George Moore

The Trains

If you can remember me, remember the trains. The locomotives steaming in a Newark rain, the waiting impatient mad rush of men seeing nothing, the clocks in their heads, the engines with their oily eyelids, their tongues of grease and sweat, the tiny iron stairways into choked corridors. Remember how that boy felt at the first iron beast eating coal and breathing fire, the clank and hiss and sudden invisibility, pensive and propelled outward away from the stale life of the old neighborhood into the night that will never release him. We forget before the ground is cold, before the shovels are put away, the engines now rusted monsters, workers and grease monkeys shrunk to a narrow track of history, of the hiss of steam and black smoke thick as pyres and all the bodies falling back into origins and suddenly renewed as the boy coming down a long concrete platform, eyes caught on the towering black forms, ears tuned to the boilers keening.

George Moore’s recent collections include Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FurureCycle 2016). Poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, Orion, Arc, Colorado Review, and Stand.  He is a six-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize, and has been shortlisted for the Bailieborough Poetry Prize and long-listed for the Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Prize and the Ginkgo Prize. After teaching with the University of Colorado, Boulder, he now lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia.

A Song for George

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