Gol McAdam

Gol McAdam Poems

This rhyming gives me so much grief
Like something rapping in the head,

That Thursday after Mass
a tennis ball between us 
we played fast catch until the ball
cambered to an alley between factory walls

The Best Poem Of Gol McAdam

Burnt Out Norton

The going and the point of departure
Are both perhaps the same as the arrival,
And the arrival a muchness of the departure.
The bike ride is the crux of it
The journey to and from academic.
The road taken is of little consequence
A thing of endless possibilities
A mere matter of choice.
Where might have been and where had been
Faded to the shadow of the riding.
Remembering a trip that we took
Or a road we did not take
Over a wide open moor.
But why recall
The sting of dust from a gravel road
I cannot say.

Other memories
Come from the moor. Shall we look?
The Norton speaks to call them
Listen to the gavelling at big end
The sprocket beating chain
The popping of exhaust clutching
The music of whipped wind
Against pinion of pillion and bare shins.
Grey gravel thrown up onto shoes.
The road speeding beneath the wheels
And a loud dust cloud rising behind.
Then the dust settles and the moor is gone.
The bike is stopped and silent.
The departure and the arrival,
Where might have been and where had been,
Enveloped by the realness of riding.


Harleys and Hondas reap the road
Axing through the traffic jams
And thrilling racers have foretold
Of riding speedway to the stars.
The bike rode dispatch in the wars,
The burnt out Norton across the moors,
And all as one with one will strike
Through time and space directionless
The essence of the motorbike.
And the stillness of the turning wheel. Neither forward or backward
Neither from nor towards; in the still wheel, there the ride is,
Where been and gone are gathered. Neither journeying from nor towards,
Neither coming nor going. Except for the wheel’s still hub
There would be no ride, and there is only the ride.
It is true to say that there we have been but I cannot say where
And I cannot say when for that would be to know it as a journey.
The freedom from preplanned routing
The release from direction and mapping, the release from the compulsion
Of coming or going, yet transported
By steady light, a headlamp still but moving
Dark and simultaneous along new and old roads.
Roads known and unknown projecting the body
In the resolution of unawareness and delight.
Departure and arrival
Will not permit awareness
To be aware is not to be on a journey
But only on a journey can the moment
Of dust rising from the road be remembered:
Through the journey, the journey is subjugated.


Here is the place of the journeying
Departing and arriving
In the dim light of an omnibus
Investing it with the status of transportation
Its sluggish movement suggesting travelling.
Only a flicker in the commuting mind
Topped with trivia and unknowing.
Men with folded tabloids wait for tubes
In draughty stations whirled by wind
That blows noxious their non-ridden
Arrivals and departures.

Ride harder, ride only
Not in the commuting
But in refraining from this.
Bike is bike and that which is not bike,
Darkness, destitution and deprivation.
The bike is the way of the ride.


Road maps and routes have buried the way
The atlas takes all the fun away
Will its pages delight us, will its index
Lead to enchantment or merely say
Grip and grasp
Meaning is in the grid? After the kickstart
Is jumped and the revs accelerate the ride is the way
And the road rolls still and dusty beneath it,
Below the still point of the turning wheel


Cogs move, pistons move
Only on journeys: but that which is only moving
Can only fall still. Choke after the braking throttle
To silence. Only from the carburettor, the dynamo,
The sparking plug, the full tank, the spoked wheels
Can the ride take form. Only by their movement
Can the still now of the Norton exist
Static and motive together co-joined.
Here is the ladder of perfection
So that all is for always now.

The burnt out Norton revs up,
The moor track speeds below,
Dust from the road rises noisy,
Gravel peppers the legs,
Wind whips across the face,
The pillion pinions above
The still moving wheel.
The ride. Here, now, always –
Ridiculous the waste sad journey
Stretching before and behind.

Gol McAdam Comments

earyt etr 15 September 2005

Soulful, a great read on a rainy day; makes you think about your life, and what it means... I applaud you, thank you very much for Writing. Keep doing it!

0 0 Reply

Gol McAdam Popularity

Gol McAdam Popularity

Error Success