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![Little Train of Books [POEM]](http://d.furaffinity.net/art/a.griffinwrites/1685279602/1685279602.a.griffinwrites_little_train_of_books_cover.png "Click to change the View")
"Little Train of Books"
by A. Griffin
In our world and history, the Steeplechase Railroad,
a narrow-track railway, here pictured, ran along a certain boardwalk in New York City between Beach 98th Street and Beach 100th Street, and closed in 1903.
In a another world with a differing history, the boardwalk railway still operates today, between Beach 57th and Beach 90th Street, passing through Hammels and Arverne, before
terminating several thousand feet off the shore in Eltown, a neighborhood built over the Atlantic Ocean, which is host to a special library.
That world and our own differ in other ways as well, as you will learn.
Beachgoers from out-of-town
give me bewildered looks,
as I roll down Arverne's boardwalk,
with my little train of books.
I blow the air horn gently,
since I don't mean to be rude,
but to run my consist safely,
these onlookers have to move.
It looks a bit unusual,
but all the locals know,
my train will chug along
whenever books have got to go.
They laid the tracks
two feet apart
so very long ago,
but even up to modern times,
these rails aren't just for show.
On the islands built of iron
standing high above the foam,
directly south of Arverne,
where Atlantic seadoves roam,
Ocean Library holds books
from worlds too numerous to count,
and with collections ever growing,
storage room had to be found.
That's where my little train comes in
to pull its share of weight,
and to take along to elsewhere
loads of literary freight.
The route isn't so far,
these books are going west, to Hammels;
so rolls my train along the tracks
set in the wooden panels.
First north from Eltown,
poised upon its stilts,
above the sea,
those four suspended platforms that stand tall for all to see.
The jaunt along the pier
that links the ocean town with earth,
is downward sloped,
so that my engine
barely has to work.
The tracks turn west at Gaston,
where the water meets the sand,
and sharply barks the engine
as it pulls along the vans.
Slow with caution on the boardwalk,
so that nobody gets hurt,
I hold the handle steady,
while the engine proves its worth.
Rockaway natives come and go,
on their bikes,
or on their feet,
while those who aren't familiar
stop and gawk in disbelief.
The children wave,
I blow the horn,
their eyes light up with glee.
These books will be in their hands soon,
to open up and read.
Some say my train looks cute,
though that was never its intention.
It's not a toy,
yet sometimes
kids are taller than my engine.
The tiny cab has space
for me to tuck my tail inside,
and the wooden seat has cushions
made for softening the ride.
In winter it stays warm,
for when the icy wind assails,
and for heating up my tea,
the little hot plate never fails.
And in the spring and summer,
in the warmer times of year,
I remove the engine's roof
so ocean breeze blows back my ears.
At Beach 90th the tracks turn north,
off from the wooden road,
and straight into the warehouse
where the yard receives the load.
The cars are sorted swiftly,
and each has a place to go,
so they are lifted
into storage racks
split up by decimal.
Certain cars are unloaded,
contents fit to be deployed,
sent on to lending outlets
for the public to enjoy.
Other books sit in storage,
simply waiting to be needed,
and when the call goes out,
our team will rush in
to retrieve them.
When orders come from Eltown,
to the Hammels Warehouse station,
Ocean Library
needs books back
for archival or translation.
Some requests are expedited,
and their schedule is tight,
but we can get it done
before we clock out for the night.
With a new train assembled,
and the destination planned,
I drive my engine eastward,
down the railway by the sand.
On 67th, swinging south,
down Remington's brother's road,
the pier-way's skyward slant,
does make my locomotive groan.
Above the beaches and the waves,
heading toward the sea,
the engine does its hardest,
working against gravity.
Then eighty meters up,
and several hundred past the shore,
the incline levels out
on Eltown's brick and metal floor.
And back on its familiar turf,
where fuzzy people flock,
the engine rests its wheels
at the Library's intake dock.
The arriving cars are cataloged,
and moved about the yard,
but that job is for others;
now,
my engine's oil-starved.
I take it back into the shed,
then gauges are inspected,
and I hand in to my manager
the end-of-duty checklist.
I redid the lubrication,
and topped off the tank with fuel,
because good engines are useful,
but they're needy little tools.
It's been many busy hours
since my morning cereal,
bringing archivists and scholars
all their word material.
But today my job is done,
so now to home I shall depart,
to my lovely little home
over on Amstel Boulevard,
east of Beach 69th Street,
overlooking the canal,
opposite the crimson castle,
and the airborne polo grounds.
Sometimes I think it nice to walk,
and slowly take my time,
but tonight I'll ride the tramway,
operated by Green Line.
The President's Committee cars
though modestly they reign,
seem massive on their full-width tracks,
that dwarf my little train.
The trolley ride is short,
but yet it's always worth my token,
when the ringing bell
invites the plovers
out into the open.
The city has few stars,
there isn't much above to see,
but for lights from huge dirigibles,
incoming from the east.
Though Manahatta's shining towers,
and south Brukelen's gleaming parks,
can not outshine the emerald moon,
as through the sky it arcs.
And in my house,
once things are quiet,
and I'm through with household tasks,
after a day of moving books,
I sit,
and read,
at last,
of worlds so like my own,
and yet magnificent and strange,
that in my imagination,
come to life beyond the page,
Of Earths whose moons are white,
and shine at night like giant pearls,
where flying craft,
with wings like birds,
make trips across the world.
Where giant fish that don't lay eggs
spray geysers from their backs,
and bugs that mastered weaving
spin elaborate silken traps.
Where the only sort of people
have no tails that you can see,
and they sweeten up their drinks,
with golden syrup made by bees,
and half a century ago
they all but gave up steam,
and motors fueled
by bottled lightning
power most of their machines.
and they carry magic mirrors
small enough to hold in hand,
that let them see and talk
to people off in distant lands.
And silent songs
from man-made stars
send them electric books,
that shine upon their mirrors
thrilling tales to keep them hooked.
Stories they write
in worlds like that
are beyond comprehension;
I'm sure for them
an Earth like mine
is barely worth attention.
But though my world is boring,
compared to those of which I've learned,
I yearn for my own,
my home,
my Arverne,
if simple it may look,
where I live my quiet life,
driving my little train of books.
Thanks for reading!
The narrow-gauge beachside railway and locomotive depicted are from the Volk's Electric Railway, a coincidentally similar railway that still operates today in England.
I'd like to thank the photographer who made the photo available for use.
The narrator of the poem is a Lunarian, a species of people that live alongside humans upon my alternate Earth.
[MAIN FA] | [TUMBLR BLOG] |[TWITCH] | [YOU TUBE] | [TWITTER] | [KO-FI]
by A. Griffin
In our world and history, the Steeplechase Railroad,
a narrow-track railway, here pictured, ran along a certain boardwalk in New York City between Beach 98th Street and Beach 100th Street, and closed in 1903.
In a another world with a differing history, the boardwalk railway still operates today, between Beach 57th and Beach 90th Street, passing through Hammels and Arverne, before
terminating several thousand feet off the shore in Eltown, a neighborhood built over the Atlantic Ocean, which is host to a special library.
That world and our own differ in other ways as well, as you will learn.
Beachgoers from out-of-town
give me bewildered looks,
as I roll down Arverne's boardwalk,
with my little train of books.
I blow the air horn gently,
since I don't mean to be rude,
but to run my consist safely,
these onlookers have to move.
It looks a bit unusual,
but all the locals know,
my train will chug along
whenever books have got to go.
They laid the tracks
two feet apart
so very long ago,
but even up to modern times,
these rails aren't just for show.
On the islands built of iron
standing high above the foam,
directly south of Arverne,
where Atlantic seadoves roam,
Ocean Library holds books
from worlds too numerous to count,
and with collections ever growing,
storage room had to be found.
That's where my little train comes in
to pull its share of weight,
and to take along to elsewhere
loads of literary freight.
The route isn't so far,
these books are going west, to Hammels;
so rolls my train along the tracks
set in the wooden panels.
First north from Eltown,
poised upon its stilts,
above the sea,
those four suspended platforms that stand tall for all to see.
The jaunt along the pier
that links the ocean town with earth,
is downward sloped,
so that my engine
barely has to work.
The tracks turn west at Gaston,
where the water meets the sand,
and sharply barks the engine
as it pulls along the vans.
Slow with caution on the boardwalk,
so that nobody gets hurt,
I hold the handle steady,
while the engine proves its worth.
Rockaway natives come and go,
on their bikes,
or on their feet,
while those who aren't familiar
stop and gawk in disbelief.
The children wave,
I blow the horn,
their eyes light up with glee.
These books will be in their hands soon,
to open up and read.
Some say my train looks cute,
though that was never its intention.
It's not a toy,
yet sometimes
kids are taller than my engine.
The tiny cab has space
for me to tuck my tail inside,
and the wooden seat has cushions
made for softening the ride.
In winter it stays warm,
for when the icy wind assails,
and for heating up my tea,
the little hot plate never fails.
And in the spring and summer,
in the warmer times of year,
I remove the engine's roof
so ocean breeze blows back my ears.
At Beach 90th the tracks turn north,
off from the wooden road,
and straight into the warehouse
where the yard receives the load.
The cars are sorted swiftly,
and each has a place to go,
so they are lifted
into storage racks
split up by decimal.
Certain cars are unloaded,
contents fit to be deployed,
sent on to lending outlets
for the public to enjoy.
Other books sit in storage,
simply waiting to be needed,
and when the call goes out,
our team will rush in
to retrieve them.
When orders come from Eltown,
to the Hammels Warehouse station,
Ocean Library
needs books back
for archival or translation.
Some requests are expedited,
and their schedule is tight,
but we can get it done
before we clock out for the night.
With a new train assembled,
and the destination planned,
I drive my engine eastward,
down the railway by the sand.
On 67th, swinging south,
down Remington's brother's road,
the pier-way's skyward slant,
does make my locomotive groan.
Above the beaches and the waves,
heading toward the sea,
the engine does its hardest,
working against gravity.
Then eighty meters up,
and several hundred past the shore,
the incline levels out
on Eltown's brick and metal floor.
And back on its familiar turf,
where fuzzy people flock,
the engine rests its wheels
at the Library's intake dock.
The arriving cars are cataloged,
and moved about the yard,
but that job is for others;
now,
my engine's oil-starved.
I take it back into the shed,
then gauges are inspected,
and I hand in to my manager
the end-of-duty checklist.
I redid the lubrication,
and topped off the tank with fuel,
because good engines are useful,
but they're needy little tools.
It's been many busy hours
since my morning cereal,
bringing archivists and scholars
all their word material.
But today my job is done,
so now to home I shall depart,
to my lovely little home
over on Amstel Boulevard,
east of Beach 69th Street,
overlooking the canal,
opposite the crimson castle,
and the airborne polo grounds.
Sometimes I think it nice to walk,
and slowly take my time,
but tonight I'll ride the tramway,
operated by Green Line.
The President's Committee cars
though modestly they reign,
seem massive on their full-width tracks,
that dwarf my little train.
The trolley ride is short,
but yet it's always worth my token,
when the ringing bell
invites the plovers
out into the open.
The city has few stars,
there isn't much above to see,
but for lights from huge dirigibles,
incoming from the east.
Though Manahatta's shining towers,
and south Brukelen's gleaming parks,
can not outshine the emerald moon,
as through the sky it arcs.
And in my house,
once things are quiet,
and I'm through with household tasks,
after a day of moving books,
I sit,
and read,
at last,
of worlds so like my own,
and yet magnificent and strange,
that in my imagination,
come to life beyond the page,
Of Earths whose moons are white,
and shine at night like giant pearls,
where flying craft,
with wings like birds,
make trips across the world.
Where giant fish that don't lay eggs
spray geysers from their backs,
and bugs that mastered weaving
spin elaborate silken traps.
Where the only sort of people
have no tails that you can see,
and they sweeten up their drinks,
with golden syrup made by bees,
and half a century ago
they all but gave up steam,
and motors fueled
by bottled lightning
power most of their machines.
and they carry magic mirrors
small enough to hold in hand,
that let them see and talk
to people off in distant lands.
And silent songs
from man-made stars
send them electric books,
that shine upon their mirrors
thrilling tales to keep them hooked.
Stories they write
in worlds like that
are beyond comprehension;
I'm sure for them
an Earth like mine
is barely worth attention.
But though my world is boring,
compared to those of which I've learned,
I yearn for my own,
my home,
my Arverne,
if simple it may look,
where I live my quiet life,
driving my little train of books.
Thanks for reading!
The narrow-gauge beachside railway and locomotive depicted are from the Volk's Electric Railway, a coincidentally similar railway that still operates today in England.
I'd like to thank the photographer who made the photo available for use.
The narrator of the poem is a Lunarian, a species of people that live alongside humans upon my alternate Earth.
[MAIN FA] | [TUMBLR BLOG] |[TWITCH] | [YOU TUBE] | [TWITTER] | [KO-FI]
Category Poetry / Fantasy
Species Alien (Other)
Size 1024 x 768px
File Size 1.24 MB
Listed in Folders
Woah. Am I lucky to have stumbled across this happy little image and inspiring poetry.
You see, it was the little locomotive that first caught my attention, and I was wondering if it was a "Simplex" model that I used to have a book featuring the development and history of these sturdy little locomotive engines. Then I read the poem.
I recently visited New York City and attended a Cyclones game at the field near Luna Park. So, I had an idea of the places and streets you mentioned. Yes. My friend who served as host and tour guide and I raided The Strand and the Iliad bookstores, searching for odd old volumes and of course anything that reflected the places we visited during my New York City adventure.
So Yes. I really enjoyed your prose and your imagination stirring use of metaphor. I especially liked your referring to cell phones as "Magic Mirrors" because in a sense, that's what these personal communication devices have become.
Thank you for such a delightful image and idea inspiring piece of poetry.
You see, it was the little locomotive that first caught my attention, and I was wondering if it was a "Simplex" model that I used to have a book featuring the development and history of these sturdy little locomotive engines. Then I read the poem.
I recently visited New York City and attended a Cyclones game at the field near Luna Park. So, I had an idea of the places and streets you mentioned. Yes. My friend who served as host and tour guide and I raided The Strand and the Iliad bookstores, searching for odd old volumes and of course anything that reflected the places we visited during my New York City adventure.
So Yes. I really enjoyed your prose and your imagination stirring use of metaphor. I especially liked your referring to cell phones as "Magic Mirrors" because in a sense, that's what these personal communication devices have become.
Thank you for such a delightful image and idea inspiring piece of poetry.
Don't mind that puddle there. It's just me. Having melted.
Really though, thanks!
I've known of you on this site for well beyond a decade and had a small thought about who I hoped might see this. :P
And Coney Island's boardwalk is virtually identical to the area I'm writing about except more of its entertainment culture along the boardwalk itself it still intact. In fact, the Steeplechase Railroad was an attraction that was part of a sister park to another Steeplechase Park in Coney Island that once stood where the Cyclone's stadium is now.
If you care to look, everything in my "Arverne" folder so far has been train related in one way or another!
The wildest part is, I came up with the concept for this narrow gauge railroad along the Rockaway boardwalk about a decade before browsing through old postcards of the area and learning such a thing actually once existed.
The poem actually "hung up" near the end, and I couldn't figure out how to continue it, until I started with just as much whimsy describing animals and tools from our own Earth and how amazing the alien narrator believes them to be.
Really though, thanks!
I've known of you on this site for well beyond a decade and had a small thought about who I hoped might see this. :P
And Coney Island's boardwalk is virtually identical to the area I'm writing about except more of its entertainment culture along the boardwalk itself it still intact. In fact, the Steeplechase Railroad was an attraction that was part of a sister park to another Steeplechase Park in Coney Island that once stood where the Cyclone's stadium is now.
If you care to look, everything in my "Arverne" folder so far has been train related in one way or another!
The wildest part is, I came up with the concept for this narrow gauge railroad along the Rockaway boardwalk about a decade before browsing through old postcards of the area and learning such a thing actually once existed.
The poem actually "hung up" near the end, and I couldn't figure out how to continue it, until I started with just as much whimsy describing animals and tools from our own Earth and how amazing the alien narrator believes them to be.
Lovely. My only experience antique forms of my mother tongue is reading aloud about the Nun's Priest's sparkledog rooster OC in glorious Middle English, all while being sure I was the only one in the room aside from the professor realizing the nature what it was I was actually describing, even as little as I did actually understand.
in the world of my dreams, when i close my eyes at night,
far from any city, or the brightness of its lights.
home to me is the forest, without these numbered streets.
these little trains and smaller, are by far the common sight,
that any paved roadway, nor places for cars to park.
my mother would have known those place when she was alive.
only once in my life did i visit them, and that as a child.
i'm always happy to see images of what in my mind could be.
far from any city, or the brightness of its lights.
home to me is the forest, without these numbered streets.
these little trains and smaller, are by far the common sight,
that any paved roadway, nor places for cars to park.
my mother would have known those place when she was alive.
only once in my life did i visit them, and that as a child.
i'm always happy to see images of what in my mind could be.
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