passing time

When I don’t know what to write, I usually find a picture to post. So, not having got up early enough this morning to take any worthwhile pictures of the first snowfall of the season, I went browsing through recent photos and came across this image taken a few weeks ago at the re-vamped New Street Station, Birmingham.

Yellow lounge. New Street station, Birmingham
At the time I was struck by how inappropriately labelled the area was. The sign says “Yellow Lounge”, and yet there is very little yellow in view and it looks nothing like I would expect a lounge to look.

I was actually looking for the loo when I found the rather spartan-looking area and I snapped the picture thinking I’d probably be able to come up with a pun of some kind about lack of comfort stations and lack of comfort at stations. Today, though, now I’ve decided to post it, I thought I should check that I’m right in thinking a lounge is more than just a space to wait and that it’s not unreasonable to expect some kind of comfort.

Whether it’s lounge as a verb, or lounge as a noun, most of the definitions I have found include some mention of resting or relaxing, so I think the term implies a degree of comfort not available in the Yellow Lounge – or practically anywhere else – at New Street.

I also came across a number of definitions of a lounge as “a place to pass the time”, which has reminded me of the poem Time passes, which I first posted some years ago.

Since then it has been revisited and revised on a number of occasion; I’ve even made a few small changes this afternoon. It’s obviously set in entirely the wrong season and a very long way from Britain’s second city, but, for what it’s worth, here’s the latest version:

“Time passes”

2:00 am
Cicadas etch a tripwire grid across the garden.

3:00 am
An owl’s pale velvet hoot
glides through pinedark air.

4:00 am
In vinous trills
the nightingale’s song
ripples from the cherry tree.

5:00 am
The cockerel crows
the fussy hens awake;
they peck and pick, unravelling
the fraying edges of the night.

6:00 am
All round the valley, dogs
worry the straggled threads
of dark; they tug and bark
and run with them
towards the morning.

 

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s