More specifically, about train drivers. I work on a heritage steam railway in Cumbria and have buckets of fun every day, mainly because it’s a beautiful place and the people are lovely. Bank holiday weekend was particularly enjoyable thanks to a doube-header train each day. For those of you not up to scratch on your train lingo, that’s a train pulled by two engines. Like this:
I am horribly, mournfully, soul-wrenchingly aware that I haven’t posted anything on here in a very long time. This upsets and frustrates me but NaNoWriMo is slowly taking over my life. Combine that with university, writing for a million different publications and spending the weekend with my family for various celebrations I have decided there just aren’t enough hours in the day. So today I dig deep into the vaults and give to you all a sort of poem, which I like to call You Not You.
I saw you walking down the street today.
At least, I think it was you.
He might have been a bit too tall, with curlier hair and cleaner shoes.
I didn’t see his face but I felt his smile.
It was the same lemon flavoured, Thursday afternoon kind of smile that you always give me in the car park at five o’clock when we’re both too tired to talk.
And I didn’t hear his voice but I knew he would be singing American sitcom theme tunes completely out of tune with the wrong words if we weren’t, you know, in the middle of the street.
The stride may have been yours.
I took two steps to every one of his and found myself watching my feet and depending on you not you to tell me when to cross the street.
He wore some twisted chinos that you wouldn’t be caught dead in but I just thought that maybe someone had bought them for a gift and you hadn’t the heart to be rude so wore them regardless.
You not you are so cute!
That little flick of your curls that you don’t do made me melt a little, especially when we waited for the lights to change and the wind kept blowing your hair in your eyes.
And the way you not you bit your nails but kept stopping yourself because you’re obviously trying to quit.
I was so busy following you not you that I found myself in the newsagents I always avoid because the guy behind the counter always winks and calls me ‘darling’ in a voice that brings to mind Hannibal Lecter and fava beans and a glass of Chianti.
We reached for the same Red Bull and you not you smiled your lemon flavoured smile except now it was more coconut flavoured.
And you not you stepped back and bowed your head in a ‘go ahead’ kind of gesture and turned instead to the Relentless.
Thinking about it perhaps he was too polite to be you.
And more well dressed than I’ve ever seen you even when we had that fancy dinner and you tried to wear a tux but you didn’t realise the stains that were on your jacket.
He wore a shirt and tie and his top button was done up in a way you always complain about because it pinches your neck and makes you feel like you’re being strangled.
Instead of a stack of comics and sports magazines he carried a leather bound hardback copy of Doctor Faustus and I know that’s not your kind of thing because it’s fancy and pretentious and no one reads that kind of shit any more.
Except you not you.
Gazing in disdain at the rain falling on the other side of the grimy window pane
Still but for the twitching of my ears as I sense the subtle whispers of your dinner being prepared
Recently I have been somewhat of a terrible writer. So today began my decision to write something every day. Today I chose something light and not to serious.
I was probably about ten years old the last time I attempted an acrostic, but they are such simple things to enjoy. Though not, as I remembered halfway through, quite so simple to write.
Poetry – An Acrostic
Poetry may fall, and trip, and stumble.
Only by starting will we see how it ends.
Ever attempted to put pen to paper,
To scribble, never knowing what the end piece will be?
Remark upon the world around you:
You’re a writer – go on and write!!