And remember MacNeice's wonderful sonnet, SUNDAY MORNING:

"Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past..."

Often felt that meself (which, I guess, is why speed checks are a good idea, sadly). Full poem on the following link:

http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.a...633&poem=33649

[This message has been edited by Mark Granier (edited October 04, 2005).]

I'm with you there Carol. And so is Raymond Carver:

" The car that hit the dog and kept going.
The car with a hole in its muffler.
The car with no muffler.
The car my daughter wrecked.
The car with the twice-rebuilt engine.
The car with corroded battery cables.
The car bought with a bad check.
The car of my sleepless nights.
The car with a stuck thermostat.
The car whose engine caught fire.
The car with no headlights.
The car with a broken fan belt.
The car with wipers that wouldn’t work.
The car I gave away.
The car with transmission trouble.
The car I washed my hands of.
The car I struck with a hammer.
The car with payments that couldn’t be met.
The repossessed car.
The car whose clutch-pin broke.
The car waiting on the back lot.
Car of my dreams.
My car."

(from THE CAR)

Mark, thanks for that - I can't believe I forgot about that Carver poem, and I'd only just reread it a week ago!

Love the Larkin quote. For yewrs people have been saying to me: "You know what you need, you need a little CAR." For years I've been replying, "the LAST think I need is some little CAR!"

Anyway now the kids are big enough to go on the bus by themselves, I feel I got through the hard part.

And without a ticket!

KEB

Hugh -

I would definitely learn to drive for the practical reasons your wife suggests. My mother gave up on it when she had her learner's permit and had a small "fender bender" in 1963. Now that she is 76 and my dad can no longer drive at night (and doesn't like to too much during the day either), she feels very restricted and dependent on others to give her lifts here and there. We have not yet given up on trying to persuade her to give it another try.

That said, I would also continue to walk and cycle for those reasons Janet so eloquently expressed in her postings.

Whatever you decide, best of luck to you!


Catherine

Birdsmeling

Not likely to catch on, by all accounts.

I actually like cars and I like driving them, but I'm not so keen on owning them.

I think the insinuation at the start of this thread is something put about by prosaically law-abiding, or possibly law-enforcing elements, who may suffer an uncomfortable nudge out of their routines after being presented with a poetic licence.

p

The world is expected to look something like this after all the poets have driven their jallopies off the quay and into the harbour.
http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7...0/pastiche.jpg



[This message has been edited by peter richards (edited October 04, 2005).]

Katy, what you need is a thing of beauty; poetry in motion: a bottle-green Bentley ...

But Hugh is right: Deep down all true poets know that the way to go is to become a farmer and doing it the Amish way.

Personally, though, I've found the middle way: I only drive French cars.

Jon H.

I have a serious need to buy a car. Right now I'm living at a picturesque boarding school in Middle Of Cornfields Delaware & should be able to get away for a weekend. The kids are fun & all but they'll drive you nuts if you don't peace out every now & then. However, I don't like driving & have no great desire to buy a car, so I have made very minimal efforts thus far (it's been over a month) to find one. If I get one I'll be able to go to NY (where I've never been) and Carolina to see my friends, but if I don't I guess I'll have money & will be free of the dangers & annoyance of driving.

I did do some driving over the summer, in rent-a-cars in Tuscany & Sicily. Driving in Italy is totally different -- the cities are way wack, but the highways are lovely and awesome. It's easy to tell why Italians like driving so well. Conversely, the last time I drove any distance in the States I got hit by a tractor trailer, which kind of sucked.

Walking is a mode of transportation I approve of, but I never learned to ride a bike. When I was 5 I had a tricycle I didn't use because it was so much easier & more efficient to just be carried around by my mom. The transition to a two-wheeler was one I never made.

Chris

You're definitely a TUMP, Chris, and without doubt a great poet in waiting.
Maybe we can post our driving poems here. Here's one:

Rep’s Rondeaubout

Traffic jams are so much fun—
better far than boring meetings.
Get the week’s expense claim done!
Phone a friend with cheery greetings!
Never worry when you’re late—
fast lane life won’t take you far.
Some things are in league with fate—
traffic jams are.

The cyclist's reply:


bicycle


bicycle lifts me quietly
wheelwoman speeds
lightly
no bird ceases song
when my bicycle
wheels along
no flower lost scent
where my bicycle
went
past bright weeds, no air
fouls when bicycle
is there
spokes spin over metal
momentum spurred
by pedal
elegant machine
so clean nobody knows
you’ve been


----

And from a word/spelling idea inspired by Gregory Dowling:


Toad of Towed Haul
(apologies to Kenneth Grahame)


The celebrated Mr Toad
cried “poop poop poop”, his engine chaud,
and Rolls careering, he bestrode
the road, no thought of all he owed.
His money had been neatly sewed
inside the lining of his coat.
With careless hands the varmint smote
the klaxon horn. He never thought
of roadside pubs. No pint or quart
could thwart his plans. Should he be caught
he’d scoff and cunningly resort
to some disguise. His web-foot trail
would lead where some might draw a veil.
A washerwoman, not a male
would leave the exit of the gaol.
Our toad was manic, self esteem
had swelled into a bloated dream
of grandeur. His enforced regime
in Badger’s care made him blaspheme.
So Ratty, Mole and Badger swore
it was not their old friend they saw.
They seized the miscreant with a roar,
and shut him up and locked the door.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited October 04, 2005).]

The Triolet of the Open Road

It seems we've been here once before, my dear;
the road somehow became a triolet,
and all the bumps and grumps shall reappear,
it seems. We've been here once before, my dear;
the repetends, the roundabouts we steer
about whenever we two lose the way:
it seems we've been here once before, my dear.
This road somehow became a triolet.


Road Killxx(Revision)

It seems we've been here once before, my dear;
the road somehow became a triolet,
and repetends and echoes all we hear,
it seems. We've been here once before, my dear;
and gone around these roundabouts we steer
about whenever we two lose the way:
it seems that we've been here before, my dear.
It's time to end this fucking triolet.




[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited October 05, 2005).]

Has a century of far superior Neo-Luddite and Amish Poetry taught us nothing? The following oldie no doubt "Does Not Belong In The Deep End," but I am hoping for "Does Not Belong in General Chat" - and besides, Cantor's triolet reminded me of it.
------------------------------------------------------------
You've Been There

You've been there
You've seen the mileposts blur by too fast,
felt the pounding pistons urge you on,
opened up the fuel-air mix, felt the rhythm
of a thousand timed and tiny explosions
roar you forward

You've been there, where you need the speed -
need every MPH and RPM -
You've been down that oil-black road
where you can't see at night,
but still drive or are driven
foolishly faster

And you've woken in the morning,
filling in the crude-black patch
with a concrete rainbow stain

You've been there;
It won't do to ask

"Are we there yet?"
Anymore

Michael,
that triolet (the revision!) is growing on me...
Actually, it's damn good (despite the unorthodox rhyme scheme).

Jon H.

Jon -

Thanks - but, as far as I know the rhyme scheme is glatt triolet, since the French and I both pronounce "triolet" to rhyme with "weigh". (David Anthony has a neat poem - a triolet, not surprisingly - on that.)

[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited October 05, 2005).]

This thread has taught me something important: I am a walker. I am not a runner, or a biker, or a driver; I am certainly not a bus-rider or a trolley patron or a subterranean shuttler; & least of all am I a taker of trains. I have of course engaged in my time in all these forms of locomotion. But I am a walker. A confirmed pedestrian. & that is as it should be. I am grateful for this thread. (Although if it were at all socially or economically or mechanically feasible, I would be a stroller passenger. Alas.)

Chris

A triolay! Thanks, Michael! Swell! Today
I'll write a damp and opulent sonnet!

Yes -? ;)

Jon H.

Hooray! I can now feel better about being such a wimp about driving...took a few lessons in my college days in England. Driving instructor was a chap in business on his own. "Sorry, Christine, I can't let you take the test in my car...you see, my car is my livelihood!!!"
Then I lived in small city in Italy for five years, could walk everywhere, no need to drive. Moved with husband and child to Glendale, a suburb of New York, kid's school in walking distance, buses and subways around--no need to drive.
Then we moved here to Stroudsburg, a small town in the Poconos, bought a house in residential area a few blocks from Main Street, can walk to school/church/shops, still no need to drive. I thought. But, alas, soon the oldest child was wanting to play YMCA soccer, go to other kids' houses etc, and it became obvious that in this land of the automobile, with very poor bus and taxi service, I really ought to learn to drive...so in my thirties, I did. On an automatic transmission, of course. Even passed the test, perhaps because in those days it involved only driving very slowly round a special Test parking lot, never exceeding 25 mph or encountering another moving vehicle.
Actually I'm not a bad driver as long as everything is going to plan. But have lost my nerve somewhat since a couple of years ago I was driving on highway w/kids and husband in car and an idiot pulled out right in front of me and I didn't manage to avoid him completely (I maintain that's BECAUSE my husband was in car and makes me nervous!) and clipped his fender and we went into a spin and are very lucky all was ok...so now I hate highways even more than I did before, and especially I hate merging onto highways, or passing the on-ramps when others are trying to merge...which means I rarely do highway driving and use back roads or get husband or (for West Chester conference) even 20-yr old son to drive me! This feels extremely wimpish and restricted...and makes me really afraid about what to do if we (as I hope/dream) move back to my native England where they all drive (sorry, Hugh, not to frighten you, maybe it's different in Scotland) SO SO FAST--but it is all WORTH IT if it means I am therefore a better poet!!!

I can't even ride a bike......so must be really superlative poet, yes???!!!!

Christine

I suppose I'm well on my way, since I rarely drive. I have a chauffer. *grins* I'm nervous when driving anyway, and since suffering a few bouts of vertigo I've become even more wary.

Julie

I grew up in suburban California. Driving is second nature.

While I suppose that makes me an Evil Poet, I prefer the term "Wicked." Much more flair to it.

I was going to start a thread like this on one of these boards eventually, and I actually got the idea when I was reading a Martin Amis novel in which he said something along the lines of "true poets don't drive", or maybe it was "poets who drive are suspect." Something like that.

I lived in upstate NY until I was twenty-four. Every one of my friends got their driver's license as soon as they were of age. Like Kevin said, in that area it was just second nature. I started to go through the motions several times, got a learner's permit about six times and let them expire without ever taking the test. I don't know what the problem was, probably just fear of failure.

I didn't actually get my license until I was thirty-two, nine years ago. Here in Lake Havasu, AZ, the road test was absurdly easy. My parking was terrible, and quite a few times during the test I was going too fast and was told to slow down. The inspector drilled me as to why I had waited so long to get a license, and didn't seem to believe my excuses, which was good for her because they were all lies.

Anyway, I passed. I learned how to drive well while actually driving, which is what everyone said would happen. In nine years I haven't had a mark on my license, and my insurance company loves me.

What goes on under the hood is still mostly a mystery to me, but I've learned a bit. I think this allergy to driving among poets might simply come from the fact that a car is basically a big machine. As Woody Allen used to say, machines hate me. I always assumed they hated me because they could tell I liked poetry. For some reason the internal combustion engine seems to like poets even less than, say, a blender or a microwave oven does.

My hero for a while was Frank Zappa, who (I believe) lived in LA or thereabouts and never drove. His excuse was that he just didn't want to wait on line at the DMV.

I like driving, but I could give it up easily if it were practical. To put it bluntly, most of the people out on the road either don't know how to drive or they don't give a damn, probably both in a lot of cases. It's no wonder there are so many accidents. It's baffling and bewildering how much sheer stupidity and carelessness I see every single day out on the road.

Tailgating, in particular, is epidemic, and since this is not something that can be done accidentally I feel completely justified in calling tailgaters idiots. I have no problem with people making honest mistakes or occasional blunders on the road. We all do it. But tailgaters are idiots. Tailgaters on cellphones are worse than idiots.

Hugh, I'd say just go ahead and take the plunge. I remember thinking that if you were a poet it was okay to be a drunk. It was normal, it came with the territory. I remember thinking the same thing about being a non-driver. It was a silly way to think in both cases.

"I think this allergy to driving among poets might simply come from the fact that a car is basically a big machine" - or that poets like staring out of windows and drifting away. Or that they take an off-centre detail and let their imagination run riot - the black mark on the road ahead is a tyre-bursting spike; behind each parking car is a child about to cross the road. It's a trait that also leads to hypochrondria.

Thought this extract from a Roger McGough interview might interest you, Hugh:

Why, out of interest, doesn't he drive?
"It's funny. My generation of poets don't. Adrian Mitchell, Brian Patten, Adrian Henri, John Agard. Um. Ben Zephaniah, does he drive? John Hegley can't drive. I don't know. I'd rather sit on a bus or a train and think about something".

Full interview: http://books.guardian.co.uk/poetry/f...642018,00.html

Duncan

Shakespeare never drove, nor did Dante. Alexander Pope did not even own a car, although I remember reading that he was an enthusiatic in-line skater, and also introduced snowboarding to the neo-classicists. When Swift commented on his lack of a driving license, Pope is said to have retorted, "So?".

It's also rumoured that Shakespeare, Dante, Pope and a few other suspects never owned a computer, though that may be apocryphal.

to which Wendy V responded

While I don't have a mobile phone and don't use mascara, I think I'm doing pretty good. After the stroke I've only one hand functional (the left), but I can drive, put on a tie, drink a can of Pepsi (without a cup holder), and eat a sandwich at the same time using the red and green lights. It only becomes a bit tricky when you're also trying to use as little gas as possible; ie. coasting up to the light when it's red with inertia (I think Newton's 2nd Law of Motion) gives you less time at the red light.

Robert Meyer

In today's Guardian

"Roger McGough likes to think he is the model for what his fellow poet, Wendy Cope, calls a Tump: a Typically Useless Male Poet. He can't drive. He is indecisive - or rather, he is accused of being indecisive and denies it ("If I decide to be indecisive, that's my decision"). He broods. He is impractical. When he sits down to write, he thinks, gloomily: "Just what the world needs, another book of poetry." With fondness he supports Cope's conclusion: "Bloody useless..."

That's the same link Duncan just posted.

One begins to sympathize with Wendy Cope.

[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited November 15, 2005).]

I don't know any good American poets who don't drive. Not all of them drive well.

That's funny -- I just read an article kinda about this Why poets don't drive

When Duncan, then winter and Jilly
all post the same link, is it silly
(or adhominically crass)
to wonder, you know, willy nilly,
if we all have our head up our keyboard?



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 14, 2005).]

Too vague, Tim. Does it mean:

I don't have acquaintance of any good American poets who don't drive.

or

I don't have any knowledge of any good American poets who don't drive.

and, if the latter, is that since the invention of the automobile; or of all time (meaning Poe, Whitman, Dickenson, etc. weren't "good")?

Then there's the other meanings of "drive":

"I don't know any good American poets who don't play golf."

or

"I don't know any good American poets who don't drive you nuts with meaningless posts on Eratosphere." (like this)

Robert Meyer