My Dad, he loved trains
he loved the chug of them
the noise and wind
of a full steam scream
the metal and fire and hold on
for your life, looking
for the next stop
coming round the bend
Standing on a platform
with places to go,
rails stretched long
stitched across the land
heads hanging out
windows, whooshing past
abandonded depots
in towns that time forgot
My Dad, he loved trains
never met a station
he didn’t like, he
built railroad altars
to punctuate his life
to hold those engines
in the palm of his hand
my Dad, he loved trains.
Well, thanks Bill. This is the type of prompt that I need. Something to help me out of my poetic rut.
Trains are in my blood. They are an Eyde Thing (as are planes, but let that be another poem). My dad loved trains, and he knew all the lines, all the railroads, used to travel to obscure places just to see their train stations. He was famous for saying, “the train used to stop here, in this little place!” with the same tone of nostalgic amazement, every time. Trains brought life, and my dad celebrated that. It fascinated him, much like boats and ports and maritime history fascinates me. Ever since I was a small child he used to buy train sets and built model railroads with my brothers and I. He never stopped, up until he passed away at the age of 71 he built train sets and models. It was his indulgence in his later years.
The photo is of the old train depot in Gettysburg, PA. I took this photo while I was visiting Gettysburg with my mom and one of my daughters. Local legend says that President Lincoln arrived at this station with his train car when he came to deliver the Gettysburg address. Gettysburg is a bit off the beaten track, so it didn’t get much traffic and the train station shut down in the mid 20th century. My Dad went to college at Gettsyburg, and I imagine that he probably got a kick out of the train station there, just a couple of blocks from campus but historically significant because of it’s place in time and history.
Lupita Eyde-Tucker is a bilingual poet and translator raised in New Jersey and Guayaquil, Ecuador. She is the winner of the 2021 Unbound Book Festival Emerging Poet Award, the 2019 Betty Gabehart Prize, and in 2018 was selected as an AWP Writer to Writer Mentee by poet Maggie Smith. In 2022 her poetry manuscript, "Eucalyptus," was a finalist for the Andrés Montoya Prize from Letras Latinas. The manuscript explores her Sephardic Jewish ancestry and bi-cultural heritage.
Not Enough Poetry 
Yep, my dad was like that too.
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This is so good! Those altars your father could hold in his hand. A really loving poem.
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Hey there N Florida,
I had an uncle like that. Had a big train table in his basement. Could tell you all about them, and had several different models. Used to let me wear the conductor hat while he ran them round and round.
/
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Such a beautiful & heart-warming poem 🙂
Lots of love,
Sanaa
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There is a mystique about trains and all they represent. This prompt is making me want to take a train trip.
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How delightful to read that your father loves trains ~ He must have enjoyed travelling to towns and new places ~
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I can really feel your dad’s spirit in this poem! I do think trains are in some people’s blood. Your poem celebrates your dad & is a keeper.
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“In a town that time forgot”–love that line.
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how cool … and cool that he knew so much about the different lines as well… i too love trains – they’re so full of history and dreams and i remember the trains that actually had windows to open…unfortunately the new ones don’t have those anymore
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This prompt really was made for you and Polly then – what a powerful and detailed portrait of your father! It’s these eccentricities and obscure bits of knowledge which we treasure.
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Ah.. a father and a train
in best alike.. predictable
always there.. when
they are needed
most..:)
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It was worth passing by, nice one.
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I could feel your father in this, and your love for him.
Riding my bicycle along some of the old lines, often there’s a ghost town, or a shut mine that was right on the tracks – and when the trains stopped, as if the blood within their veins failed – the towns withered and died.
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I just adore this portrait of your Dad. It was much better he had railroads as his passion, & hobby, rather than working for the Railroad, & having his fantasies reduced to diesel smoke, & track repairs.
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you’ve beautifully sketched your father’s passion in these lines…an interesting read…
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I often don’t remember the verses just after reading them, but good poems always bump up my heartbeat. And this one does so Well.
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