In the late early-90's (got that?), the New York City Transit Authority piloted a program on the subway system called "Poetry in Motion." In various ad spaces throughout the trains were published excerpts from works by prominent poets. I loved to meditate on the poems, either consciously or unconsciously; they were a welcome diversion from looking at actual ads or from reading whatever script I was carrying to or from work. Each also offered a brief escape from the often grueling commute on the run-down rails.
"Blackberry Eating" by Galway Kinnell, was short enough to be put "in motion" in its entirety. I think it begs to be read aloud, but I never was remotely crazy enough to do so on the train (not that anyone would have noticed or cared).
Blackberry Eating
I love to go out in late September 
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry -- eating in late September.
The second poem was much more profound than the former, and struck me at my core. I can't tell you how many times I stood gazing at this poem and wished that I, too, were horizontal. That first line is one of the best opening lines of a poem ever.
I Am Vertical
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
(Poor Sylvia Plath. If this poem ain't a cry for help, I don't know what is.)
Before my roommates and I broke up our apartment, we each decided we wanted our favorite NYTA poems to take with us as mementos of our lives as commuters on the F train. I suggested (or maybe it was Rebecca's idea) that we contact the Transit Authority and offer to buy the "posters," and so began my mission to track them down. My method in those pre-Internet days was to relentlessly keep calling numbers and extensions until they put me in touch with the right office. The "office" as it were, was one guy who made us a deal immediately. For every letter we brought him praising the program, he would give us two poems. We each placed our orders. I would take Galway Kinnell and Sylvia Plath. Either Rebecca or Megan would take Sylvia Plath and the poem by the Japanese guy. They didn't like Galway Kinnell's poem as much as I did. Letters in hand, I proceeded to Brooklyn (far Brooklyn, compared to where we were) and picked up the posters.After I moved back to Massachusetts, one of my first orders of business was to have my posters custom-framed. Despite the fact that I had no income other than unemployment, I was undeterred. I took them to a craft store, chose my frames and $100+ later, had two beautiful pieces of art. They were to remain mostly closeted for close to 14 years until I finally decided to bring them to work. Like the china that is only reserved for company, I had a stupid notion that the poems must be preserved... protected. They represented EVERYTHING to me about my years in New York.
I rode that subway every damn day I was there. It was a way of life. The poems represented a break from the monotony, the waiting and waiting for the train to come, the screeeeeeching of the brakes, the stifling heat of the 14th St/Union Square station in the summer, the unforgettable aroma of candied peanuts and urine, the kisses and hugs - both hello and good-bye - on the various platforms throughout the city. There were encounters with the random, the ragged, and the raging, the smelly, the loud and even the well-to-do. I once ran into James Lapine on the subway and later had to justify the meeting to a snobby agent. ("James Lapine takes the subway?" he asked snottily, and in the back of my mind I thought, "I hate this fucking business.")
One time on my way home, I was so amused while reading The Gilligan's Island Handbook prior to giving it to my sister for Christmas, that I completely missed my stop and added another half hour to my commute by staying on the train until I could reverse directions without having to pay again. God that was annoying! And let's not forget the drunk guy who started masturbating in his pants in front of me and sent me tearing out the door and up the stairs three at a time, or the time I screamed when the plastic shopping bags of two Chinese women started hopping across the floor of the train... because they contained live fish. There was also this ancient Hasidic man who pressed himself next to me in the seat, and in a voice like Artie Johnson on Laugh-in asked me, breathing heavily, told me how pretty I was and asked if I was a nice Jewish girl. (I was tempted to respond, "Isn't that hat on your head to show your respect to God? Because I don't think God approves of your behavior right now.") Last but not least, let's all pause to remember the kid who brandished the .44. Ahh, good times on the F train, let me tell you.
It is said that a good poem lies somewhere beyond the words, that they capture the unsayable, and explore the nature of the human condition. Despite the uncomfortable and often comical realities of a commuter's life on the rails, these poems always brought me back to myself, and allowed me to transcend my surroundings. For a minute or two every day, among the noise and smells, I found solace.
