SpokenVerse | Train for Ill, A Ballad by R S Gwynn (read by Tom O'Bedlam) @SpokenVerse | Uploaded March 2013 | Updated October 2024, 1 hour ago.
A poem with the gloom of Housman relieved by its rattling metre and macabre humour. It sounds a like a theme by Matthew Arnold rewritten by John Betjeman.
I remember a young friend complaining indignantly about about losing his teeth. I replied - well you're twenty-five, it's all downhill from here. He brings it up when something else starts to fail.
We are frail impermanent creatures. Those who want life-extension seem to overlook a more distressing problem that would need to be solved first - how would we prevent our bodies from becoming uncomfortable accommodation? .
Longfellow said "They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer." It was certainly true for him. For the majority of us I'm not so sure. If we hang on too long, some will be glad to see us depart in the end. Once our lands are in order then perhaps we should have the decency to be expeditious - what good does it do to prolong the inevitable? The best we can hope for is a comfortable transition.
Ecclesiastes, Chapter 12, often rings in my ears:
"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh,
when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;...
...
and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home,
....
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was:
and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity."
(vanity means "in vain" or futile.)
kingjbible.com/ecclesiastes/12.htm
Pictures:
hdwpapers.com/train_station_painting_wallpaper-wallpapers.html
Railway Platform painting by Lowry
Painting of Paddington Station by William Frith in 1862.
"An actress wearing period costume poses for photographers next to a steam train which used to carry passengers in the 19th century as it arrived at Moorgate Underground Station in central London on January 13, 2013, to mark 150 years since the first London underground journey. ©AFP PHOTO / CARL COURT"
Lovers's kissing from an article about Long Distance relationships in The Guardian:
guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/sep/10/relationships
Victorian London refuge with wealthy bible reader by Gustave Doré
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
... A. E. Housman
The train for Ill is a long train
That takes on passengers in Pain,
Where prayers are offered to complain
To skies of unrelenting rain
And all roads run downhill.
And we who slowly file aboard
Clutch tickets we can scarce afford;
Protesting our unjust reward,
We take the train for Ill.
The platform soon grows loud with those
Who wear dark bands and Sunday clothes,
Whose shared emotion plainly shows
With handkerchiefs near every nose.
They watch the coaches fill,
And as our group departs a few
Shed tears, which others fail to do:
Survivors' benefits accrue
On the train for Ill.
With ashes smeared on every face
The children who appear to chase
The last car seem to run in place
As if inclined to lose the race.
Their cries grow short and shrill
And fall behind as we descend,
Cars swaying lightly in the wind,
A grade that shudders to the end
Of the train for Ill.
Oh, if there were some way we could
Journey instead to distant Good!
We touch old charms and knock on wood
But each mile makes it understood
That we never will.
To our sorrow we must learn
The shining hopes for which we yearn
Are stamped, like tickets, "No return"
On the train for Ill.
How soon it seems the soft light goes—
Then summer's heat, then corn in rows,
Then on a wall one brilliant rose
Signals a stop as petals close
In the growing chill.
Our faltering voices raise to sing
Remembrances of how the spring
Gathered its green regrets to bring
To the train for Ill.
"Shall we know any good again?"
Some cry. "How many times? And when?"
The warnings on our medicine
Offer no clues what may be in
Each dark and bitter pill.
Beside the tracks two lovers kiss.
We know we have no part in this,
The daily dose we never miss
On the train for Ill.
And at the end what will remain?
An emptiness that can contain
All losses and all hopes of gain,
Even nostalgic thoughts of Pain,
That city on the hill?
With no more failings to confess
We lift our voices up to bless
Each frail design of loveliness,
All sweetness that grows less and less
Aboard the train for Ill.
A poem with the gloom of Housman relieved by its rattling metre and macabre humour. It sounds a like a theme by Matthew Arnold rewritten by John Betjeman.
I remember a young friend complaining indignantly about about losing his teeth. I replied - well you're twenty-five, it's all downhill from here. He brings it up when something else starts to fail.
We are frail impermanent creatures. Those who want life-extension seem to overlook a more distressing problem that would need to be solved first - how would we prevent our bodies from becoming uncomfortable accommodation? .
Longfellow said "They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer." It was certainly true for him. For the majority of us I'm not so sure. If we hang on too long, some will be glad to see us depart in the end. Once our lands are in order then perhaps we should have the decency to be expeditious - what good does it do to prolong the inevitable? The best we can hope for is a comfortable transition.
Ecclesiastes, Chapter 12, often rings in my ears:
"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh,
when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;...
...
and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home,
....
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was:
and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity."
(vanity means "in vain" or futile.)
kingjbible.com/ecclesiastes/12.htm
Pictures:
hdwpapers.com/train_station_painting_wallpaper-wallpapers.html
Railway Platform painting by Lowry
Painting of Paddington Station by William Frith in 1862.
"An actress wearing period costume poses for photographers next to a steam train which used to carry passengers in the 19th century as it arrived at Moorgate Underground Station in central London on January 13, 2013, to mark 150 years since the first London underground journey. ©AFP PHOTO / CARL COURT"
Lovers's kissing from an article about Long Distance relationships in The Guardian:
guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/sep/10/relationships
Victorian London refuge with wealthy bible reader by Gustave Doré
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
... A. E. Housman
The train for Ill is a long train
That takes on passengers in Pain,
Where prayers are offered to complain
To skies of unrelenting rain
And all roads run downhill.
And we who slowly file aboard
Clutch tickets we can scarce afford;
Protesting our unjust reward,
We take the train for Ill.
The platform soon grows loud with those
Who wear dark bands and Sunday clothes,
Whose shared emotion plainly shows
With handkerchiefs near every nose.
They watch the coaches fill,
And as our group departs a few
Shed tears, which others fail to do:
Survivors' benefits accrue
On the train for Ill.
With ashes smeared on every face
The children who appear to chase
The last car seem to run in place
As if inclined to lose the race.
Their cries grow short and shrill
And fall behind as we descend,
Cars swaying lightly in the wind,
A grade that shudders to the end
Of the train for Ill.
Oh, if there were some way we could
Journey instead to distant Good!
We touch old charms and knock on wood
But each mile makes it understood
That we never will.
To our sorrow we must learn
The shining hopes for which we yearn
Are stamped, like tickets, "No return"
On the train for Ill.
How soon it seems the soft light goes—
Then summer's heat, then corn in rows,
Then on a wall one brilliant rose
Signals a stop as petals close
In the growing chill.
Our faltering voices raise to sing
Remembrances of how the spring
Gathered its green regrets to bring
To the train for Ill.
"Shall we know any good again?"
Some cry. "How many times? And when?"
The warnings on our medicine
Offer no clues what may be in
Each dark and bitter pill.
Beside the tracks two lovers kiss.
We know we have no part in this,
The daily dose we never miss
On the train for Ill.
And at the end what will remain?
An emptiness that can contain
All losses and all hopes of gain,
Even nostalgic thoughts of Pain,
That city on the hill?
With no more failings to confess
We lift our voices up to bless
Each frail design of loveliness,
All sweetness that grows less and less
Aboard the train for Ill.
