San Diego Freeway

[cfgorman]

Here is a poem I wrote after a long weekend of driving.

San Diego Freeway

Washed gray and oily black macadam,
violent skid-marks and chaotic calico smears
randomly suggest mayhem,
haunting blunt abutments, steel rails,
a patina of a grimy knowledge
the vision of a hopeful generation broods.

Driving this stretch every month is a pilgrimage,
pockmarks and indented stitches
a focused quest to connect two dreams.
Jockeying for position we find our slots and fill them
while foggy snug in our glass crucibles
amidst this mercenary’s gang-way
we are pricked by break-lights and signals
we slow, to a stop, in oneness of purpose,
but crawl ahead again, to speed,
repeating this dogmatic liturgy,

I hold-on to the steering wheel and
stare through the windshield
gray tarmac spools under us
thrusting us with its turbulent reminders
of secret imperfections, persistent dreams.

Mine is to hold-fast, steady, straight,
with dotted lines and grooves
gliding into throats of promising interchanges
sweeping us away in new directions,
163 then 805, then 5, 405, 101, and 33,
a litany of ordered choices, toward homes not my own.

But I do so dutifully, obedient to the promise of safe passage
from dream to dream.
I know that time is memories promised
to those at both ends of this road, as
we continue our measured count, north and south,
through these hardened veins
counting-off the miles like a ticking metronome.

[Erthona]

Here is a poem I wrote after a long weekend of driving.

San Diego Freeway

Washed gray and oily black macadam,
violent skid-marks and chaotic calico smears
randomly suggest mayhem,
haunting blunt abutments, steel rails,
a patina of a grimy knowledge I think either patina or grimy, not both.
the vision of a hopeful generation broods. (I don't understand where this comes from, and do you mean broods: "a family of offspring or young", or broods: "morbid pondering"?)

Driving this stretch every month is a pilgrimage,
pockmarks and indented stitches (I don't understand the use of stitches, had you started the poem with a metaphor of "road as quilt" such a reference would make sense, but you did not and so for me anyway, this makes little sense.)
a focused quest to connect two dreams. (What two dreams?)
Jockeying for position we find our slots and fill them
while foggy snug in our glass crucibles
amidst this mercenary’s gang-way
we are pricked by break-lights and signals
we slow, to a stop, in oneness of purpose,
but crawl ahead again, to speed,
repeating this dogmatic liturgy,

I hold-on to the steering wheel and
stare through the windshield
gray tarmac spools under us
thrusting us with its turbulent reminders
of secret imperfections, persistent dreams.

Mine is to hold-fast, steady, straight,
with dotted lines and grooves
gliding into throats of promising interchanges
sweeping us away in new directions,
163 then 805, then 5, 405, 101, and 33,
a litany of ordered choices, toward homes not my own.

But I do so dutifully, obedient to the promise of safe passage
from dream to dream.
I know that time is memories promised
to those at both ends of this road, as
we continue our measured count, north and south,
through these hardened veins
counting-off the miles like a ticking metronome.

There are some descriptions that are compelling, but these are interspersed with philosophical or religious statement that are neither explained or make sense in the total of the poem, words such as "pilgrimage" from where to where and for what purpose. Or in what way are cars "glass crucibles" In terms of human religious thought a "pilgrimage" and a "crucibles" are more or less equivalent in purpose, if not in intensity, why are they both cited?


Best,


Dale

[TowMater]

Overall a very good poem. I personally love the peace of driving alone, and you did a very good job of capturing that experience.

This stanza in particular stood out, with great use of imagery and not too many adjectives, which would be my primary critique of the first stanza.

"Driving this stretch every month is a pilgrimage,
pockmarks and indented stitches
a focused quest to connect two dreams.
Jockeying for position we find our slots and fill them
while foggy snug in our glass crucibles
amidst this mercenary’s gang-way
we are pricked by break-lights and signals
we slow, to a stop, in oneness of purpose,
but crawl ahead again, to speed,
repeating this dogmatic liturgy."

[jeremyyoung]

The second stanza is the poem.

[cfgorman]

Here is a poem I wrote after a long weekend of driving.

San Diego Freeway

Washed gray and oily black macadam,
violent skid-marks and chaotic calico smears
randomly suggest mayhem,
haunting blunt abutments, steel rails,
a patina of a grimy knowledge I think either patina or grimy, not both.

I used both words for the rythmn of the line. Will consider changing.

the vision of a hopeful generation broods. (I don't understand where this comes from, and do you mean broods: "a family of offspring or young", or broods: "morbid pondering"?)


Definitly morbid pondering. I was try to capture the origional hopefullness of the Modern Engineers of the '50's that had designed these highways and their sense of failure at the actual experience

Driving this stretch every month is a pilgrimage,
pockmarks and indented stitches (I don't understand the use of stitches, had you started the poem with a metaphor of "road as quilt" such a reference would make sense, but you did not and so for me anyway, this makes little sense.)

You're right on. I did start with a metaphor akin to a blanket but never changed this line. Very perceptive,thanks.

a focused quest to connect two dreams. (What two dreams?)

I agree this was vague.

Jockeying for position we find our slots and fill them
while foggy snug in our glass crucibles
amidst this mercenary’s gang-way
we are pricked by break-lights and signals
we slow, to a stop, in oneness of purpose,
but crawl ahead again, to speed,
repeating this dogmatic liturgy,

I hold-on to the steering wheel and
stare through the windshield
gray tarmac spools under us
thrusting us with its turbulent reminders
of secret imperfections, persistent dreams.

Mine is to hold-fast, steady, straight,
with dotted lines and grooves
gliding into throats of promising interchanges
sweeping us away in new directions,
163 then 805, then 5, 405, 101, and 33,
a litany of ordered choices, toward homes not my own.

But I do so dutifully, obedient to the promise of safe passage
from dream to dream.
I know that time is memories promised
to those at both ends of this road, as
we continue our measured count, north and south,
through these hardened veins
counting-off the miles like a ticking metronome.

There are some descriptions that are compelling, but these are interspersed with philosophical or religious statement that are neither explained or make sense in the total of the poem, words such as "pilgrimage" from where to where and for what purpose. Or in what way are cars "glass crucibles" In terms of human religious thought a "pilgrimage" and a "crucibles" are more or less equivalent in purpose, if not in intensity, why are they both cited?

Thanks for the input it will be very helpful.
Chris


Best,


Dale

---

The second stanza is the poem.

Thank you for the comment, Chris

---

Overall a very good poem. I personally love the peace of driving alone, and you did a very good job of capturing that experience.

This stanza in particular stood out, with great use of imagery and not too many adjectives, which would be my primary critique of the first stanza.

"Driving this stretch every month is a pilgrimage,
pockmarks and indented stitches
a focused quest to connect two dreams.
Jockeying for position we find our slots and fill them
while foggy snug in our glass crucibles
amidst this mercenary’s gang-way
we are pricked by break-lights and signals
we slow, to a stop, in oneness of purpose,
but crawl ahead again, to speed,
repeating this dogmatic liturgy."

Thank You

[billy]

The second stanza is the poem.

we need to give more than a one liner without showing any reasoning behind it. /mod

why is the 2nde stanza the poem? how does it differ from the rest, why aren't the other stanzas the poem as well?