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Motorycle Poet
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Motorycle Poet (not mine) On the lyrical state highways of Vermont I blatted and roared, Up and down through the gears, at eighty, at a hundred and something, at much more than a hundred and something miles an hour. The motorcycle had a relatively long wheelbase and felt absolutely solid in a straight line, despite the shaft-drive, and steady enough in a turn, but not quick to turn and right itself. The bike was rather heavy, not deft and flickable, but it was wonderful to , wonderful to be on, wonderful to ride, a source of pride. The sound it made was magnificent. The feeling was of riding a powerful musical instrument. The hills echoed and the valleys lit up with my song. You used to be able to say of a motorcycle that it was on song when it was going full tilt in perfect tune and at the right revs just at the redline, the rpm limit for the motor. I was on song. I felt in tune, in love, so proud. It was late summer, almost fall. Pride goeth before the fall. Then I fell. Frederick Seidel is a dark and strange sort of poet...widely agreed to be: One of poetry's few truly scary characters... Unlike most poets, he’s rich, dabbles in the cocktail droll with the rich and famous when seeking amusement...and has, really, rode expensive Italian motorcycles while obsessing over breasts and violence. Italian motorcycles from a vintage where nothing sounded better...if you could get it in tune.  |
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