From A Railway Carriage
If you take the same train journey time and time again,
It can end up seeming to be incredibly boring and plain.
But if you sit back and look out of the carriage window,
The list of things that you can see will grow and grow.
Newly built apartment blocks, reach way up to the sky;
From their balconies, their owners watch trains pass by.
A playing field is dotted with birds searching for bugs.
On station platforms, family and friends exchange hugs.
In cemeteries, of inscribed headstones there are endless rows.
Between disused railway tracks, many tall weeds now grow.
By Woking Station, there are huge piles of gravel.
On the platform, there are passengers on their travels.
I see young children at play in school playgrounds,
But, due to the noise of the train, I can’t hear the sounds.
At many stations, there are large advertising hoardings.
Trains, at the platforms, the passengers are now boarding.
We pass office and factories on large industrial estates.
At a level crossing, a queue of traffic patiently waits.
I pass the famous Sandown Park Racecourse,
But, as yet, I’ve never actually seen a horse!
I see many a church sporting an ornate spire.
In their back garden, someone’s just lit a fire.
Some old buildings have been left to go to rack and ruin.
The dark, grey clouds in the sky indicate a storm is brewing.
In gardens, I spot many swimming pools and trampolines.
On rivers and lakes, ducks and swans enthusiastically preen.
As London draws closer, there are less and less green fields;
The proximity of the shops, offices and houses slowly builds.
On their final descent to Heathrow, are many planes.
Helping to construct new buildings, are many cranes.
In the distance, I spy the Crystal Palace transmitter.
Along the track, I’m annoyed to spot a lot of litter.
Closer to London, there’s graffiti on nearly every wall;
By artistic hooligans, this vandalism has been caused.
Over the rooftops, I spot an ornate, light green dome;
Like you would find in the cities of Oxford or Rome.
En route to London, I’ve passed many a busy golf course.
At Clapham Junction, the train spotters are out in force.
I arrive at Waterloo, having finished my game of I-spy
And am now much more aware of the things I passed by.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Joy on the Trains at Jubilee Time
At the station, the platform is packed.
Soon our train is heading down the track.
As our London-bound train slowly approaches,
I am surprised by the evident lack of coaches.
The ensuing rush to get on, is all rather manic.
The Guard blows his whistle and everyone panics.
Upon the platform, there's soon no one left,
But many new passengers are out of breath.
Once onboard, there is standing room only:
There's certainly no chance of being lonely.
Of vacant seats, I see there is a major lack,
So I stand, holding on to the luggage rack.
Some people are huddled up by the doors,
Whilst others plump for a seat on the floor.
At the next station, they don't release all the doors:
Our already packed train can only take a few more.
By the time that our train reaches Woking,
It's a real nightmare - I wish I was joking,
But passengers are left abandoned on the platform:
Their faces disappointed, they all look so forlorn.
I overhear a number of passengers complain
About the distinct lack of carriages on our train.
During my journey, I spend most of my time
Thinking up sentences which, nicely, rhyme.
By the time our train pulls in to Waterloo,
With my new poem, I am almost through.
We're ten minutes late and the Guard explains
This was due to passengers boarding the train.
When I head home again, it is getting quite late.
And the number of carriages now totals eight.
No one is standing: everybody has a seat.
I travel home in comfort. Oh, what a treat!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Train To Waterloo
I can see the 10.06 train heading towards Waterloo,
And, I wish I could jump aboard, and go there too!
I have a real longing to head on up to London City,
But I have to go to work today, which is a real pity.
In spirit, I’m also riding with the people on the train,
But, here, in this sleepy old town, my body remains.
I can imagine myself sitting there in a train carriage;
With London, I have formed a really loving marriage!
To be one of those lucky passengers, I am yearning;
So much so, that it feels as though my heart is burning.
I can imagine sitting on a train, which is really packed,
As it heads up towards London, along the railway tracks.
I’ve lived here, all my life, in this sleepy little town,
Where there is hardly ever anything really going down.
But, in London, there is always something going on,
Amidst the Capital’s seemingly never-ending throng.
I so love being there, slap bang in the middle of it all;
Surrounded by crowds, the river, and buildings so tall.
Compared to my town, there’s a different atmosphere;
It’s more exciting, more happening, than it ever is here.
The sights and sounds, in London, I so love to savour,
And breathe in the aroma of a whole world of flavours.
To go to London very often, sadly, I just can’t afford,
But it still doesn’t stop me wishing that I was aboard.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Trains
Here I am at the end of the day
With a cup of cold coffee
From the station buffet.
On trains, on trains I seem
To spend my life on trains.
See the blue suit banker in the ticket line.
Got an evening standard with playboy
Hidden behind.
On trains, on trains he seems
To spend his life on trains.
Time after time.
Was I just dreaming?
Did I help you aboard?
Full passenger service ---
Let me help with the door.
Sit down take the weight off your feet.
Theres a train full of people Id like
You to meet.
On trains, on trains we love
To spend our lives on trains.
Join the secret world of trains.
Feel the pleasure. touch the pain.
Drift into yesterday.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet sometime
On the 17.30 where
I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
May we pay your fare, lady?
We should like you to stay
In our train. on trains ---
Youll have to spend your life
On trains.
I hear theres an office party on the 18.05.
Youll be home for christmas if they
Take you alive from the train.
Those trains, we have to spend our lives
On trains.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet any time
On number two platform
Where I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
On trains, trains, trains.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Round and round the London Underground
Round and round the London Underground
Interrupted by the braking screeching sounds
Round and round the circle line
The London underground
With its stops is an elongated list
Drunks battle in tunnels with open fists
Hidden somewhere is a network of CCTV Cameras
Recording your every move from afar
Watch out for the picker-pockets, I insist
They swindle even the most experienced tourist
Inside the trains, shine disoriented faces
Bodies usually squeezed into tight spaces
'Please stand clear of the door'
It is an advice not yet a law
Stations by station, trains pass by
Stuck in a tunnel, let out a sigh
Train timetables from my perception
Is regularity, and a common deception
Round and round the London Underground
Interrupted by the braking screeching sounds
Round and round the circle line
Bored, read the metro
It is free, when displayed on show
For those who know
Where to go
Plan your alternative routes
Prepare for train strikes and disputes
Check out the cancellation signs
May your journey be divine!
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Trouble On The Trains
Many of us often have to travel by train,
But the delays and overcrowding drive us insane.
The announcement at the station, informs of delays due to leaf fall,
But the computerized voice used, doesn’t sound very sorry at all.
Your train is now running well over twenty minutes late,
But, annoyingly, you have no choice, but to stand and wait.
At the watch on your wrist, you constantly look,
While some others immerse themselves in a book.
Then there are times when we have the wrong kind of snow,
Which means all of the trains are on a complete go-slow.
Stood on the crowded platform, you look down the track,
But, of a train approaching, unfortunately there’s a big lack.
The train slowly pulls in to the station – it’s finally here,
And from the waiting passengers, up goes a big cheer.
More often than not, there isn’t a spare seat,
So you spend your entire journey stood on your feet.
You stand tightly packed together like a tin of sardines,
Along with a large group of loud, gobby, young teens.
You feel awkward with their public displays of affection,
And quickly avert your eyes in the opposite direction.
At the next station, passenger wise, getting on, are even more,
So now you’re squashed together twice as tightly as before.
Inside the train, it’s getting really hot and stuffy.
Inside you, you’re feeling claustrophobic and puffy.
There are very similar scenes up and down the entire nation,
And you’re overjoyed when you finally reach your destination.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Journey Home
I arrive back at Gare Du Nord
Only to discover that I'm already off to a bad start.
Due to the heavy snowfall in the UK,
It's hours till my train will finally depart.
I join the already snaking queue,
And I can feel the panic rise inside,
But there's nothing I can do about it,
So my time, I just have to bide.
I listen to the bi-lingual announcements
Telling us there's at least a four hour delay.
I stand there feeling tense and tearful,
And in my head, I'm worrying away.
During my stay in Paris,
I didn't come across many Brits,
But now, stood here in this queue,
I realise many people here are my fellow citz.
I get talking to two ladies,
Named Deborah and Sue,
Who take me under their wing,
And, the experience, they help me through.
Having finally made it to the departure lounge,
My anxiety has begun to melt away.
By this point, I'm feeling pretty sure
That I'll be on a train which leaves today.
In the lounge, there's a real sense of camaraderie,
With everyone chatting to people they've never met.
They discuss their present predicament -
Well aware that it's far from over yet.
The journey back to London,
Seems to take forever and a day.
I sit in my seat, concentrating on keeping calm,
But it's difficult to keep the worry at bay.
There's an audible sound of relief around me,
As we exit the tunnel back into the UK.
We're thrilled to have been repatriated,
But it's been just the most stressful day.
We arrive back at St Pancras.
I grab my case and dash to the Underground.
I rush across London as fast as I can
To Waterloo, which is where I am bound.
I've already heard that train services
Are finishing early due to the snow.
I arrive, out of breath, at Waterloo.
The last train has left, as far as I know.
But, due to a total stroke of luck,
I discover there's been a delay.
Onboard my train, I cry tears of relief,
Glad that things are finally going my way.
It's at half past ten at night,
That I finally reach home,
And tell the tale to my family
Of my experience I endured alone.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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On the train [În tren]
It's racket, the train is ready to go
All sorts of weird strangers now get in the car.
It's seven and ten, my worries do grow,
I turn to the window, I'm feeling bizarre.
Hey, driver, go on, we've got rather bored,
It's time, blows the whistle, a rumor is heard,
I feel that is moving, O, help us, Good Lord!
The dark hasty shadows pass by like a bird.
The voice of the sorrow is silent right now,
I'm wiping my forehead, I'm squeezing my eyes
My soul seems to waver and I'm feeling low,
Hey, driver, go on, before my heart cries!
We're leaving behind, as we pass through the lands,
Tall signals, and switches, and cars, and white steam.
We see people passing, with flags in their hands,
While this shiny train goes fast like a stream.
Goodbye and farewell pretty town and dear friends,
Goodbye, my dear past, so sweet, but still vain!
At curves, when the train is creaking and bends,
I open the window and hail you again!
The town stays behind and shines in the light,
But churches and houses will soon disappear.
In front, a green blanket fills me with delight
And this crazy train is quick like a deer.
The scenery changes – some sights gray and dim,
A plain, on which shadows of clouds now repose,
A road all alone, a small forest, grim,
With dry trees on which one can see nests of crows.
The whole earth is spinning with very much ease
And so is the ground of this flat and large plain,
We're going ahead like a swift summer breeze,
While white railway chalets are watching the train.
poem by George Topîrceanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Train To Heaven
(4/10/12)
It was a long wait - but soon they would
Be at that gate.
The train that would take him to heaven
To join all his family and friends
Where a new life would begin and never end.
A life where there is nothing but beauty and peace
And the heart would find relief.
The conductor showing you everything in your past life
Some bad - a lot nice.
Of people you touched along the way
And of things they had to say.
everybody when they pass away
Boards this train on a given day.
This train makes three stops
As strange as it may seem
Heaven, hell, and purgatory
"Sounds like a familiar story"!
Purgatory being the place of things
In your past life - you must face.
But you are on the "7th ave. express."
Cause you passed all the tests.
You had a heart which was pure as gold
And all the angels have been told.
All these other passengers that are on this train with you
Have gone through the same things too.
All of you had came to this "times square station"
Because you had found your salvation.
They gathered together like fallen needles from a pine tree
Multitudes of souls that were finally free.
At the gate you will be greeted by SAINT PETER
Who will show you the way to all your family and friends
And this joy will never end.
poem by Louis Rams
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London
London, a silhouette of old and new buildings,
some, still with winding staircases,
dark dismal cellars and dusty attics.
Sky scrapers, office blocks,
chic cottages and town houses
in, tiny, back street lanes
where I seldom wander
The London Eye revolves in the sky line,
spying on us, ogling the City,
that old river Thames,
with its river boats, old ships,
odd ships and the Houses of Parliament,
offices, where we, the peasants
may only look through the glass.
As a child I truly believed
that one day, I'd go into every building,
curiosity my forte, but of course,
there are too many, mostly private,
barred from my prying eyes,
except for some Castles, the Palace,
the Tower and its dungeons.
These are the buildings of London,
with its art galleries, theatres,
churches and museums.
No doubt some are haunted,
their ghosts still walking
within their walls,
at dusk, when shadows fall.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Steam Dreams
In this day of electric and diesel, very rarely is seen,
A shining locomotive, which is powered by steam.
Back in the days, when my parents were born,
The sight of a steam train was quite the norm.
Whenever a steam train catches my eye,
I stand, watching in awe, as it passes by.
‘Oh wow! Look! ’ I say, as I point a finger,
And the memory of it in my mind will linger.
Steam trains will never completely die out,
As, thankfully, there’s still quite a few about.
About a steam train, there’s something really quite dramatic.
And at the chance of riding on one, people are often ecstatic.
I remember seeing The Flying Scotsman at Salisbury station,
And I stood there marvelling at it with such great admiration.
The engine and all of its carriages just looked so smart.
The sight of such a train, never fails to quicken the heart.
Steam trains are so very elegant in their style.
To spot one, enthusiasts will travel many a mile.
It strange to think that years ago, they were all the rage,
When, they are such a very rare sight, in this day and age.
The sight of the world famous Orient Express,
Is one which will never ever fail to impress.
Through the windows, you can see the plush seats,
Where excited passengers will sit down and eat.
On board, the historic carriages of brown and cream,
They serve expensive champagne and gourmet cuisine.
Sat in a world of pure indulgence, passengers glide,
Through the green and pleasant British countryside.
The carriages have all been restored to their former glory;
If they could talk, I’m sure they could all share quite a story.
The carriages have been described as ‘palaces on wheels’,
And I would really love to know just how that feels.
Still being a very rare sight in these modern times,
I fancy taking a trip on a steam train, to sit and dine.
I guess you would have to pay quite a princely sum,
But I think it would be worth it, just to travel on one.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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5. Capital Trip
I remember in the fifties, as we stood there in the rain
On the platform where a porter pulled a trolley
I remember as we waited for the early morning train
Getting soaking wet we wished we’d took a brolly
I remember grubby paint on the bridge across the track
Dark blue signs that showed us all the stations name
I remember postmen rushing with letters in a sack
That they put down in the puddles what a shame
I remember an announcement the ping-pong of a bell
Telling passengers the train was nearly there
I remember those vibrations on my feet so I could tell
Like the others to the distance I should stare
I remember steam clouds rising above a smoking stack
As it thundered down the track towards our stop
I remember stationmaster’s gold braid upon his hat
Calling all the first class forward to the top
I remember its arrival as the doors flung open wide
Leather straps on carriage windows dark brown tan
I remember waving madly with my family by my side
Moving off and how our London trip began
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Meet Me At The Station
(brother williams memphis sanctified singers)
Well if I get to heaven before you do
I will meet you at the station when your train comes along
Ill be watching and waiting, mother dear, for you
I will meet you at the station when your train comes along
Father, when the train
Father, when the train
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
When the train
Father, when the train comes along
I will meet you at the station when your train comes along
Well if my eyes see the glory, before yours do
I will meet you at the station when your train comes along
Ill be watching and waiting, father, for you
I will meet you at the station whe your train comes along
Father, when the train
Father, when the train
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
Father, when the train
Father, when the train comes along
I will meet you at the station when your train comes along
Now if my feet touch the homeline before yours do
I will meet you at the station when the train comes along
Ill be watching and waiting, my brother, for you
I will meet you at the station when the train comes along
When the train
When the train
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
When the train
When the train comes along
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
When the train
When the train
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
When the train
When the train comes along
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
Now if you see gods country before I do
Will you meet me at the station when my train comes along
Will you be there watching, sister, for me
Will you meet me at the station when my train comes along
When my train
When my train
Meet me at the station when my train comes along
When my train
Sister, when my train comes along
Will you meet me at the station when my train comes along
When the train
When the train
Meet me at the station when my train comes along
When the train
Oh, when the train
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
Meet me at the station when the train comes along
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Photograph
She sat on the platform bench
waiting for a train to arrive.
Waiting to see her brother
who left to start a new life
twenty-five years ago.
She brought a photograph of herself
for him to have when he went back home.
Stillness engulfed the station
as she waited alone there.
The hiss of an old steam train
filled the quiet air
as along the track it came
like a dinosaur from the past
and stopped at the station.
A group of young soldiers
disembarked to stretch their legs
and grab some fresh air.
One young soldier approached her.
He was sixteen if he was a day.
He smiled as he sat beside her.
“You’re a pretty lady.” He said.
“Thank you.” She replied. “Off to fight some battles? ”
“Yes, but I am not really sure where.
They say a lot of us might not be coming back”
“That is sad.” She replied.
“Especially when you have no one
to think of you.”
“You see I am an orphan
and have no family or a girlfriend come to that.
No one to think of me
when the great battles come.”
“Now that is sad, ” She said looking at him.
Then she realized the photograph
for her brother was in her handbag.
She reached in and removed it.
“Take this and think of me
when your great battles come.”
“I will keep it with me always.
Now I must get back on the train.”
As the train whistle blew.
He waved goodbye as the steam engulfed him.
Then the train was gone
as quickly as it had come.
The stillness that had engulfed the station
now dissipated to.
Suddenly there was noise everywhere.
She looked around
as if waking from a dream.
She looked back down the tracks.
The mournful hoot of the electric horn
herald the arriving electric train.
She watched it intensely
as it slowed to stop at the station.
Two passengers alighted,
a man and a woman.
Her brother and his wife.
She greeted them with a smile,
but her brother’s wife looked at her in shock
as if she had seen a ghost.
They hugged one another,
and then left the station
to go to her home.
Arriving at her home
her sister-in-law looked at her again.
“Sorry if I look mystified when I look at you.
I have something I must tell you.
My grandfather before he died
asked me to find any relatives
to a lady in a photograph.
It was given to him
when he was leaving to go to war
over seventy years ago.
He carried it with him everywhere he went.
He said the photograph protected him
like a good luck charm.
He swore one day to return it,
but events made that impossible.
He immigrated when the war was over
and never got the chance.
He wanted to let her family know
of the kind deed she did”
“But that does not explain
the way you looked at me.”
She removed the photograph
and handed it to her.
It was the photograph
she had given the young soldier
only hours before.
9 April 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Homecoming
The gravel crunches under my boots
like it does
when you’re near to home
and take a shortcut over the tracks
of a railway station
and I see my train
disappear in the distance.
In the other world
there were bushes,
a lot of gnats
red brown sand that clings to everything,
shot out ruins
that was once living places
and at a place a town
and like weeds the enemy
sprung up at any place
and brought destruction.
It’s as if this world
did not change
and at the Greek’s cafe
children are playing video games
and I buy a ice cold Coke
and the people greet me
like a long lost hero
and in front of the Checkers and OK
there are rows of cars
and at the hotel’s bar
I hear men laughing
while they are playing darts
and the owner comes out
and presses an ice-cold Castle in my hand
and strange girls pass
and smile.
Still the war rides me
and my life’s end was just to near
and I wonder why destiny
let some die in a back world?
Maybe things turn around
about what you make of life
and everyone’s time is destined
and while I walk down the road,
a red Toyota comes around the corner
and it breaks
and my girlfriend is in my arms.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Visit to the Train Station.
You and Fay got off the bus
and walked towards Waterloo train station
and you said
I often come here
just to see and smell
and hear the steam trains
and she looked about her
at the sights and sounds
and smell of steam off the trains
at the platforms
and she said
I haven't been here
since my parents took us
to the seaside once
and my father was in a cross mood
all day because we wanted to play
on the beach and he wanted to go
to the pubs and my mother sat there
most of the day watching us
in a solemn silence
and she jump back a little
when a stream engine
blew out loudly nearby
and she laughed
and so did you
and as you stood there
in your faded jeans
and off white tee shirt
and she in her pink
summery dress
she took your hand
in her small hand
and you watched her
out of the corner of your eye
and she seemed to be so alive
and happy and all the dark times
of her father and his moods
and stern punishments
seemed momentarily
to have fled
and a glint of sunshine
and happiness came
and rested there
instead.
poem by Terry Collett
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London
My visits to London always bring me cheer;
I wish it were possible to bottle the atmosphere.
I would collect together all the sights and sounds,
And surround myself with them, when I’m down.
A trip to London always seems to lift my mood;
By good old London town, I’m easily wooed.
There is always something new and exciting,
Which is why, to me, London seems so inviting.
I may begin a day feeling just a little bit down,
But once in London, a smile replaces my frown.
It’s one of my very favourite places to be;
There’s always so much to do and to see.
I think that London is such an amazing place;
It can suit all your needs, whatever your pace.
In central London, people are always in a rush,
But in the gardens and parks, can be found, hush.
When in London, I always feel on such a high;
My problems, for the day, I can kiss goodbye.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to leave.
The heady mix of aromas, I love to breathe.
I always find it so very hard, to pull myself away,
When, deep in my heart, I desperately want to stay.
Even when, at Waterloo, I’m sat on my train;
In London, a little piece of my heart remains.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Goodbye London
GOODBYE LONDON
I hear the whispers of London in my ears,
London! London! is how the birds sing,
oh, i love the english bus ride and the ancient buildings,
where the trees and the animals can stop dancing,
If men where horses, hopes will vanish in wheelchair,
Oh, I feel like enjoying in the queens empire of riches,
where the love the love of english beer won't stop flowing in my lips,
I know why I still dreams of cheese and the humpty-dumpty children will fly like wizards,
Oh, I remember the window of gossips of the old women,
I know why the london bridge wears a crown,
Oh, I never want to say goodbye to the land of the colonies,
where the beauty of flowers can stop milking,
where the voice of flute can stop roaring into the air,
where everyones fall in love with the empires,
And if you're searching for the crystal ball of snow,
London is where honey 's clock keep alarming,
Goodbye london of the Amazones of green light.
Yomi-Habib.
poem by Abayomi Habib
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Cross-tie Walker
I went down to the station, just to take a ride.
I went down to the station, just to take a ride.
Found myself on a flatcar, yesterday behind.
Pullin out from the platform, there was no brass band.
I pulled out from the platform, nobody raised a hand.
And there were no tears of regret from my runaway train.
Train, train, train, train.
Got no sand in my pocket, you know I aint tied down.
Aint no sand in my pocket, never do sit down.
Im just a cross-tie walker, where the freight trains run.
Run, run, run, run.
If you see me acomin, dont you waste my time.
If you see me acomin, dont you waste my time.
cause theres more miles between us than the santa fe line.
Run, run, run, run.
Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm....
song performed by by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The homebound night train whistles
There he goes home carrying holey bags full of hopes
After the eternal struggle.
Though it's an express train the kind Engine driver stops at every station as he doesn't want to leave the passengers in the darkness.
But some they do not encourage the delay.
Through the dim lights in the compartment he recognizes his friends.
Some with gray beards and walking sticks.
He secretly looks at the window pane through his thick glasses
And realizes that he too become old gradually.
He deeply think of his family
Already they must have come to the village ruined station and wait at the platform eagerly.
It seemed to be a re-union but he has to come back on the same train some other day to fight with the decaying life again.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Messy Life...
this house where we live
is just a train station and we are the trains always leaving to places
leaving smoke and
splinters of our
steel wheels
then when the real time comes for change
we only become passengers moving and moving and waving hands
the train station becomes a mark
that we soon forget in the books
on broken ears
and folded pages but we do not remember any page
not even the idea
of the character that we claim to have loved that much
things are messy really
but who cares? we look forward to the flashes of hills and towns
everything fades
like overused denims.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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