How lovely to encounter poetry in transit. How sweet of them to be lacquered into a wall rather than a plastic sheet in a track that could just as easily swapped, and will be, for some ad for a charity or fast food.
I saw a poem by Wisława Szymborska, translated from Polish that I’d read in English not so long ago greeted the entrance to the train.
As I went along the wall, reading each, I gathered a retinue of people who stopped their brisk commuting walk. At one point 5 people stopped to read the poem I was reading. Heh, made you look. Somehow the gaze can rest longer and more safely on poetry than the other texts that insist with accompanying photoshop disasters in garish colors to buy a thing rather than buy into an idea.
A poem by Gaston Miron grabbed my funny bone and my truthy bone.
And then to see Nicole Brossard. Fancy meeting you here.
The familiar and the unfamiliar mixing like a crowd.
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