Description:
As you're exiting Forest Hills Station, take a left and walk up a flight of stairs. This will lead you above ground. Two tall, thin monuments featuring Thomas Hurley's poem, The Subway Collector, are located in a small courtyard to your left.
About the Author:
Little current information can be found about Thomas Hurley, who submitted a short biography along with his poem. This information, while twenty years old, tells us that he grew up in Albany, New York, obtained his B.A. in English from Siena College and his M.A. from the University of Virginia. At the time of this project, he had been living in Boston's South End for eight years and worked at both Simmons College and the University of Massachusetts at Boston. Prior to the acceptance of The Subway Collector, Hurley also had pieces published in Hanging Loose, Stone Country, as well as the Cream City Review.
Response:
As I walked up to the two pink tablets featuring The Subway Collector, I realized that I would have a very difficult time reading the poem engraved in stone. I was accompanied by my boyfriend, and he also attempted to read the text, but it appeared time and weather had worn away the engraving. After carefully inspecting the monument, we could only make out that it was about the travelers who came through the T station. As we waited for the bus, we talked about the fact that we could barely read the monument, and in some ways we both found it sad that what had began as a placement of permanent art was anything but permanent. The stone tablets were still there, but the words were not. As a result, I ended up reading Hurley's poem while curled up in bed one night.
It is hard for me to gauge how Hurley's poem would have affected me if I had I read it at the Forest Hills station instead, but I did discover that his poem was not only moving, but spoke very incredibly to the reason why we began this website in the first place. In the poem, he discusses that unstoppable loneliness that has a way of filling you up as you travel through the stations, coasting through crowds of people, but never quite touching or connecting with anyone you walk by. As I write now, reflecting on my experience at the station and my experience reading his poem, I can recall my boyfriend and I standing in front of his worn away words, as young kids, couples, and cops passed us by. Not one of them stopped to see what we could be looking at so intently.
Commentary By Erika Keith.
