Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Jump on this week’s poetry bus for your very own spiritual journey . . . .

Yesterday upon the stair I met
a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
I wish to God he’d go away.

Pull up a chair. It’s dark outside. I’ve just thrown another log on the fire (it may not be very seasonal, but stay with me on this, okay?). There’s a smell of wood-smoke. Someone takes off their shoes to warm their feet.
We’re drinking tea – nothing fancy, just Barry’s Gold Blend. Someone passes round the biscuits (Mcvities digestives). It’s the sort of night where being indoors in front of a fire is the best place in the world to be.
For a moment all that can be heard is the sound of satisfied munching. Then someone says, ‘has anyone got a story?’ And someone mumbles something about being too busy eating biscuits to tell stories. And then someone else clears their throat and says, well . . . My father used to tell a story when we were small. . …

He worked late nights as a sub-editor, see? And anyway, one night, after missing the last bus out of town, he got a taxi.
About ten miles out of town on a steep tree-covered hill, the taxi-driver told him a story.
He’d been travelling back towards the city after a late fare and he was struggling to stay awake when something loomed up on the road just inches ahead of him. It was a man, leading a donkey. To his horror, before he could fully register what was happening, the taxi-driver had driven over the exact spot where the man and donkey stood. But when he got out of the car there was nothing there . . .

The room shifts and spins and everything feels a little funny and someone says ‘I wish I hadn’t eaten those digestives’ and then suddenly we’re not sitting in a room anymore. Instead we’re sitting on a bus, and in the driver’s seat is a figure cloaked in white.

Over the tannoy a deep, musical voice says: ‘This week’s poetry bus will bring you back to a time when you believed that reality could bend and shift,
I don’t want stories about death, the voice continues.
I don’t want stories about horrible ghoosties and scary creatures.
I want proof, the voice rumbles. I want proof of higher life. I want uplifting stories of helpful spirits. I want stories of joyful moments of synchronicity that couldn’t have happened without the intervention of some higher power.
I want joy, I want tears, I want laughter, I want truth. I want moments or stories where the real world grazed the spirit one.
At the very least, I want a poem.

(and will whoever has removed their shoes please put them on again. A bus is a small, confined space. Show some appreciation for your fellow passengers, please.)

Ps: Have a look at this if you're still feeling a bit short on inspiration: (Yay - after many, many tries it actually works. Thanks Argent!)


  1. Ooh! Talk about a challenge! I'm in -- at least, I'll try to be.

  2. Yikes! Me too! Now where's that Ouija board...

  3. Thanks guys - two passengers confirmed! Yay - Looking forward to seeing ye both on the bus.

    ArtSparker, thanks for visiting - anyway we could tempt you to hop on board??

  4. Lord, I thought that was leading up to your poem from Niamh's challenge. I'm a post ahead of myself, and now very confused. But I'll probably be there on Monday.
    Can digestives upset your stomach?

    P.S. I know who took their shoes off.

  5. Hey Titus, sorry for the confusion - hope you can make it on Monday. As for the digestives, I'm not sure - maybe someone slipped something into the Barry's tea?
    As for those shoes, they may just be potent enough to inspire a few poems of their own.

  6. Hm. I'll have to get my thinking cap on...

    "The man who wasn't there" reminded me, for no good reason, of a snippet I read the other day:

    The centipede was happy, quite,
    Until a toad in fun
    Said, "Pray, which leg goes after which?"
    This worked his mind to such a pitch,
    He lay distracted in a ditch,
    Considering how to run.

  7. I love time traveling! And a crackling fire, too! See you in a few...
    Now, TFE!!!! Put those shoes back on...Please! P-EW!!!! : )

  8. Hi Dominic. Poor Centipede - maybe he could hop on the bus?

    As for the shoes, Jeanne Iris, well, I didn't want to point any fingers myself, buut . .

  9. Hey! I left a comment here yesterday, and now it's completely dissappeared ... talk about supernatural...

  10. Hey, everybody my feet don't smell,I wash them regularly , every six months, whether they need it or not.

    Looking forward to this weeks challenge andv what it may produce.Nice one PF!

    Ps. Dom, I understand the centipedes dilemma I can only walk/run upstairs if I don't actually think about it.

  11. Really Niamh?? I'm a little scared now - seems to be lots of strange happenings going on in the blogosphere . . .

    Is that so, TFE? Every six months? Well then clearly it couldn't be your feet the driver has a problem with (Okay Jeanne and Titus - there's a bit of a job needs doing here. I might just go and see if that nice driver has some sandpaper and a couple of bottles of dettol;)

  12. Shall endeavour to come up with something!

  13. Thanks Weaver - great to have you (almost) on board!

  14. Okay, PF! Mine is up:


    Have a great, volcano ash-free weekend!

  15. here I am! here it is http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2010/04/poetry-bus-ticket.html