Journeys By Jamie McGarry

If you knew how many of these were written on trains, you would laugh; that is, if there's humour in percentages. But I won't explain why - oh no, oh no. Why I write so often on the move, you can guess for yourself. It must be all that sat there, waiting, nothing to do .... But I won't tell you why. Oh no, oh no. If you want to know, it's up to you. The conductor's here. He wants his share of the royalties, in return for all that inspiration; so I get out my cheque book and pen. 'Help yourself.' God knows the rest of us do. Later, he walks through the darkened carriages, counting his takings from the last few days, and reflecting on the temporary nature of journeys. * * * Sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror, sometimes you look at yourself, and you say: 'I have had enough.' Of this grind-you-down, mess-you-up, day-to-day .... Sometimes you have to take two nights away. So you step on the train, and the world becomes new, and you, so do you - yes you do, yes you do. When you're out in the world, where they don't have a clue, who you are is a thing of the past. We're just tickets now, anyway. Faces on railcards. Not persons, just mixed destinations; and the fact is, you're anyone you want to be. A butcher, a baker, a publican ... me? And as the wind turbines, with their never-ending somersaults, limber up for the scenery Olympics, I check my hair in the back of my iPod, and prepare to get back down to nature. *** In the hotel room, the shower leaks. The windows howl, the floorboards creak. Only one channel tuned in the TV, and it's 'sachets' of milk if I fancy some tea. Not knowing who else might know, I climb out the window, onto the roof, and make enquires of the moon - he says I did it to myself, that I always had it coming, that it was only a matter of time. Somewhat shaken, I return inside, to eat the complimentary biscuits. *** Day two, and already I'm striding about the place like I've eaten the guidebook .... 'The theatre, madam? Down there, turn left.' 'Oh thank you young man!' 'You are welcome.' Eschewing the fully-paid, guided tours, I stick to the darkened back alleyways, slip under the town's velvet ropes, and peer at the things they don't want me to see. Nothing too shocking, on the whole. And I scale to the heights, to the top of the tallest, and sing out across town: THIS IS ME! THIS IS ME! THIS IS ME! THIS IS ME! and I take a quick breath When you think there's been too much lost to ever claw back .... This is the way that it ends. BANG. This is the way that it ends. *** Oh, the temporary nature of journeys, will bring us right back to the start. Will bring us all closer together, by taking us further apart. If you knew, if all of you knew, only knew, how many of these poems were written on trains .... you would laugh.

Copyright © Jamie McGarry 2009

This poem can also be read on iPoetry, the poetry app for the iphone/ipod touch available on the Apple iTunes App Store.

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