Soft Sell (final for Keith this era)

[tectak]

“The window sticks, sometimes”, he said.
A tear formed in his eye.
I said, “It doesn’t matter…”
and he gave a wistful sigh.

“The wipers stick whenever it’s wet,
odd, it is, I know;
but what a friend she’s been to me,
I’ll be sad to see her go."

I said I’d fix the wipers and
I’d no reduction beg.
He never even heard me
as he kneeled down on one leg.

“This scratch….I meant to fix it once…
it’s rusty now, you see.
I bumped a pram in Luton in
the Spring of fifty-three.”

I told him scratches all cars had
when ten years old or more.
Emery, primer a coat of gloss
its lustre would restore.

At last, he let me drive her off.
He waved me down the street.
I saw him in the mirror…then
a spring popped through the seat.

I moved my haunches to one side
to gain some small relief
but in so doing nudged the door
and the handle came to grief.

The handle would not play the game,
it hid beneath the seat.
I scrabbled with my fingertips
but something gripped my feet.

I tried to stop, to no avail...
the "something" held me fast.
We reached a weaving thirty
and I watched my life flash past.

At last, I forced her to a halt
and much to my chagrin,
I found my feet had been trapped by
an essential piece of tin.

A portion of the bulkhead
from the car it was detached.
That bump he had in Luton had
caused much more than a scratch.

I could not get outside to see
how bad had been my luck.
The door handle was lost and gone
plus the ruddy window’d stuck.

So out the other door I squeezed,
the weather had turned wet.
I gave the wheel a parting kick
and wished we’d never met.

I left her where she’d left herself;
I wrote on her “For sale”.
Then wet  but wiser wandered off
to tell my friends the tale.

This story’s not quite over yet,
we visited next day.
The rain it still was falling
and we had no wish to stay.

I pointed out the failings to
the mourners gathered round.
The key was turned, ignition on…
from the engine, not a sound.


The window wouldn’t budge an inch;
I felt a rising rant.
“The bulkhead”, angrily I explained,
“is responsible for the cant.”

Believe it or not, I little know
of how to buy a car
but as we left I heard a squeak.
“Wipers”, I said. “Hurrah”.

1960 then along came girls. Cars were easy.
tectak

[cidermaid]

Fun read, thanks for posting.
A couple of small meterbumps to my read, but if i understood correctly the last line was a comment to Keith not part of the poem and this was written in 1960 and posted more to share with Kieth rather than to recieve crit. (If it is not too rude to ask - what age did you start writing poetry?)

[tectak]

Fun read, thanks for posting.
A couple of small meterbumps to my read, but if i understood correctly  the last line was a comment to Keith not part of the poem and this was written in 1960 and posted more to share with Kieth rather than to recieve crit.   (If it is not too rude to ask - what age did you start writing poetry?)

Hi cider,
I posted my first "recorded" poem a few weeks ago to encourage the newbies not to delete work through shame Keith liked it and asked for another. I obliged. This is the last of the trio from loose pages in a very old exercise book. It was almost indecipherable being written as on palimpsest... crossings out and corrections everywhere.
There are others but none are in their entirety...some may be thankfull.
I wrote my very first rhyming"poem" when I was nine years old, according to my mother. It was about the fishmonger's horse.
All I can remember is :
Mister Neddy pulls a cart
and on our hill you hear him fart...

Best left undiscovered.
Regards,
tectak
Thanks for your comments. If I was any prouder I would improve this but modesty being what it is...

[Brownlie]

Ok, so it looks like you were at some balladry here. 

“The window sticks, sometimes”, he said.
A tear formed in his eye.
I said, “It doesn’t matter…”
and he gave a wistful sigh.

“The wipers stick whenever it’s wet,
odd, it is, I know;
but what a friend she’s been to me,
I’ll be sad to see her go."

I said I’d fix the wipers and
I’d no reduction beg. -- Maybe the language could be cleaned up here.
He never even heard me
as he kneeled down on one leg. -- knelt or kneeled, I think they're both fine.


“This scratch….I meant to fix it once…
it’s rusty now, you see.
I bumped a pram in Luton in
the Spring of fifty-three.”

I told him scratches all cars had
when ten years old or more. -- I think the language is a little off here.
Emery, primer a coat of gloss -- This type of language is pretty good. 
its lustre would restore. -- Of course this poetic gymnastics to fit the metrical scheme.

At last, he let me drive her off.
He waved me down the street.
I saw him in the mirror…then
a spring popped through the seat. -- I like this popping spring here.

I moved my haunches to one side
to gain some small relief
but in so doing nudged the door
and the handle came to grief.

The handle would not play the game,
it hid beneath the seat.
I scrabbled with my fingertips
but something gripped my feet.

I tried to stop, to no avail...
the "something" held me fast.
We reached a weaving thirty
and I watched my life flash past.

At last, I forced her to a halt
and much to my chagrin,
I found my feet had been trapped by
an essential piece of tin.

A portion of the bulkhead
from the car it was detached.
That bump he had in Luton had
caused much more than a scratch.

I could not get outside to see
how bad had been my luck. -- Some inverted language here.
The door handle was lost and gone
plus the ruddy window’d stuck.

So out the other door I squeezed,
the weather had turned wet.
I gave the wheel a parting kick
and wished we’d never met.

I left her where she’d left herself;
I wrote on her “For sale”.
Then wet  but wiser wandered off
to tell my friends the tale.

This story’s not quite over yet,
we visited next day.
The rain it still was falling
and we had no wish to stay.  -- Seems like a ballad-like finish; however, the story isn't over yet.

I pointed out the failings to
the mourners gathered round. -- Gathered round is somewhat redundant. 
The key was turned, ignition on…
from the engine, not a sound.


The window wouldn’t budge an inch;
I felt a rising rant.
“The bulkhead”, angrily I explained,
“is responsible for the cant.”

Believe it or not, I little know
of how to buy a car
but as we left I heard a squeak.
“Wipers”, I said. “Hurrah”.

1960 then along came girls. Cars were easy.
tectak

Some of the language is a bit clunky. However, I like the car language, which may work well in an ode. Thanks for posting. A good artifact.

[tectak]

Ok, so it looks like you were at some balladry here. 

“The window sticks, sometimes”, he said.
A tear formed in his eye.
I said, “It doesn’t matter…”
and he gave a wistful sigh.

“The wipers stick whenever it’s wet,
odd, it is, I know;
but what a friend she’s been to me,
I’ll be sad to see her go."

I said I’d fix the wipers and
I’d no reduction beg. -- Maybe the language could be cleaned up here.
He never even heard me
as he kneeled down on one leg. -- knelt or kneeled, I think they're both fine.


“This scratch….I meant to fix it once…
it’s rusty now, you see.
I bumped a pram in Luton in
the Spring of fifty-three.”

I told him scratches all cars had
when ten years old or more. -- I think the language is a little off here.
Emery, primer a coat of gloss -- This type of language is pretty good. 
its lustre would restore. -- Of course this poetic gymnastics to fit the metrical scheme.

At last, he let me drive her off.
He waved me down the street.
I saw him in the mirror…then
a spring popped through the seat. -- I like this popping spring here.

I moved my haunches to one side
to gain some small relief
but in so doing nudged the door
and the handle came to grief.

The handle would not play the game,
it hid beneath the seat.
I scrabbled with my fingertips
but something gripped my feet.

I tried to stop, to no avail...
the "something" held me fast.
We reached a weaving thirty
and I watched my life flash past.

At last, I forced her to a halt
and much to my chagrin,
I found my feet had been trapped by
an essential piece of tin.

A portion of the bulkhead
from the car it was detached.
That bump he had in Luton had
caused much more than a scratch.

I could not get outside to see
how bad had been my luck. -- Some inverted language here.
The door handle was lost and gone
plus the ruddy window’d stuck.

So out the other door I squeezed,
the weather had turned wet.
I gave the wheel a parting kick
and wished we’d never met.

I left her where she’d left herself;
I wrote on her “For sale”.
Then wet  but wiser wandered off
to tell my friends the tale.

This story’s not quite over yet,
we visited next day.
The rain it still was falling
and we had no wish to stay.  -- Seems like a ballad-like finish; however, the story isn't over yet.

I pointed out the failings to
the mourners gathered round. -- Gathered round is somewhat redundant. 
The key was turned, ignition on…
from the engine, not a sound.


The window wouldn’t budge an inch;
I felt a rising rant.
“The bulkhead”, angrily I explained,
“is responsible for the cant.”

Believe it or not, I little know
of how to buy a car
but as we left I heard a squeak.
“Wipers”, I said. “Hurrah”.

1960 then along came girls. Cars were easy.
tectak

Some of the language is a bit clunky. However, I like the car language, which may work well in an ode. Thanks for posting. A good artifact.

More of an archive than an artifact. I was eleven or twelve when I wrote this. The story was of an experience my uncle underwent. My parents didn't drive and my passion was to own my first car. Short interval then fulfillment. Life's like that...
Thanks for reading,
best,
tectak

[Keith]

Hi Tectak to edit this would be like cleaning an old master with terps, this one is my favourite, thanks for sharing, I cant believe how talented you where at such a young age.....what happened only joking great stuff. Next stop the 70's and as Sailor would sing in 76.... girls, girls, girls. Can't wait.

[tectak]

Hi Tectak to edit this would be like cleaning an old master with terps, this one is my favourite, thanks for sharing, I cant believe how talented you where at such a young age.....what happened only joking great stuff. Next stop the 70's and as Sailor would sing in 76.... girls, girls, girls. Can't wait.

Enough already...I am unsure if you are lingua in maxillam
There are no more easily transcribed from the "early years". Most are lost forever...phew, saved by being unsaved
Best,
tectak