Subway Riders Can’t Miss This

Without a doubt, the acronym “MTA” has a negative connotation do it.

Nonetheless, we all use it. In the recent years MTA has implemented a program called “Arts for Transit”, which displays any form of arts in the stations, in the trains, basically anywhere in the transit system.

I remember we read a poem in the beginning of the year called “Construction Site, Windy Night” (Pg 201 in Poems of New York). The thing that I most remembered from it was some sort of scaffolds, plastic sheets that was flying from the building. Today, as I was on the D train going back to the dorms, I notice a poem titled “Scaffolding” by Seamus Heaney (1939-2013). The poem went something like this:

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

This beginning of the poem is pretty straight forward. The first two stanzas pretty much depicts a mason’s job when they begin to build. However, the poem starts to change in the third stanza, when the speaker seems to be sad that the scaffolds are falling. This however exposes the beauty of the building when its done.

The fourth stanza is the highlight of the poem. The speaker speaks to someone he cares, someone he loves, most likely a mate, and it reveals that the relationship between the two may be “falling apart”. But he ends up with the fifth stanza, saying that whats behind that scaffold is something stronger, something more beautiful.

So next time you take a ride on the MTA, check out the arts and all the stuff you see just may very much surprise you! See if you can spot this poem as well! 🙂

~Christopher Chong

A Girl on the Subway

This is written from CCNY library, Monday morning, about an hour before the start of the class. The computer has stuck space bar, which makes it extremely difficult to type. Nonetheless, the fact that I miscalculated my time this morning and the fact that I arrived here an hour earlier than I intended do not change. Therefore, I must scribble something before I die of boredom.

I ride the 7 train to the “city.”

On the Queensboro Plaza, two come into train, a father and a daughter, to whom I gladly gave up my seat so that they could sit together. The father must remain a father, not a man, because he seemed to not be anything else without the relationship with his daughter, or at least, it appeared so for the duration of my travel. The daughter, however, was self-existent and therefore, I was able to conclude that she was not only a daughter, but also could be a girl.

“Next stop, Court Square”

This is the part of the travel in which the fast becomes slow and slow remains slow. Express train no longer leaps across the insignificant stations that are outside the “city.” If the Queensboro Plaza is the beginning of this revolution, Court Square is the one that fully lives up to her rights, and do herself justice by not being ignored. How fair.

“Why is it Quart Sqware?”

The girl asks her father. Is she asking the ontological question about the existence of “Quart Sqware”? The father kindly seats his daughter on his lap and tells her that it is “Court Square.” The girl insists on “Quart Sqware.”

“Oh…. then Times Square is next…..”

On what world is Times Square after Court? She should be the head of MTA. Many people will appreciate, especially when the universe revolves around moi.

“…and then it’s Vernon Jackson Avenue…”

I take it back. Her world must have trains leaping and jumping wildly across the air, back and forth around the globe. Not bad. Afterall, it is her world, and she has the right to think whatever–there is no limit, and if she is able to will it and able to imagine it, it exists.

“It’s Vernon Jackson Boulevard.”

The father kindly replied. Great revelation. Shocking truth. Undeniable reality.

“Well, it’s also an Avenue.”

The girl says. Super human analysis. Epitome of human wisdom. Highest philosophy.

“I die! I die!”

The girl is dying of boredom. There is nothing more relatable and nothing more genuine and nothing more philosophical and nothing more universal than the horror of death by boredom. I die I die. Death. Eloi Eloi- death? Langston Hughes’ weary blues death? Nicolas Guillen’s grandfathers singing ballads of me canso me canso, me muero me muero-death? I die I die I die.

And the two left on Vernon Jackson—without having to go through the tunnel of Sheol between Vernon-Jackson and Grand Central.