausted when we coupled - that Igor -
Him I’m glad to see no more.”
Then more hollow than a funnel came the roar from out the tunnel,
So I walk’d unto the gunwale and continued waiting for
The train which to me was promis’d; but t’was cursed by St. Thomas,
By the callous Doubting Thomas who believèd not that roar;
For no train’s swift advance produced that falsely cheerful roar,
Silenced now forevermore.
And your poet, never flitting, still am sitting, still am sitting,
Here in hideous Joliette metro, or am pacing 'long the floor;
For the train that would have banished all this boredom seems t’have vanished,
In some strange Klein-bottle tunnel which the drivers all abhor;
And my soul shall from this metro station which I do abhor
Be transported - nevermore!
God, what wonderful style-parodies!! I hope you’re taking the opportunity to sign Fenris to a good contract, Ike, before he gets away.
I knew before I opened this that somebody would have already make the obligatory Paul Simon reference. But my anecdote is of seeing, on one of my rare excursions to the Big Pippin, the work of a graffiti artist who shares my warped sense of humor. In that florid style affected by graffitisti he had put chapter-and-verse cites to Isaiah, Joel, and Micah up on the walls of one station. Evidently the cleaning crew had gotten to them, but without sandblasting, because they were faint but visible. So you can count me a Paul Simon Fundamentalist – his words are literally true! 
Matt, that was incredible! (I never realized how weird the rhyme scheme of The Raven was until I wrote my version…that second line is a pain in the butt.)
Fenris
Sonia Sanchez is a woman. And a talented writer.
I see your point but I also wonder whether poetry has to be obscure to be good. Is this why Ulysses is considered the best, because no one can understand it? Langston Hughes had some really simple words that are still great–he’s my favorite because I can undertand what he’s talking about; maybe I don’t have the training, but does that take away from his poetry?
[sup]by Vatchel Fenris[/sup]
Waiting for the subway in the dank tunnel’s gloom
Listen for the rattle of the trains (like hail
rattl’ing on the window) as it thunders on the rail
Thunders on the rail
Rumbles down the tunnel like a drummer in a room
Or hamm’ring on a nail
boom, Boom, BOOM
Like a heavy-metal drumming that echoes in a room
Boomlay, Boomlay, Boomlay, BOOM
Then I heard it nearing, then it’s breaks were squealing
It made such a noise that it sent my senses reeling
Then I saw the Railcar coming down the tube
Coming towards the station like a needle in a groove
Then inside that station
A thousand people
Grey-suited businessmen, who were almost asleep will
Start pushing forward, pushing towards the train
Pushing, shoving, causing pain
“MOVE!” screamed the housewives and the students and the kids
“Whatcha think I’m doin’?” yelled the workers as they did.
Pushing into the subway car
Going from the Bronx
to the Battery far
Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle
bing
Boomlay, Boomlay, Boomlay, BOOM
The car’s doors close, there’s no more room.
From swank Fifth Ave
To Hell’s kitchen’s gloom
Listen for the conductor’s proclamations
As you travel through the lairs of Manhattan’s stations
As you travel 'neath cars in gridlock trapped
As you travel down the tunnels that are barely mapped
Get off the train 'fore the end of the route
Or your conductor and the subway cops
And all the other New York Cops
Will enter your car and will throw you out
Will enter your car and will throw you out
Will enter your car and will throw you out
Two notes:
This may be my favorite poem ever. I love poems that you have to read aloud. But it’s incredibly politically incorrect nowadays.
For those of you familiar with the original, yeah, I cut some verses in the middle.
Fenris