April 1, 2025 • 37 mins
QUEENSBOUND is a poetry project by, for, and about Queens. QUEENSBOUND 2024 is our fourth edition. 2024 contributors include: allia abdullah-matta, Jared Beloff, Joe Gross, Nathalie Handal, Emily Hockaday, Dena Igusti, Olena Jennings, Catherine Kapphahn, Hiromi Kiba, Amy Lemmon, Rajan Maharjan, José Alfredo Menjivar, Enzo Silon Surin, Bruce Whitacre, and Micah Zevin. QUEENSBOUND 2021 selections were made by editorial board members Sherese Francis, Jared Harel, Abeer Hoque, Meera Nair, and founder KC Trommer. This edition brings in more voices of Queens writers to the project and includes poems in languages other than English, along with translations that are read by the author. Here, you’ll find 15 poems from our contributors, as well as four poems—one in Japanese, Nepali, Spanish, and Ukrainian—accompanied by their English translations. To see the map, hear the poems, and learn more about our contributors and about future train readings, go to queensbound.com.
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(00:00):
This is QUEENSBOUND.
Stand clear of the closing doors please.
Hi everyone. This is KCTrommer, founder of QUEENSBOUND,
a poetry project by,for, and about Queens.
I'm thrilled to share the 2024 editionwith you in which we bring in more voices
of Queens writers to the project andinclude poems and languages other than
English, along with translationsthat are read by the author.
(00:24):
Have a listen and I hopeyou enjoy Queens Bound 2024.
This is an Astoria DitmarsBoulevard bound N local train.
The next stop is Broadway.
My name is Natalie Handal. I'llbe reading Crossing Broadway.
I stared at you as if I forgot your face.
(00:46):
I felt your streets of flamesand fables on my flesh heard a
radio playing
Willie Colón's "Sin poderte hablar" asHaris Alexiou's "The Soldier," entered
and exited my mind like war,
like a confession before a crash.
It's here I believe my lover most.
(01:08):
Love waits for a greatstillness to tell us when it
ends.
It's here by the bodegaon 31st and Broadway.
The clicking of my Jaffaorange-colored sandals returned
here under the tracks that Icouldn't translate migration
as if I forgot to speakthe language of the sea.
(01:30):
Now when I walk from St. Demeteriosto Dave & Tony Salumeria on 30th Ave,
I understand my need forplaces where nothing changes.
And remember the night Ileft Omonia Café grabbed the
shadow under the end drain,wrapped it around me,
(01:51):
and knew even when I envy your tongues,
my mouth is yours. Evenwhen I can't repeat history,
nothing changes you in my memory.
The next stop is Parsons Boulevard.
My name is Enzo SilonSurin and this is my poem,
(02:15):
Elegy for One Sixty-FirstStreet, five years,
after Grandmaster Flashpenned a rap about edges.
You zigzagged the corners and run fromBenson and Hedges back when the zeitgeist
of the block was crack and your fatherhad that used pale blue Pontiac you would
dash the family into on Friday nightstrying to counter the myopic pull
(02:36):
of the blocks high danger of dope fiendsand the debilitating euphoria in a
whimsical gaze waylaid like mazes.
You sat in the back seat and utteredunder your breath why would anyone ever
trade in nights under palms trees forthese qualm nights for the menacing
overtone of a smile without teeth?
Because you've come to learn the mostimportant lesson is to master your own
(02:57):
gaze and strut for the days when soonenough you'd be spit back onto the same
strip of block or twice,
a woman with eyes belonging to thatdragged out and quintessential gaze
proffered you an act of fellatio for $5.
You were 10 years old on an errandto buy milk in a flagitious galaxy,
but carried the weight of her bid on allfuture quest to the grocery store when
(03:20):
the concrete sparkled like a skyfull of stars under your feet.
You were grateful for the drift of Fridaynights when street telemetry took a
backseat to the only sign of life,
a magnificent breeze against your face.
This is a Queens Boulevard bound a train.
The next stop is 111th Street.
(03:43):
This is Dena Igusti and this is my poem
sonnet as a survival guide forboth versions of this city.
Slick yourself in Vaseline.Block the bathroom door.
When a girl tries to hurt you,close your thumb over your fist,
twist your fingers into her hair. Otherweak points, earrings, bra straps,
wrists. Pull, beat,
punch each other until one of youslaps the linoleum. Her friends yell.
(04:06):
Best friend. Your friend callsyour name, she calls you Bitch,
you yell up yours. Bob, weave,
flinch like bald Lefferts cornertrees after gunshots or firework
bliss. Yank her ponytail ifyou must, but do not kill her,
even if she kissed yourboyfriend scratched your face,
ripped off your nameplate, threwit in a piss-covered corner.
Your sweat rising like a musty petricor.
(04:30):
We can't lose girls evenfrom their own antics.
Glimmer that determineswhat the city makes of you.
Breaking before you pullat what lunges after you,
what parishes to sustain yourkingdom. Broken 18 karat gold,
A ripped bra strap, sweaty palms.
(04:50):
This is an N local train.
The next stop is 36th Avenue.
I'm Amy Lemmon and thisis my poem Evening Call.
She FaceTimes while I'mpicking up souvlaki,
my bag already full importedolive oil, sardines,
(05:11):
Greek pastries. I love you, Mom.
No tears this time.
The staff are quick tosay she cries for Mom.
On screen we look alike:
two girls with glassesfond of floral dresses.
She's back in Queensafter two years upstate,
the lockdown made itclear six times lost six
(05:35):
times miraculously found. Wecould no longer live together.
Now her face fills the screenbehind the curtain that divides her
room in half. Her cell,I try not to think.
Her roommate spiels a steady stream.
I put noise cancelingheadphones on the list.
(05:56):
I turn my phone to show herthe bright counter busy grill,
the board lit up withchoices. Chicken? She asks.
I say goodbye and pay. I crossHoyt under elevated tracks.
My girl knows traffic lights butwouldn't watch for cars turning from
31st or funneled from theGrand Central. Gunning,
(06:20):
gridlock loaded. May otherswalk with her when I cannot.
May drivers not stare attheir phones as I do walking.
Watching her alone.
This is a far Rockaway MottAvenue bound, a local train.
The stop is 88th Street.
(06:45):
My name is Rajan Maharjan. I'll bereading my poem March Conversations with
Arlani. Spring has not arrived yet
at the Tudor Village. Is itstuck in the busy belt parkway?
The A train it's on, is it delayed?
We are waiting for a grand arrival,
eager to wave goodbye to the glum cold,
(07:07):
which seems to have its feetglued, refusing to leave.
We are stuck inside whilethe last uncertain March days
pass me and my 21 months old daughter,
who is figuring out the language to ask,
look through the living room window.
See these withered chrysanthemumsgathering courage to blossom
(07:31):
flowers as yellow as this wait.
We see the sun outside,which looks temptingly warm.
She points her fingers at the windows,
pulls my hand with her otherhand like pulling Bunga Dya the
spring god chariot,
throws herself to thefloor in front of the door.
(07:52):
With all she has learned,she keeps asking,
why don't we go out?
Why don't we play on the slides andenjoy the cool fountains of Addabbo
playground. The sunoutside is an illusion.
You will learn it and moretruth is darker than it appears.
The sidewalks that you wantto run has cold piercing,
(08:15):
wind wilding.
It can get inside us andit can make a cold. Yes,
even a warm and innocent child like
you.
(10:11):
This is Flushing Main Street.
My name is Joe Grossand this is Beatitude.
a guy drops $10 almost bobbles a bouquetworking his way back to his kissena
blvd beatrice having harrowed the hudsonyards hells & shepherded the shorn
flowers of the field to the mainstreet-flushing sphere of fire.
(10:34):
I bestow it back--yo my man, brother,
my guy--being of the opinion the bouquet'sa lily too light & opining inaudibly
how he should've devoted the damn$10 too thus parabled I pollute with
pessimism's prognostications the35mm nitrate night but capital cannot
overmaster these old-fashioned lovers'labors nor alienate them but cash cannot
drown the incessant bloomof decent desires' dull ache but one must render unto
caesar what is caesar's unto god whatis god's unto the workaday wage earners
what is ours the film stock burns up thecash ain't for us 8 hours don't make a
day & we're just dimes holding up adollar what's left to us is that celestial
selfless love.
(11:21):
This is a Far Rockaway MottAvenue bound, a local train.
My name is allia abdullah-mattaand this is my poem, Mott Avenue.
Mott Avenue,
first and last on the A trainto Far Rockaway where the
Q113 and Q22 met at beach
(11:44):
20th Gino's Pizza andThriftway Drugs where the
local clothing storehad layaway in 79 and we
sat in McDonald's waiting for the train.
A quick walk to Redfern projects fromthe A train where my two boys went to
summer day camp for eightweeks in 94 after Montessori
(12:07):
school and blue stripeties in St. Alban's,
they learned to pull their coin orderchicken wings and french fries or fried
rice, how to give dap to the teenagecounselors and throw punches.
It pushed to punch back.On cold winter nights,
he station was too cold andthe train took too long.
(12:29):
We took the 44 44 or the 7 7 7 7
cabs from Mott Avenue to29 32 Beach Channel and
the 40s. We liked theA train summer breeze,
salt water and project mistthrough open windows and doors.
Sometimes the train took too longand we walked it or hitchiked
(12:53):
after parties at St.Gertrude's Community Center.
Redfern is still a quickwalk from the station.
Affordable housing onNameoke Ave and 2278 Mott
all high rise and glasswindows for the rock.
The McDonald's is modernized andstill across the street from Dawn's
(13:15):
old house where I stillexpect to see her dad smoke a
cigarette on the stooplong after she passed away,
before her friends had kids.
Far Rock newcomers take the Atrain or the shuttle to Rockaway
Beach, post-Hurricane Sandyto renovated boardwalks,
(13:36):
bungalows and condos. In winter,
we check the MTA app anddon't wait in the cold
station for too long.
The next stop is 104th Street.
(13:57):
The Empty Train by Emily Hockaday.
The empty train rattlespast along Jamaica Avenue.
I have spent so much time withmy face pressed against the
plexiglass windows peeringinto the eye level apartments.
I think about the families, the rooms,
(14:19):
the fluttering curtainsthat I travel past.
The pandemic real estaterush to leave the city
feels like a slap inthe face. What are we,
if not New Yorkers?
The weather gets warmer and thecontrast becomes more stark gone.
The open fire hydrants,
(14:39):
the street splashing the smoky clouds,
carrying the scent of grilled meat fromthe barbecue pit across the street.
My daughter hears the ice creamtruck song and does a little dance
yelling, Ice cream! Ice cream,
but the music doesn't linger.
It moves along like so many sirens.
(15:06):
This is an N local train.
The next stop is Queensboro Plaza.
My name is Catherine Kapphahn.
I'll be reading from my poem The Boy Who
Flew.
Walk Flashes and the three ofus race across Queensboro Plaza,
(15:27):
side lane, bike lane,
north and south Lanes past carsready to cross the 59th Street
bridge.
Below screeching subway we zigzaggedto quieter streets with one
hand I juggle stroller with theother 4-year-old rafa's hand.
8-year-old Radek skips aheadlaughing at teasing wind playfully
(15:50):
shoving us side to side,forward and backward.
Rafa leans 20 poundsinto me. Isn't this fun?
Wind crescendos Adowndraft hits forcefully
pushing us backward. Thisis not fun. We stumble.
I hunch grip stroller tightlyuntil something thrust my
(16:12):
arm upward.
I look up to see Radek'sexpression of bewilderment.
Blue eyes looking behind me.
I whirl to see Rafa's suspendedbody cartoon image above
my shoulder, above my head,
right arm string Rafa kiteskyward legs parallel to
(16:34):
sidewalk. Red.
Puffy jacket balloonshis eyes huge with horror
he screams his cap isripped off air bound,
flipping down the emptystreet. What if I lose my grip?
This boy who has a newborn fellfrom a sling skull fracture.
(16:54):
This boy who has a newborn waslunged at by a large pit bull.
This boy who had a feralpart kitten scratch his face.
This boy who split his headtwice staples, infection staples.
The wind cannot have himhysterically. I dropped to sidewalk.
Rafa slams to cement.
(17:15):
Wind ceases as if it never was.
Rafa sobs, blood pouringfrom bit through bottom lip.
Radek races is over. Didhe just fly like Superman?
I nod, gasping, crying, shaking, rocking,
holding my son to this earth.
(17:39):
This is Q Garden's Union Turnpike.
I'm Jared Beloff and thisis my poem The World to
Come. Not as many people comefor the belly lox anymore.
Only the older ones polish.
Maybe sometimes Carmenwho has been slicing fish
(18:00):
for over 30 years is kindenough to only imply loss.
Perhaps they moved away? For a moment.
Our minds snowbird to retirementcommunities in Florida.
Conversations on verandaaccents seeding the humid air.
The refrigerator's hum. Arow of white fish salad,
(18:21):
pickled herring eyes like black rimplates clinging to a sables wrinkled
side. For some theafterlife is a gathering,
a line down the block or the snore.
Scraping the last of thecream cheese from the tub.
Carmen gives us extra slices,coral folds and small piles.
(18:41):
Their salt draws out thesweetness from our tongues.
This is 121st Streettransfer is available to
the Q 10 bus to JFK airport.
Queens Bohemian Rhapsody Hiromi
(19:05):
Kiba. Along the
crosstown J train,
I commute to music
venues on 121st Street
Station platform.
I capture two moments on my phone.
(19:27):
Sunrise, sunset,
celebrating another dayof survival in the city.
For me,
this also becomes an access to
birding.
Nature is now muchcloser than ever before.
(19:49):
A hidden world of wonder through a pair
of binoculars,
American kestrel Peregrine falconRed-tailed hawk Great horned owl
Black-and-white warbler Goldfinch Tuftedtitmouse Baltimore oriole in endless
hues.
Birdwatching
(20:24):
and riches life helpingplant trees in Forest
Park,
cleaning up trash outsidethe rich boot reservoir.
Learning about pipingproba at Rockaway Beach.
Joining a field trip to Jamaica Bay,
(20:45):
Wildlife Refuge led by Queens
County Bird Club.
Migrating birds bring us a song in every
chord,
welcoming you to experience our birdland
where we find the strength of life,
(21:08):
the freedom of dance in everywing. In Queens bohemian rhapsody,
our spirits take flight overthe colors of the rainbow.
(23:54):
The is Q Gardens Union Turnpike.
This is Bruce Whitacre. I'm readingmy poem Garuda in Forest Park, a
Pantoum.
Perching
on a park bench timer set for nirvana.
Insight whispers in each puffof breeze. Luffing the trees.
(24:18):
Boys pass on bikes. Barelyaware. Barely aware.
Cool breeze. Topographyof green trees cradles.
Blue sky, horsetail clouds.
Insight whispers in each puffof breeze, loving the trees,
breeze and then breeze.Soft gaze, barely aware.
(24:40):
Topography of green trees cradles.
Blue sky horsetail clouds.
Lawn plotted with blanketsand people reading supine
breathe and then breathe. Soft gaze.
Barely aware that loneoak, stout trunk tosses.
Its green crown,
silver lined lawn plotted withblankets where people read each other's
(25:04):
spines.
Flash of winged profileand a hawk swoops into the
lone oak.
The lone oak stout trunkcloses its green crown
around its guest. Boys pass on bikes.
Unaware. Unaware. Back to cool breeze.
(25:26):
Flash of winged profile anda hawk vanished into that
lone oak perching on a park bench timeout
for Nirvana.
This is an N local train.
The stop is 39th Avenue.
(25:49):
My name is OlanaJennings. This is my poem,
Ground Floor 39th Ave.
She is there in her bandana,
a piece of tightrope in herhand from a forgotten circus.
Talking to herself, she hasperformed in front of a million.
She tells you unravelingscarves until nothing is
(26:14):
left. Not even her body,
her spirit in art galleries.
In one of them you findyour own image in yarn,
the scratch you have onyour cheek there in Purple
Walk Home from this pointpast autobody shops.
Where he lies on his back andabove him is his entire world.
(26:37):
Your favorite APAs.
The Rose and the empty champagnebottle beckons you further.
A step from the lost scent,
A step from Astoria where youhave made the embracing houses
familiar as you take hertightrope and keep walking
(26:59):
avenue.
(28:18):
This is a Forest Hills71st Avenue bound R train.
The next stop is Northern Boulevard.
José Alfredo Menjivar. I got to getback home. I got to get back home.
Back to Woodside Queens,
which despite its namehas no woods or forests.
(28:40):
And instead of trees andnature, concrete blocks,
parallel avenues and side streetswhere the playgrounds we used,
we fell asleep and woke upto the sounds never ending.
Traffic produced thesymphony of cars, buses,
and taxi cabs that pour outof the bridge's mouth that connects us to Manhattan.
(29:01):
While the steel beneath trains overhead,
vibrate the air aboveand trains underground.
Below rumble our floors on a map.
Woodside is dividedinto, but for us locals,
our home is both QueensBoulevard and Northern Boulevard.
The seven and m and r trainsthe purple and orange,
(29:22):
yellow subway lines, the Q60 and Q44.
Our home borough has options. So whenwe meet, I'll even let you choose.
Mimi and Queens were infinitelanguages and dialects or melodic music
coming and playingwherever people congregate.
Delicious expressions of the humanexperience wrapped in feelings and
(29:45):
emotions. The sharing of culturesushered through by animated,
gesturing hands. Pour out ofpassionate, giving mouths,
ripened and ready forconsumption. For ears and hearts.
Willing to listen. Words that hang midair,
baited breaths like gifts, waitingto be collected, unwrapped,
(30:07):
trusted, and protected.
I got to get back home to the placethat flows with chaotic rhythm.
Where people move throughneighborhoods like fish.
Swimming through water where thepedestrian right of way to walk
exists on both left and right side.
Depending on the customsof your country of origin,
(30:27):
the knowing how to rush through or slowdown when accompanied by another time
slowed down like the weight ofmolasses and accelerated when needed.
Like gasoline lit on fire. Adifferent energy on every block,
every street. Each queen's neighborhooddistinct. Creating a melting pot.
When put all together,
(30:47):
I got to get back home to theplace that is like no other.
Where food smells like food, likesalt, like seasoning, like flavor.
Not just ingredients and descriptivewords listed on a fancy menu.
puro sabor cominda waiting
for a tasting hunger. Whereascustomers, you ask minimal questions,
(31:09):
but trust wholeheartedlyhave faith in people.
When nourishment is enjoyed dailyby locals for you and other,
it is a privilege to beinvited into food customs and
practices you wouldn't otherwiseknow or experience a pinch of
this, a slather of that.un poquito mas, gracias.
(31:31):
I got to get back home tothe place of my origin story.
The source of all my inspiration.Honduras birthed me, Brooklyn,
formed me, Queens made me,Long Island currently traps me.
I have to get back home. Igot to get back home to you.
(35:40):
This is a W local train.
The next stop is 39th Avenue.
My name is Micah Zevin andthis poem is called 36th
Avenue Poem.
I remember from our secondapartment window flashing church's neon white lights,
the NW rattling mines furniturefloors vibrating as it's
(36:04):
sped by eye-opening scentspowdered sugar from now
defunct donut factoriesclouding awakened nostrils at
train platforms. Quiet mania is booming,
hectic feet as you climb up downstairshearing chicken screech as they're
prepared for someone's dinner.
Contrasted with coffee shop fumeswhile you plot groggy to grocery stores
(36:27):
for almond milk. Bombardedby beef with broccoli.
Stir fried sesame oil fromlocal Chinese food takeout doors
as I walked by effervescentBangladeshi holes in the wall.
I yearned for samosa Curry's lentildolls as the neighborhood pied Piper
hypnotizes us. Like ravenous beasts.
(36:49):
On the way to 35th Avenue and home Iencounter piled to the sky Brazilian
style burgers. Taco APA trucks,
Greek seafood steamed airfrom laundromats, smokestacks,
cleaning sheets fresh.
I look forward to rolling out ofbeds for diner brunches, caffeinated,
satisfied devouring classicold movies at the moving image
(37:12):
joyfully decompressing from the work week,
week from work.
Thanks for listening. Tosee the Map, hear the poems,
and learn more about our contributors,go to queens bound do.com.
This is the last stop on this train.Everyone, please leave the train.
Thank you for riding withMTA New York City Transit.
This is QUEENSBOUND.
Stand clear of the closing doors please.
Hi everyone. This is KCTrommer, founder of QUEENSBOUND,
a poetry project by,for, and about Queens.
I'm thrilled to share the 2024 editionwith you in which we bring in more voices
of Queens writers to the project andinclude poems and languages other than
English, along with translationsthat are read by the author.
(00:24):
Have a listen and I hopeyou enjoy Queens Bound 2024.
This is an Astoria DitmarsBoulevard bound N local train.
The next stop is Broadway.
My name is Natalie Handal. I'llbe reading Crossing Broadway.
I stared at you as if I forgot your face.
(00:46):
I felt your streets of flamesand fables on my flesh heard a
radio playing
Willie Colón's "Sin poderte hablar" asHaris Alexiou's "The Soldier," entered
and exited my mind like war,
like a confession before a crash.
It's here I believe my lover most.
(01:08):
Love waits for a greatstillness to tell us when it
ends.
It's here by the bodegaon 31st and Broadway.
The clicking of my Jaffaorange-colored sandals returned
here under the tracks that Icouldn't translate migration
as if I forgot to speakthe language of the sea.
(01:30):
Now when I walk from St. Demeteriosto Dave & Tony Salumeria on 30th Ave,
I understand my need forplaces where nothing changes.
And remember the night Ileft Omonia Café grabbed the
shadow under the end drain,wrapped it around me,
(01:51):
and knew even when I envy your tongues,
my mouth is yours. Evenwhen I can't repeat history,
nothing changes you in my memory.
The next stop is Parsons Boulevard.
My name is Enzo SilonSurin and this is my poem,
(02:15):
Elegy for One Sixty-FirstStreet, five years,
after Grandmaster Flashpenned a rap about edges.
You zigzagged the corners and run fromBenson and Hedges back when the zeitgeist
of the block was crack and your fatherhad that used pale blue Pontiac you would
dash the family into on Friday nightstrying to counter the myopic pull
(02:36):
of the blocks high danger of dope fiendsand the debilitating euphoria in a
whimsical gaze waylaid like mazes.
You sat in the back seat and utteredunder your breath why would anyone ever
trade in nights under palms trees forthese qualm nights for the menacing
overtone of a smile without teeth?
Because you've come to learn the mostimportant lesson is to master your own
(02:57):
gaze and strut for the days when soonenough you'd be spit back onto the same
strip of block or twice,
a woman with eyes belonging to thatdragged out and quintessential gaze
proffered you an act of fellatio for $5.
You were 10 years old on an errandto buy milk in a flagitious galaxy,
but carried the weight of her bid on allfuture quest to the grocery store when
(03:20):
the concrete sparkled like a skyfull of stars under your feet.
You were grateful for the drift of Fridaynights when street telemetry took a
backseat to the only sign of life,
a magnificent breeze against your face.
This is a Queens Boulevard bound a train.
The next stop is 111th Street.
(03:43):
This is Dena Igusti and this is my poem
sonnet as a survival guide forboth versions of this city.
Slick yourself in Vaseline.Block the bathroom door.
When a girl tries to hurt you,close your thumb over your fist,
twist your fingers into her hair. Otherweak points, earrings, bra straps,
wrists. Pull, beat,
punch each other until one of youslaps the linoleum. Her friends yell.
(04:06):
Best friend. Your friend callsyour name, she calls you Bitch,
you yell up yours. Bob, weave,
flinch like bald Lefferts cornertrees after gunshots or firework
bliss. Yank her ponytail ifyou must, but do not kill her,
even if she kissed yourboyfriend scratched your face,
ripped off your nameplate, threwit in a piss-covered corner.
Your sweat rising like a musty petricor.
(04:30):
We can't lose girls evenfrom their own antics.
Glimmer that determineswhat the city makes of you.
Breaking before you pullat what lunges after you,
what parishes to sustain yourkingdom. Broken 18 karat gold,
A ripped bra strap, sweaty palms.
(04:50):
This is an N local train.
The next stop is 36th Avenue.
I'm Amy Lemmon and thisis my poem Evening Call.
She FaceTimes while I'mpicking up souvlaki,
my bag already full importedolive oil, sardines,
(05:11):
Greek pastries. I love you, Mom.
No tears this time.
The staff are quick tosay she cries for Mom.
On screen we look alike:
two girls with glassesfond of floral dresses.
She's back in Queensafter two years upstate,
the lockdown made itclear six times lost six
(05:35):
times miraculously found. Wecould no longer live together.
Now her face fills the screenbehind the curtain that divides her
room in half. Her cell,I try not to think.
Her roommate spiels a steady stream.
I put noise cancelingheadphones on the list.
(05:56):
I turn my phone to show herthe bright counter busy grill,
the board lit up withchoices. Chicken? She asks.
I say goodbye and pay. I crossHoyt under elevated tracks.
My girl knows traffic lights butwouldn't watch for cars turning from
31st or funneled from theGrand Central. Gunning,
(06:20):
gridlock loaded. May otherswalk with her when I cannot.
May drivers not stare attheir phones as I do walking.
Watching her alone.
This is a far Rockaway MottAvenue bound, a local train.
The stop is 88th Street.
(06:45):
My name is Rajan Maharjan. I'll bereading my poem March Conversations with
Arlani. Spring has not arrived yet
at the Tudor Village. Is itstuck in the busy belt parkway?
The A train it's on, is it delayed?
We are waiting for a grand arrival,
eager to wave goodbye to the glum cold,
(07:07):
which seems to have its feetglued, refusing to leave.
We are stuck inside whilethe last uncertain March days
pass me and my 21 months old daughter,
who is figuring out the language to ask,
look through the living room window.
See these withered chrysanthemumsgathering courage to blossom
(07:31):
flowers as yellow as this wait.
We see the sun outside,which looks temptingly warm.
She points her fingers at the windows,
pulls my hand with her otherhand like pulling Bunga Dya the
spring god chariot,
throws herself to thefloor in front of the door.
(07:52):
With all she has learned,she keeps asking,
why don't we go out?
Why don't we play on the slides andenjoy the cool fountains of Addabbo
playground. The sunoutside is an illusion.
You will learn it and moretruth is darker than it appears.
The sidewalks that you wantto run has cold piercing,
(08:15):
wind wilding.
It can get inside us andit can make a cold. Yes,
even a warm and innocent child like
you.
(10:11):
This is Flushing Main Street.
My name is Joe Grossand this is Beatitude.
a guy drops $10 almost bobbles a bouquetworking his way back to his kissena
blvd beatrice having harrowed the hudsonyards hells & shepherded the shorn
flowers of the field to the mainstreet-flushing sphere of fire.
(10:34):
I bestow it back--yo my man, brother,
my guy--being of the opinion the bouquet'sa lily too light & opining inaudibly
how he should've devoted the damn$10 too thus parabled I pollute with
pessimism's prognostications the35mm nitrate night but capital cannot
overmaster these old-fashioned lovers'labors nor alienate them but cash cannot
drown the incessant bloomof decent desires' dull ache but one must render unto
caesar what is caesar's unto god whatis god's unto the workaday wage earners
what is ours the film stock burns up thecash ain't for us 8 hours don't make a
day & we're just dimes holding up adollar what's left to us is that celestial
selfless love.
(11:21):
This is a Far Rockaway MottAvenue bound, a local train.
My name is allia abdullah-mattaand this is my poem, Mott Avenue.
Mott Avenue,
first and last on the A trainto Far Rockaway where the
Q113 and Q22 met at beach
(11:44):
20th Gino's Pizza andThriftway Drugs where the
local clothing storehad layaway in 79 and we
sat in McDonald's waiting for the train.
A quick walk to Redfern projects fromthe A train where my two boys went to
summer day camp for eightweeks in 94 after Montessori
(12:07):
school and blue stripeties in St. Alban's,
they learned to pull their coin orderchicken wings and french fries or fried
rice, how to give dap to the teenagecounselors and throw punches.
It pushed to punch back.On cold winter nights,
he station was too cold andthe train took too long.
(12:29):
We took the 44 44 or the 7 7 7 7
cabs from Mott Avenue to29 32 Beach Channel and
the 40s. We liked theA train summer breeze,
salt water and project mistthrough open windows and doors.
Sometimes the train took too longand we walked it or hitchiked
(12:53):
after parties at St.Gertrude's Community Center.
Redfern is still a quickwalk from the station.
Affordable housing onNameoke Ave and 2278 Mott
all high rise and glasswindows for the rock.
The McDonald's is modernized andstill across the street from Dawn's
(13:15):
old house where I stillexpect to see her dad smoke a
cigarette on the stooplong after she passed away,
before her friends had kids.
Far Rock newcomers take the Atrain or the shuttle to Rockaway
Beach, post-Hurricane Sandyto renovated boardwalks,
(13:36):
bungalows and condos. In winter,
we check the MTA app anddon't wait in the cold
station for too long.
The next stop is 104th Street.
(13:57):
The Empty Train by Emily Hockaday.
The empty train rattlespast along Jamaica Avenue.
I have spent so much time withmy face pressed against the
plexiglass windows peeringinto the eye level apartments.
I think about the families, the rooms,
(14:19):
the fluttering curtainsthat I travel past.
The pandemic real estaterush to leave the city
feels like a slap inthe face. What are we,
if not New Yorkers?
The weather gets warmer and thecontrast becomes more stark gone.
The open fire hydrants,
(14:39):
the street splashing the smoky clouds,
carrying the scent of grilled meat fromthe barbecue pit across the street.
My daughter hears the ice creamtruck song and does a little dance
yelling, Ice cream! Ice cream,
but the music doesn't linger.
It moves along like so many sirens.
(15:06):
This is an N local train.
The next stop is Queensboro Plaza.
My name is Catherine Kapphahn.
I'll be reading from my poem The Boy Who
Flew.
Walk Flashes and the three ofus race across Queensboro Plaza,
(15:27):
side lane, bike lane,
north and south Lanes past carsready to cross the 59th Street
bridge.
Below screeching subway we zigzaggedto quieter streets with one
hand I juggle stroller with theother 4-year-old rafa's hand.
8-year-old Radek skips aheadlaughing at teasing wind playfully
(15:50):
shoving us side to side,forward and backward.
Rafa leans 20 poundsinto me. Isn't this fun?
Wind crescendos Adowndraft hits forcefully
pushing us backward. Thisis not fun. We stumble.
I hunch grip stroller tightlyuntil something thrust my
(16:12):
arm upward.
I look up to see Radek'sexpression of bewilderment.
Blue eyes looking behind me.
I whirl to see Rafa's suspendedbody cartoon image above
my shoulder, above my head,
right arm string Rafa kiteskyward legs parallel to
(16:34):
sidewalk. Red.
Puffy jacket balloonshis eyes huge with horror
he screams his cap isripped off air bound,
flipping down the emptystreet. What if I lose my grip?
This boy who has a newborn fellfrom a sling skull fracture.
(16:54):
This boy who has a newborn waslunged at by a large pit bull.
This boy who had a feralpart kitten scratch his face.
This boy who split his headtwice staples, infection staples.
The wind cannot have himhysterically. I dropped to sidewalk.
Rafa slams to cement.
(17:15):
Wind ceases as if it never was.
Rafa sobs, blood pouringfrom bit through bottom lip.
Radek races is over. Didhe just fly like Superman?
I nod, gasping, crying, shaking, rocking,
holding my son to this earth.
(17:39):
This is Q Garden's Union Turnpike.
I'm Jared Beloff and thisis my poem The World to
Come. Not as many people comefor the belly lox anymore.
Only the older ones polish.
Maybe sometimes Carmenwho has been slicing fish
(18:00):
for over 30 years is kindenough to only imply loss.
Perhaps they moved away? For a moment.
Our minds snowbird to retirementcommunities in Florida.
Conversations on verandaaccents seeding the humid air.
The refrigerator's hum. Arow of white fish salad,
(18:21):
pickled herring eyes like black rimplates clinging to a sables wrinkled
side. For some theafterlife is a gathering,
a line down the block or the snore.
Scraping the last of thecream cheese from the tub.
Carmen gives us extra slices,coral folds and small piles.
(18:41):
Their salt draws out thesweetness from our tongues.
This is 121st Streettransfer is available to
the Q 10 bus to JFK airport.
Queens Bohemian Rhapsody Hiromi
(19:05):
Kiba. Along the
crosstown J train,
I commute to music
venues on 121st Street
Station platform.
I capture two moments on my phone.
(19:27):
Sunrise, sunset,
celebrating another dayof survival in the city.
For me,
this also becomes an access to
birding.
Nature is now muchcloser than ever before.
(19:49):
A hidden world of wonder through a pair
of binoculars,
American kestrel Peregrine falconRed-tailed hawk Great horned owl
Black-and-white warbler Goldfinch Tuftedtitmouse Baltimore oriole in endless
hues.
Birdwatching
(20:24):
and riches life helpingplant trees in Forest
Park,
cleaning up trash outsidethe rich boot reservoir.
Learning about pipingproba at Rockaway Beach.
Joining a field trip to Jamaica Bay,
(20:45):
Wildlife Refuge led by Queens
County Bird Club.
Migrating birds bring us a song in every
chord,
welcoming you to experience our birdland
where we find the strength of life,
(21:08):
the freedom of dance in everywing. In Queens bohemian rhapsody,
our spirits take flight overthe colors of the rainbow.
(23:54):
The is Q Gardens Union Turnpike.
This is Bruce Whitacre. I'm readingmy poem Garuda in Forest Park, a
Pantoum.
Perching
on a park bench timer set for nirvana.
Insight whispers in each puffof breeze. Luffing the trees.
(24:18):
Boys pass on bikes. Barelyaware. Barely aware.
Cool breeze. Topographyof green trees cradles.
Blue sky, horsetail clouds.
Insight whispers in each puffof breeze, loving the trees,
breeze and then breeze.Soft gaze, barely aware.
(24:40):
Topography of green trees cradles.
Blue sky horsetail clouds.
Lawn plotted with blanketsand people reading supine
breathe and then breathe. Soft gaze.
Barely aware that loneoak, stout trunk tosses.
Its green crown,
silver lined lawn plotted withblankets where people read each other's
(25:04):
spines.
Flash of winged profileand a hawk swoops into the
lone oak.
The lone oak stout trunkcloses its green crown
around its guest. Boys pass on bikes.
Unaware. Unaware. Back to cool breeze.
(25:26):
Flash of winged profile anda hawk vanished into that
lone oak perching on a park bench timeout
for Nirvana.
This is an N local train.
The stop is 39th Avenue.
(25:49):
My name is OlanaJennings. This is my poem,
Ground Floor 39th Ave.
She is there in her bandana,
a piece of tightrope in herhand from a forgotten circus.
Talking to herself, she hasperformed in front of a million.
She tells you unravelingscarves until nothing is
(26:14):
left. Not even her body,
her spirit in art galleries.
In one of them you findyour own image in yarn,
the scratch you have onyour cheek there in Purple
Walk Home from this pointpast autobody shops.
Where he lies on his back andabove him is his entire world.
(26:37):
Your favorite APAs.
The Rose and the empty champagnebottle beckons you further.
A step from the lost scent,
A step from Astoria where youhave made the embracing houses
familiar as you take hertightrope and keep walking
(26:59):
avenue.
(28:18):
This is a Forest Hills71st Avenue bound R train.
The next stop is Northern Boulevard.
José Alfredo Menjivar. I got to getback home. I got to get back home.
Back to Woodside Queens,
which despite its namehas no woods or forests.
(28:40):
And instead of trees andnature, concrete blocks,
parallel avenues and side streetswhere the playgrounds we used,
we fell asleep and woke upto the sounds never ending.
Traffic produced thesymphony of cars, buses,
and taxi cabs that pour outof the bridge's mouth that connects us to Manhattan.
(29:01):
While the steel beneath trains overhead,
vibrate the air aboveand trains underground.
Below rumble our floors on a map.
Woodside is dividedinto, but for us locals,
our home is both QueensBoulevard and Northern Boulevard.
The seven and m and r trainsthe purple and orange,
(29:22):
yellow subway lines, the Q60 and Q44.
Our home borough has options. So whenwe meet, I'll even let you choose.
Mimi and Queens were infinitelanguages and dialects or melodic music
coming and playingwherever people congregate.
Delicious expressions of the humanexperience wrapped in feelings and
(29:45):
emotions. The sharing of culturesushered through by animated,
gesturing hands. Pour out ofpassionate, giving mouths,
ripened and ready forconsumption. For ears and hearts.
Willing to listen. Words that hang midair,
baited breaths like gifts, waitingto be collected, unwrapped,
(30:07):
trusted, and protected.
I got to get back home to the placethat flows with chaotic rhythm.
Where people move throughneighborhoods like fish.
Swimming through water where thepedestrian right of way to walk
exists on both left and right side.
Depending on the customsof your country of origin,
(30:27):
the knowing how to rush through or slowdown when accompanied by another time
slowed down like the weight ofmolasses and accelerated when needed.
Like gasoline lit on fire. Adifferent energy on every block,
every street. Each queen's neighborhooddistinct. Creating a melting pot.
When put all together,
(30:47):
I got to get back home to theplace that is like no other.
Where food smells like food, likesalt, like seasoning, like flavor.
Not just ingredients and descriptivewords listed on a fancy menu.
puro sabor cominda waiting
for a tasting hunger. Whereascustomers, you ask minimal questions,
(31:09):
but trust wholeheartedlyhave faith in people.
When nourishment is enjoyed dailyby locals for you and other,
it is a privilege to beinvited into food customs and
practices you wouldn't otherwiseknow or experience a pinch of
this, a slather of that.un poquito mas, gracias.
(31:31):
I got to get back home tothe place of my origin story.
The source of all my inspiration.Honduras birthed me, Brooklyn,
formed me, Queens made me,Long Island currently traps me.
I have to get back home. Igot to get back home to you.
(35:40):
This is a W local train.
The next stop is 39th Avenue.
My name is Micah Zevin andthis poem is called 36th
Avenue Poem.
I remember from our secondapartment window flashing church's neon white lights,
the NW rattling mines furniturefloors vibrating as it's
(36:04):
sped by eye-opening scentspowdered sugar from now
defunct donut factoriesclouding awakened nostrils at
train platforms. Quiet mania is booming,
hectic feet as you climb up downstairshearing chicken screech as they're
prepared for someone's dinner.
Contrasted with coffee shop fumeswhile you plot groggy to grocery stores
(36:27):
for almond milk. Bombardedby beef with broccoli.
Stir fried sesame oil fromlocal Chinese food takeout doors
as I walked by effervescentBangladeshi holes in the wall.
I yearned for samosa Curry's lentildolls as the neighborhood pied Piper
hypnotizes us. Like ravenous beasts.
(36:49):
On the way to 35th Avenue and home Iencounter piled to the sky Brazilian
style burgers. Taco APA trucks,
Greek seafood steamed airfrom laundromats, smokestacks,
cleaning sheets fresh.
I look forward to rolling out ofbeds for diner brunches, caffeinated,
satisfied devouring classicold movies at the moving image
(37:12):
joyfully decompressing from the work week,
week from work.
Thanks for listening. Tosee the Map, hear the poems,
and learn more about our contributors,go to queens bound do.com.
This is the last stop on this train.Everyone, please leave the train.
Thank you for riding withMTA New York City Transit.
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