Riding the Paternoster Lift*

[heslopian]

One by one we climbed aboard
the open-faced, upright coffin,
that cardboard dumbwaiter,
white and serene as a doctor’s office,
on its continuous journey, up through the roof
and down through the pit,
places forbidden from human passage.
At first I was scared by the green oblong sign,
nailed to the vehicle's back wall,
which warned against travelling
in those dark places.

As one might expect it became a dare,
of the most half-hearted sort.
We knew the truth would disappoint;
above the fifth floor all that we would see
is chains and a slither of light through a slit,
like a low rent Vincent Price movie, with
the car gently rocking, a cradle in the breeze.

Nonetheless I was scared, as I am of most things,
though when I saw my love ride it,
my long haired prince in his lime mackintosh,
so he could impress two nearby girls,
my fear abandoned me, like a boy who sees his big brother
shoot down the street on his bike, and decides
to try it for himself.

Somewhere a soldier lifts a football,
and never reaches base again,
a middle eastern woman wilts
beneath a rain of stones,
some young queer is beaten to death,
and I overcome my fear of the paternoster lift.

*This poem is a rewrite of the poem below, written 30th March, 2010:

I climbed aboard the little
car, the cardboard dumbwaiter,
white and serene as a doctor’s
office, on it’s long constant journey
through that sparse roof, and down
inside that pit, the places forbidden
from view or entrance. I was scared
of that little green sign at first, the
ominous one which warned,
with more sinister patience than
a schoolmaster’s belt, never to
ride beyond the top floor, or
below the bottom one too, lest
some hideous happening occur.

As is the way with young people,
it became a kind of half-hearted
dare. We all strove to ride that
paternoster lift, see what the designers
had hidden from us, even though we
knew the truth would disappoint,
that we’d see only chains and a slither
of light, the car gently rocking, and
then back down or up, just like before,
more tiresome than a fifties’ sitcom
(“crikey Mrs. Smith! Billy’s only gone
and wooed the neighbour’s girl!”
“Gee wiz, hubby! Can it really be?!”)

Still, I was scared, as I am of most
things, even of being scared itself, which
taunts me like a piece of string, dangled
above a ferocious kitten. But, as soon as
I saw him ride it (we were seated on the very
top floor, and amused ourselves with the
sight of two girls, who took pictures
of the lift as though it were France),
travel inside the roof, then travel back
down (I saw his legs, his thin yet
sturdy matchstick legs, first, followed
by his green jacket, and great dark stubble), I
decided that I, big bulbous Jack, could do it too.

Somewhere, a solider picks up what he
thinks is a football, and never reaches base
again. Some young queer is beaten to death,
merely for kissing his fellows. A middle eastern
woman croaks, beneath a hail of her village’s
stones. A business collapses, and a man seeks
solace in his rope. A teenager bleeds at Victoria
Station. And I ride that paternoster lift, through the
roof and then back down. How courageous of me.

[billy]

i read this a few times yesterday but never got chance to reply due to making the site dissolve away while me and addy were working on it lmao.

first off i think both are good though the original feels to be condescending in the last verse.
while the first verse made it feel more tongue in cheek than it should have i think.

the edit is a horse of a different colour;

Somewhere a soldier lifts a football,
and never reaches base again,
a middle eastern woman wilts
beneath a rain of stones,
some young queer is beaten to death,
and I overcome my fear of the paternoster lift.



would something that equates with base work better than football, that way it would
have a clear more than one meaning. maybe bat, or ball?
is the 'but' needed? is my needed in the 3rd verse line 5

apart for those little nits i though the edit great. this is the 2nd poem i've replied to toady that i feel could be something in a book.
i loved every line in the last verse. and most of the others in the poem as well. the sexuality came through at the perfect strength
with a perfect lime macintosh, which didn't use the green word cos it was already used but echoed it just so instead, the picture fits much better

excellent edit jack, thanks for the read.

[heslopian]

You found the first verse of the original too lounge-in-cheek? I didn't intend it to be so but, looking back, I can see how the reader might get that impression; the constant influx of rattle-and-scream insinuation does verge somewhat on parody. I got the idea to re-write this piece because I liked the concept, but felt it was hideously over-written, with needless half-assed satire, self-pity and, as you said, condescension, like a Stephen Fry memoir Instead of "lifts a football" would "cuts a wire" work, in reference to a bomb? The football was based on an advert I saw which showed an Iraqi child kicking a football towards a soldier and then running off when he lifts it, implying there's a bomb inside.

[billy]

sorry jack, for me the original 1st was more of a ramble
the;

one which warned,
with more sinister patience than
a schoolmaster’s belt, never to
ride beyond the top floor, or
below the bottom one too, lest
some hideous happening occur.

for me it makes it feel a little enid blighton which doesn't mean it doesn't work and why am i defending myself hehe.

yeah jack for me it felt a little tongue in cheek. compared to the rest of the poem.

i actually liked the tie in of ball and base, as base where he's stationed and base on a field. though the wire works okay as well.

[heslopian]

Yes, why are you defending yourself when I'm agreeing with you If you like the football thing I'll keep it. Thanks for the feedback and kind words