Yes! Yes! The Poetry Bus!
You've been waiting and waiting and looking at your watches and I'm sure plenty have gone home.
But then: What comes around the bend but the Bus? A little dented and muddy from its fall in the ditch, but the gears still work and here it comes for you.
I'll be collecting tickets tonight (I hope, depends on computer access) and most definitely Monday. It is a Monday Bus, after all.
First up: TFE with a real gem.
The Bug has a memorable outing.
Rachel in need of some happiness.
Martin flagging us down.
Emerging Writer writing on the Bus
Helen is on board
and Doc TSFE on the bus about the bus
Karen went down the nowhere road
and the infamous Peter Goulding
Stafford having a tickly happy visit
Jinsky with two.
Domestic Oub jumps on with a sparkler.
Dramatic anarchy from Niamh
Stillness with Socks
Enchanted Oak leaps on with style
Mrs Trellis gives a few points.
Flagging down the Bus before it gets away are Chiccoreal
and the famisher of Pixies
For my own poem, I was thinking of Happiness for driving on the 18th and wasn't very far along cooking something up, when along came the Emerging Writer with a comment to write a poem about the Poetry Bus itself. Thus the Happiness Bus, and here it is:
Mariana smoothed out her dress, touched her hair again, smiled nervously,
relaxed a bit and smiled for real.
She looked at her watch again, so early yet but she didn't want to be late
Every passenger who got on, she wanted to hug and tell them
She was riding to her first day at work. She glowed, and rubbed her ticket in wonder.
Huddled in the back, Jeremy rummaged in his rucksack for a package of biscuits
He couldn't believe his luck: eighty euros in the old man's wallet
Eighty euros to start a new life
not a lot, but he fingered the bruises on his face and figured it was better that than stay home
He looked out the window at the dawn, and wondered where the bus was going
Away would be fine.
In the second row, driver side,
Nick spoke softly into Lydia's ear
There was still pink confetti in her hair.
They were going to the seaside, to their honeymoon
He loved the bus for taking them there
He loved the sky for its gentle light
He loved Lydia asleep on his shoulder.
Sixteen days on the road already, in a week I'd have to be back at work,
but today was still paradise
town to unpronouncable village,
foot paths, trains, this rattly old bus
through fields and forest, industrial suburbs, always something new,
someone to meet, a foreign way of saying hello, and a coffee please.
Here it comes up the hill
grinding to a stop at a pile of rocks in the middle of these emerald fields dotted with sheep, striped with stone walls
where an old woman waits, plastic bonnet in case of rain,
shopping bag waiting to be filled with the wonders of Town,
sturdy walking shoes.
One more passenger happy to be on the Bus.
after the night rains . . .
1 day ago