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This poem is, in part, a souvenir of life in Japan. Initially, I was surprised to see Japanese commuters sometimes fast asleep on the train, at times sleeping standing up, on rare occasions an entire carriage on the nod. As the years went by and the work presure built up, however, I started sleeping on trains myself, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Now that's disorientation: jolting awake from your dreams straight into the commuting zone. I learnt that I should only sleep on trains if the train's terminus would be a convenient place to stop, meaning that oversleeping would be no disaster. On occasion, when I was still on the nod after the train had started to decant, a friendly stranger would give me a shake so I could rouse myself and get back to my working schedule. Sometimes I would be the one to wake someone, rousing a female of the species from her slumbers as I rose from my seat to exit the train. I was teaching corporate classes then, often out of the door by 0630 and not home again until 2230 or even later, with geographically dispersed assignments to attend to during those hours. Often working on the train with my laptop, eating on the train (in breach of custom, though not of law), and, of course, sleeping on the train. Survival sleeping. THIS WORKING LIFE city poem in Genghis Lotus Poetry Collection, a selection of poems free to read online. Webmaster for this site is poet Hugh Cook, born in Britain, educated in New Zealand, and the author of, amongst other works, the fantasy series Chronicles of an Age of Darkness. |
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On the train, she is asleep and dreaming, Her calorie counter Escaping from mung beans to donuts. The clusterbomb chaos of her schedule Makes dreaming an aftermath, A wreck zone, Gouged by insurance policies, Harassed by razorblades, Sandpapered by electric soap. Off where her boss cannot see her, Her face slips sideway, Straight into the tabloid zone. The newspapers are preaching giraffes: Buy five now, get fifteen free! Even asleep, she is still sweating the deadlines. This working life commands her, A universe of watches, clocks and calendars, Anatomies of decay states. She inflicts upon herself Dreams as lurid as enameled chocolate. The glistening Linux, The whispering ROMs. The salesman at her sleepside stands to go. Her head Slides from his shoulder. Sitting upright in the crowded train She blinks into the question zone: Who am I? |
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May be photocopied for classroom use |
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