Showing posts with label NYC subways. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NYC subways. Show all posts

Monday, June 16, 2014

Subway Poem 6/16/14

Photo: Buddy Beaverhausen

My thoughts run faster than this train.
They're Atlantic/Pacific
and scattered like
the yellow Nathan's paper napkins
strewn across the acrylic floor.

There is no track inside my brain
on which my thoughts ride
and, without destination,
they travel on their own.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Subway Poem # 33

freed from underground 
our minutes over the bridge
where the day appears like a mirage
glowing in the sun
the river, sky and buildings
a blue and silver diorama
glimpsed through moving windows
kinescope-like
flickering, savored
before the descent back into darkness plunged,
heaven misplaced

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Subway Poem # 32

wearing weary masks 
asleep with open eyes
  this is not
    the tourist train
hardcore
  commuters
early morning risen
ambiverted
on morning's mission
  for daily bread

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Subway Poem # 27


standing on the platform 
of atlantic avenue
the old tile sign
still reads
pacific street
even though
the stop is now called 
atlantic avenue - barclays center

things change through time
time changes things
even me
it seems even me

everything conveys the sense
that all things are a/k/a today
and known by many names
gone incognito
with various aliases

and you may ask
what's in a name
it's just that i 
feel sad about 
impermanence
and temporality
and my mortality

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Subway Poem # 26

Transmotion

jogger on Manhattan Bridge
parallel we pass
his tee-shirt matches sky, catches eye
behind him, tug boats
and tour boats 
travel perpendicularly
so do seagulls glistening in the blue

and we descend through Chinatown
back to the tunnel and the darkness
and the blindness through our windows
to the world

in motion
the notion that life passes by
life's on the fly
we move on
world, goodbye



Thursday, August 15, 2013

Miss Subways Meet Buddy Beaverhausen

Current NYC subway ads bore me. And I detest the recent trend of total saturation, "theme" advertising where entire cars are plastered with ads for the same product. The Poetry in Motion posters are nice, but there are so few. What I really would like to see is the return of Miss Subways posters in our cars. A bit of beauty, a bit of refinement, a touch of class. Miss S may not be as highly regarded as Miss America but, hey, I'm sure the subway ladies wished for world peace, too.

"Miss Subways was a title accorded to individual New York City women between 1941 and 1976. The woman who was 'Miss Subways' at any one time appeared on posters placed on... trains, along with a brief description of her. In 1957 it was estimated that '5,892,000 pairs of eyes a day' viewed Miss Subways on '14,000 car cards.' The program was run by the New York Subways Advertising Company. Around 200 women held the title during the program's run," Wikipedia explicates.

In 1971, Bernard Spaulding, sales director for the New York Subways Advertising Company, said Miss Subways developed from "a World War II pinup phenomenon and then lost social significance."

Mayor Ed Koch ruminated, in 1979, that "Even now, I can sit in the subway, and look up at the ads, and close my eyes, and there's Miss Subways. She wasn't the most beautiful girl in the world but she was ours. She was our own Miss America." Mayor Koch wasn't the most handsome mayor in NYC but he was ours. (Come to think of it, all the mayors of New York City I can recall were pretty doggy looking up till this day.) Koch was, however, closely associated with a real Miss America, Bess Meyerson, at one time. In fact, she was his "beard" during his first campaign for mayor.

Perhaps, then, Miss Subways is defunct because it was perceived to be sexist. But if Buddy were head of the New York Subways Advertising Company (if it indeed still exists), he'd merely add a Mr Subways campaign for fairness and balance. I would certainly have no problem with images of handsome men's faces on the subways. Hell, just put up shirtless NYC firemen from the pin-up calendar!

Unlike Miss America, Miss Subways was not a competition and there were no bathing suits involved.

In 2004, reporter Melanie Bush brilliantly analyzed the phenomenon:  

From the first ('Mona Freeman, wants to be a top notch freelance illustrator') to the last ('Heidi Hafner ... Her goal: a flight instructor's rating'), they focused on women's ambitions, and in the 1940's or the 70's or [2000's], that's a rare rose to find clamped in the teeth of mass advertising. Yet there it was, and there it more or less firmly remained, probably because the contest was structured during World War II, when more than three million women were offered paying work for the first time, and were thus riding the subways, not to mention operating them, in much greater numbers than before. The posters were at their most radical during the war years, and reflect women's later return to the home. Miss Subways' journey tracks a clear underground parallel to the prescribed roles of her sisters' above: While the civilian women of World War II may have been crucial to the work force, the purpose of housewives, as Betty Friedan puts it, 'is to buy more things for the house.' From the exhilarating peak of December 1942's Marguerite McAuliffe, 'whose aim is to be a doctor as good as her dad,' and November 1943's Cecile Woodley, whose 'main interests are her job and the Navy ... enthusiastically O.K.'s skiing, Mozart and Katharine Hepburn,' we slide submissively toward Irene Scheidt, June 1950, whose 'fondest hope is a trip to Bermuda.' Then up we go again to Eleanor Nash, November 1960, 'young, beautiful, and expert with a rifle.' ... What I waited for each new month was: What did she do? What were her goals? The Miss Subways I wanted to be was the airplane pilot. Or how about 'travel writer'? 'Scientist'? 'Surgeon'? ... Maybe next month she'd plan to be an astronaut. Or president! What was actually going on here, I saw, was women, real New York women, talking to each other about their intentions and transmitting these messages through the medium of some men's advertising campaign.

Although a subjective standard of physical beauty was applied, according to Wikipedia:

"'The general rule [was] that to be eligible, a woman had to be a New York City resident and herself use the subway.'" John Robert Powers, the head of the modeling agency, selected the winners" until 1961 or 1962 and later 'for some years, winners were chosen by the contest organizers.'"

The series represented ethnic diversity with African-American and Asian Miss Subways, reflecting the melting pot quality of NYC in the spirit of the times during which I grew up in the New York City area.

I reviewed some of the Miss S posters on the Internet and here are a few random thoughts:

Ok, Cecile Woodley is fierce! An Assistant buyer at a department store, she's positively in Joan Crawford mode. Her ambition? To be the buyer! Interests? Her job. And the Navy. "Hello, sailor. See anything that... interests you? Let's see if I have something in your, ummm... size."

I enjoy her "enthusiastically okays," too, incidentally. Fabulously phony.

I'd pretty much steer clear of anyone named Borgia, frankly. Call me old-fashioned. Helen only "hopes to practice Law" [emphasis my own] because, like, it was 1941. "[L]ikes to... wear distinctive hats." As you can see, Ms Borgia is smartly sporting a throw pillow.  "Says her brothers are much better looking..."! Holy yowzer! Helen, are you reading this? Are they still alive? Are they rich? Are they interested in an over-the-hill rent boy? (Ahem! I just may know one is all I'm saying. Contact me.)

A stewardess named Landing?

Ironic, no?

Of one Miss Subways, it was written that she "loves to subway," the first time I've seen the word used as a verb. To subway. I think I'll add it to my lexicon: "What a grand day to go subwaying!"

Ah, fellow New Yorkers, these could be our dreamgirls once again. MTA, bring back Miss Subways! (Ok, call her Ms Subways if you must.) (And with Mr Subways, please.)

























Thursday, May 16, 2013

Subway Poem # 24


Deliverance

come you crippled, come you lame
journey to salvation
you with grievances lay blame
come in from the station

we ride through an underworld
railway to redemption
rest your heads, let them be crowned
during our ascension

sing you sinners for your peace
underneath your covers
let them be your golden fleece
let us all be lovers

rise into the brand new day
rise into the promise
on a track that doesn't stray --
tell the doubting thomas

here's where we step off today
here's where we transform
we are off and on our way
now we're safe and warm...
now we're safe from harm...
now we're safe and warm











Friday, May 3, 2013

A New York City Morality Tale

As I posted some time ago, begging on the subway has entered an American Idol phase. You have simply got to have an act these days. Forget about yesteryear's sob stories! You're at least expected to croak out an acapella tune, making up the words if you have to, but for God's sake, you better have an act! No more whining and whimpering. Winos unite, form a doo-wop group and pass the hat for your next bottle of rotgut!

That being said, performing on the subway for money is a felony. You could, conceivably, get gonged during your show when the auxiliary policeman shows up and decides to wield his baton. Be aware it can get dicey.

As I frown on contributing to any criminal act, and because I do not thrill to being part of a captive audience, it is not usually my wont to throw money at these mass-transit troupers. Honeys, unless Patti Lupone herself comes down onto the R train to sing and dance, nobody's getting a red cent from moi. That's my overall credo.

Oh, but today was an exception! It was Friday, right after work, and I just got paid. I was on my way home to start the weekend, so I was undoubtedly a bit giddy. A man stepped aboard my car with his son in tow. (I assume the boy was about 10-years-old.) The man had an accordion strapped around his neck and began playing the song, "Lambada." Oh, how I love that crazy Brazilian tune; drives me wild! The Forbidden Dance! Women twirling in mini-skirts, revealing their thong underwear! Men too! Why, the very word lambada makes me think of lambda, and how much gayer can we get than that?

The son took off his baseball cap and walked around, smiling sweetly with Bambi-like eyes, using the hat to collect. Well, my cold, cold heart began to thaw, if only a smidge. It was just like in church; we passengers reached into our pockets and cast dollar bills into the "collection basket" impulsively. Why, I almost genuflected!

This act was a success, people, I tell you! We need to come up with an award for subway talent such as this. How about The Trainies? Has a ring to it, no? This act had pathos, joy, tinges of sexuality and a keyboard/wind instrument that brought me back to my childhood, sitting in front of the tv, watching Lawrence Welk perform. (Though Lawrence of Accordion never played the Lambada!)

Now, had the accordionist played the Macarena, instead, things might have worked out quite differently. And therein is the moral to this story:

Know your audience. And give the people what they want!




Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Subway Poem # 16


Surreality

early morning subway dreamers, 
drowsy subway coffee thinkers
disembark: destinations known and not, 
crossing platforms
as electronic voices repeat,
"have a nice day!
have a nice day!
have a nice day!"

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Subway Poem #14


fist clutches steel
eyes closed
morning comes too early
but here's the dance of a young man
in fresh construction clothes
keeping his sleepy balance on a hurtling car
poll dancer through our underworld

if he would slowly undress for us
tear off constraints of morning
the work day
the weary world of toil
through tunnels to salt mines
our icon
effigy
idol
sculpted flesh freed from daily artifice

amongst others standing and seated
sipping paper cups of coffee
the packed house barely sees his moves
in tribal theater
but i watch 
enthralled
as he balances
with shifting feet
there is movement and life

he swings and stomps with clumsy grace
reminding us
we are all dancers
hustling for poise
till the whistle blows at sundown
and we slowly can undress

Thursday, January 19, 2012

The Entertainment Underground

I don't need Mental Illness Awareness Week (more benevolently known as Mental Health Awareness Week) to roll around because I ride the New York City subways. I'm well aware of mental illness -- all year long.

I also don't need to seek out entertainment because, from the upper eastside to Bay Ridge, my R train ride is virtually the poor man's Ed Sullivan Show rebooted for 2012. There's an endless list of mariachi bands who come aboard, unable to contain their "Cielito Lindo" until Cinco de Mayo. There are the breakdancing teens who enter the subway stagedoor with their boom box, somersaulting across the floor. (Look out, strap hangers!) There are the doo-wop groups, the acapella blind man, the opera singers, saxophonists, accordian players. Does reading aloud from the Bible qualify as drama?

In any event, at some point, the artistes pass the hat for you to put a little moolah in it, to show your appreciation. Wait a minute! This isn't Ed Sullivan! It's the subterranean Jerry Lewis Telethon!

Tourists snap pictures and are delighted. Not so much New York City commuters coming home from a long day's work. (The entertainers generally know better than to audition during the morning rush hour. They also know to cut to intermission when the train doors open at the next station, just in case a cop is standing there. They may be putting on a show but performing before a captive audience is still a crime (creating a public nuisance, endangering passengers by blocking the aisles and/or exits, etc.). There ought to be a law against bad voices and guitar picking as well or, at least, there ought to be a gong.

Forget your Kindle or your iPod because you won't need them. You won't be able to read, hear or think above the din once entertainment is enforced upon you. Like the floor show or not, the performers demand your undivided attention.

But -- hey! -- don't forget, gang: "The world is a stage/the stage is a world of entertainment!" Most especially, these days,... in your subway car.