Two poems

MY BUS CONDUCTOR

My busconductor tells me
he only has one kidney
and that may soon go on strike
through overwork.
Each busticket
takes on now a different shape
and texture.
He holds a ninepenny single
as if it were a rose
and puts the shilling in his bag
as a child into a gasmeter
His thin lips
have no quips
for fat factorygirls
and he ignores
the drunk who snores
and the oldman who talks to himself
and gets of at the wrong stop.
He goes gently to the bedroom
of the bus to collect
and watch familiar shops and pubs passby
(perhaps for the last time?)
The same old streets look different now
more distinct
as through new glasses.
And the sky
was it ever so blue?
And all the time
deepdown in the deserted busshelter of his mind
he thinks about his journey nearly done.
One day he'll clock on and never clock off
or clock off and never clock on.

Roger McGough
.Compare the poem with..

My bus conductor tells me he only has one kidney and that may soon go on strike through overwork. Each bus ticket takes on now a different shape and texture. He holds a nine-penny single as if it were a rose and puts the shilling in his bag as a child into a gas meter. His thin lips have no quips for fat factory girls and he ignores the drunk who snores and the old man who talks to himself and gets off at the wrong stop. He goes gently to the bedroom of the bus to collect and watch familiar shops and pubs pass by (perhaps for the last time?). The same old streets look different now more distinct as through new glasses. And the sky was it ever so blue? And all the time deep down in the deserted bus shelter of his mind he thinks about his journey nearly done. One day he'll clock on and never clock off or clock off and never clock on.

~ ~ ~

A MARTIAN SENDS A POSTCARD HOME

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings--

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on the ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the properites of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside --
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves --
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

Craig Raine

Analyze this lesson plan: www.collaborativelearning.org/martianpostcard.pdf