-
PARIS METRO
by James Bell
Shades of other days imprint on the curve
of walls that turn in ceramic tiles
from floor round to floor on the other side
in search of ways to complete a circle.
The screech of trains forever divide those who stand
against
the walls on the other side. They have time
to risk a short admiring glance at someone
with whom they may fall in love.
Feet, hurriedly and willingly tread their way
through the access tunnels; move like stringless
marionettes. It is not chic to do otherwise.
They charge through "sortie" barriers - lemming
march
up or down stairs - burst from escalators off
or onto the street, leaving the others whose fate
has chosen them to live out life down here
as subterranean rats without tails. Here is another life,
where each tunnel turn can be darker than the last.
Then a reverie of silk breaks, the sound
of orchestral strings float among the hardness of stone.
We reach the source and watch in awe as
the musicians begin to play the gradual surge
of Pachelbel's Canon, listen and watch humanity lifted
from tunnels to heavenly clouds in the sky as they stand
in a shabby junction, on the remains of old newspapers,
while their ears attend to the sublime transcending
the functional, realised from an engineer's plans
to heaven in the hands of a violinist.
|