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.
Okay.
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!)
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Ooh! Talk about a challenge! I'm in -- at least, I'll try to be.
ReplyDeleteYikes! Me too! Now where's that Ouija board...
ReplyDeleteLove the setup.
ReplyDeleteThanks guys - two passengers confirmed! Yay - Looking forward to seeing ye both on the bus.
ReplyDeleteArtSparker, thanks for visiting - anyway we could tempt you to hop on board??
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.
ReplyDeleteCan digestives upset your stomach?
P.S. I know who took their shoes off.
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?
ReplyDeleteAs for those shoes, they may just be potent enough to inspire a few poems of their own.
Hm. I'll have to get my thinking cap on...
ReplyDelete"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.
I love time traveling! And a crackling fire, too! See you in a few...
ReplyDeleteNow, TFE!!!! Put those shoes back on...Please! P-EW!!!! : )
Hi Dominic. Poor Centipede - maybe he could hop on the bus?
ReplyDeleteAs for the shoes, Jeanne Iris, well, I didn't want to point any fingers myself, buut . .
Hey! I left a comment here yesterday, and now it's completely dissappeared ... talk about supernatural...
ReplyDeleteHey, everybody my feet don't smell,I wash them regularly , every six months, whether they need it or not.
ReplyDeleteLooking 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.
Really Niamh?? I'm a little scared now - seems to be lots of strange happenings going on in the blogosphere . . .
ReplyDeleteIs 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;)
Shall endeavour to come up with something!
ReplyDeleteThanks Weaver - great to have you (almost) on board!
ReplyDeleteAre the digestives chocolate?
ReplyDeleteI'm going to sleep on this.
ReplyDeleteOkay, PF! Mine is up:
ReplyDeletehttp://revolutionaryrevelry.blogspot.com
Have a great, volcano ash-free weekend!
And me - here.
ReplyDeletex
I'm taking a seat on this bus.
ReplyDeleteMy light is here
here I am! here it is http://sciencegirltraveler.blogspot.com/2010/04/poetry-bus-ticket.html
ReplyDelete