a wanderer’s tale

paddington station, londonI tell a wanderer’s tale, the same
I began long ago, a boy in a barn,
I am always lost in it. The place
is always strange to me. In my pocket

the wrong money or none, the wrong paper,
maps of another town, the phrase book
for yesterday’s language, just a ticket
to the next station, and my instructions.

In the lobby of the Banco Bilbao
a dark woman will slip me a key, a package,
the name of a hotel, a numbered account,
the first letters of an unknown alphabet.

–ken smith, encounter at st. martin’s


In the space where American train companies would see valuable advertising real estate, the London Underground posts poetry, six different poems each season for the last 24 years.   I remembered them from my last visit and liked them so much I bought the book of the poems to date.  Now of course, there is a website.  The poem above is one of the poems posted in the Underground, overhead the seats, where travelers can sit and read.

This will be a sort of travel journal.  I don’t promise much since I am very poor at travel journals.  I will try to post one picture a day and perhaps write a little bit or find a poem from the Underground to share.  I do not sleep well and I enjoy thinking about the things I have seen during the day.  Now I am remembering cold train stations and snowy fields and old brick towns flashing past the windows…

~ by gun street girl on December 23, 2009.

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