Travelling Backwards Poem by Brian Wake
Travelling Backwards
At thirteen forty five our train begins to move, and, late
to board, what seats remain face not toward but from.
I shuffle off and fold my overcoat and sit, do battle
with a newspaper to find a decent page and settle down
to read.
Behind me, music hisses from a faulty earphone. A child
describes the passing fields; a city child surprised by space
and countryside, surprised by, look mum, cows and sheep.
Across the aisle a blue-haired lady with an open book
is fast asleep.
From where I sit, my awkward view is of the places
we have travelled through. What views await us are, as yet,
unknown, the present blurred, the past quite clear. I travel
backwards in a crowded train.
I sit with some who seem to travel backwards all their lives;
they sit asleep or read with children counting sheep and cows.
For them and me, perhaps, what was and what is now
are somehow all there is.
A nice poetic imagination, Brian W. You may like to read my poem, Love and Lust. Thanks
This is exceptionally good - and so far the only contest poem which I would classify as Excellent. However. Is it really fair for a published, professional poet to enter a poetry competition with us ordinary folk? This poem is beautiful and I'll definitely be checking out your others. I loved this: I sit with some who seem to travel backwards all their lives; I do wonder what you mean by the third line from the end though. Why do you think someone asleep with a book is travelling backwards all their life? Seems a bit of a harsh, and perfunctory judgement on someone you basically don't know at all. Same with the mother/child. I feel like you need something of a bit more substance before stating something so deep about a stranger. Just my interpretation though. I like that the poem made me want to read it more than once, and gave me something to think about.
I sit with some who seem to travel backwards all their lives; they sit asleep or read with children counting sheep and cows. For them and me, perhaps, what was and what is now are somehow all there is. I take it as spiritual write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/5/2024 2:37:51 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Awful voice! Used in them all! Why!
Blame the poemhunter recording not the poet.