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AUTOMOBELIA / A BLUEBIRD OF HAPPINESS

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Automobelia

 

The cars I had bring memories,

They mark each month and year,

To aged fool from callow youth,

They mapped the road I steer.

 

I fed them with the very best,

To every need complied,

A very metal essence,

That could never be denied.

 

It was in the nineteen sixties,

That I bought my very first,

Be certain not the best car,

And probably the worst.

 

It cost me twenty eight pounds ten,

Inclusive of the tax,

But sure as sure when driving it,

You never could relax.

 

With cable brakes, no synchromesh,

To drive it needed skill,

It handled like a bloated whale,

Full guaranteed to thrill.

 

On hotter days the thing would boil,

And rain would see it stop,

It rolled demented down the hills,

Groaned angry to the top.

 

Too often it would need a push,

Electrics flat and dead,

I’d have to leave it in the lane,

And bus it home instead.

 

I’d thought ‘a magnet for the girls’,

Dark glimmers in my mind,

But often they would bus it home,

And leave me there behind.

 

And still I loved it rust and all,

Its leather and its wood,

It never did me any harm,

Though doing little good.

 

It never got me into debt,

All through my student years,

It brought me lots of laughter,

And as oft frustrations tears.

 

From Reliants to the odd Rolls Royce,

By now I’ve owned the lot,

From Bubble Cars to Yankee flash,

I’ve caused their rise and rot.

 

They led me to the open road,

In ways they set me free,

But even as I drove in them,

In truth they’re driving me.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************

 

A Bluebird Of Happiness

 

We had a car a basic thing,

Its metal wrapped us like a glove,

While from its seats we watched the world,

The world saw strangers fall in love.

 

One hundred thousand miles and more,

Of coast and city, vale and hill,

From burst of spring to summer heat,

Through autumn gold and winter chill.

 

We were not conscious of the craft,

That built this thing to mans design,

But revelled in the magnitude,

Of what became just hers and mine.

 

The simple days of work and play,

The dangers that our lives surround,

A pleasure that the world displays,

A box of steel on holy ground.

 

And when at last it had to go,

We hid a note for latter days,

That read upon the wrecking time,

Would speak of love and lovers ways.

 

This poets view, this thing of words,

Transports from pristine back to rust,

But words remain when cars are scrap,

When all is done and we are dust.

 

 

With thanks to the men and women of

Nissan at Washington'                          

◄ In The Shadow Of Wings

CHAIN RINGING ►

Comments

Yvonne Brunton

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Wed 7th Mar 2012 01:50

what does a motor mean to me?
A thing to go from A to B
And If I'm lucky, might I say
To get me back from B to A.
A wheel at every corner - and
A spare inside, isn't that grand
And dials to show how fast I go,
is one for petrol? - I don't know.
A light inside to do my hair
And lovely switch to spread hot air
What does my motor mean to me?
It means that I am always free!

Of course, all my cars have had names and I dread the day they have to go to the great big scrapyard in the sky!

I Like your poems X X

Rachel Bond

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Fri 10th Feb 2012 00:43

Oh boy I love your car
Bugatti me
Lotus levora
Luxuriosa lambourghini
cream me clearly
immaculate interior
Leather seats
in luxury superior
Ow your audi runs me over
Coupe cool crisp clean cut rover
Hush its lush
Shut up and drive
Alpha male hands
To wheel alive
Romao romeo
X lean X mean XL machine
Nissan 6 G well it swells
Swish it swiftly slick wet tyres
Let my legs press
lightly wired
gear stick licked wish
quick ignition
Spit lit heels
Clean rest it on the pedal
mid life crisis
man
dyou want a fucking medal?

my car poem, ostensibly about the ways of the middle aged, but really a testimony to just how much i love em. Cars, not middle aged men ;)
i cant describe the attraction.
'A very metal essence' Corrr. some cars so beautiful, some just turn me on. Other big bad vehicles like military trucks or the shine of a pristine 1950s fire machine inspire me to carry on.
ford mondeo's are pretty sweet especially if convertible. im making art for an exhibition right now. Its all about the life and love of the car and its oil filled engines, its about death, its a bout loss but most importantly it has images of cars in it including a smashed up mondeo and the remnants of its engine which is still in good nick.
i have a peugeot 206 which is not boring. for an affordable car the peugeout is a nifty little streamliner :)
i think we should have a car poem contest and get everybody writing about them.
'But words remain when cars are scrap,
When all is done and we are dust.'
The scrapyard is another source for a load of photos/art stuff. theres more life n the muck and bullets of the car grave yard than one may be led to believe. words pale. metal never fails to beautiful. metal sculpture is what its all about and cars are like a living work of art x

John Coopey

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Thu 9th Feb 2012 23:46

Ah, the memories.
My first was a motorbike, a BSA Bantam.
It gave me the best petrol economy I had from any vehicle, largely beacause I pushed the bastard everywhere.
I once made the mistake of overtaking a pack of mods on scooters. My 175cc Banty with 20 stones on it was no match for their souped up Lambrettas and I endured 10 miles of side-by-side jeering.
Ah, the memories.

M.C. Newberry

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Thu 9th Feb 2012 14:07

You brought back memories to this 60s youth...
for which - many thanks.
I had a Sunbeam Talbot
And a bright red little MG
But the Triumph - a la Bergerac!
That was the car for me!
I'd drive around the Isle of Dogs
In a nineteen sixties East End
Long before Canary Wharf
Signalled the coming end.
Yobs would throw their stones at me
But little did I care
I had a Triumph Roadster
And the wind whipping through my hair!

Sadly, I do not own a car now but city
living makes it a luxury I can't afford.
But I have the memories...!

Ian gant

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Thu 9th Feb 2012 10:11

Two very different poems about cars, the first charts the what’s and wherefores the second is really a tribute to a bright white Nissan Bluebird and its place in my greatest romance. The Photograph is of the Rolls Royce Silver Spirit we owned for some several years. Now in retirement we have a Ford Mondeo and a Peugeot 308 ‘how boring is that’

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