Chris Cooper, publisher of the poem, has noticed that the poem has ended up here, and sent this email:
I see the town report poem has migrated to the discussion forum, and I hope it generates some good will there.
It suffered several typos during transcription. These are mostly mis-spellings and a few left out words. The effect of the latter is to interrupt the meter, which renders the lines more difficult to read and less effective. A number of persons who have read the considerable number of poems I’ve contributed to the municipal effort have told me they think this the best one yet, and I’d hate to have it going out to the wider world in less than pristine condition, particularly if it goes in the newsletter and ends up as a permanent part of many person’s archives.
Is it possible for you to paste in the original to correct this? If so, thank you. If not, we’ll ride the coach we’ve boarded without complaining further about the bumpy ride.
I’ll attach the file. Thank you.
Chris Cooper
And here's the original poem:
Local Hero or Once He Built A Railroad orDon’t Carry Nothin’ But The Righteous And The HolyA Train Song, Sort OfI remember Harry. Harry had a dream,
or maybe just a fantasy, at least that’s how it seemed,
to all the
normal people (and back then
I was one)
who said he wouldn’t get it done: these trains would never run.
But he went to Connecticut and he found some rusted trucks
and a forgotten frame of an old flatcar, rotting in the muck.
He acquired right-of-way. He’d buy or beg or barter.
And once he laid out on my desk the corporation charter.
The whole damn thing lived in his head: the lantern glow, the squealing brake,
the tracks converging to a point, the sound the drivers make.
It never was a lonesome train, nor yet an endless track;
it was just a broke-down narrow gauge, and he longed to bring it back.
He heard the whistle whining low that none of us could hear,
and told us we would know it yet, some uncertain day and year.
Now stand the shop, the car barns, and there a string of coaches.
Pulling tender, boxcar and caboose, Number 10 approaches.
You stand there on the platform and you wonder at the scene.
Is something here revealed to us? Do we know what this means?
I’ll tell you, solid citizens, not fade before derision:
we need
many more like Percival, driven by a vision.
Now Harry’s gone to Heaven, or wherever railmen go.
He’s carried to Eternity on that sad train rolling slow.
But Harry was a good guy—I won’t see him in Hell.
(Even
I may yet redeem myself; it’s just too soon to tell.)
No, Harry wasn’t crazy, no more than you or me,
and that’s why, any weekend, you and your kids can see
fire and steam and iron—
locomotive power!—
returned to the Sheepscot valley, departures on the hour.
They’ve pressured up the boiler, raised sufficient steam.
The past is now the future because Harry had a dream.
Buy a ticket, take a ride. Be grateful that you live.
Be remembered not for what you got, but for what you found to
give.
