The last wail of a dying breed,
a thunderous eight cylinder bellow
facilitated by perpetual ignition,
by the constant cranking of pistons
and the onslaught of fresh oil.
Yet the habitat of the V8 diminished.
The roads it roamed in ancient times
now infested by silent hybrids
and lifeless, whirring batteries,
imitations of the age of oil.
Perhaps it was inevitable.
To survive by guzzling and burning
fuel till the fumes choked the sky,
the eight pistons rattled along
until their sustenance evaporated.
On a few isolated country roads,
a distant roar can be heard
by those who stop and listen
for a rising and falling vibrato,
the final note of the melody.
Showing posts with label sports cars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports cars. Show all posts
Wednesday, 11 April 2018
Wednesday, 19 April 2017
NaPoWriMo #19: Spitfire Swing
He's done it ladies and gentlemen. After nineteen days I've finally broken my record from the last NaPoWriMo two years ago. To mark the occasion, I present another car poem, this time about a classic British sports car.
Spitfire Swing
The older cousin of later Triumphs,
yet overshadowed by its relatives
both older and younger.
Low slung, bulging headlights,
narrow grill, flared curves
along its back wheel-arches.
Not as fearsome as the Stag,
not as refined as the 2000,
Not as alloyed as the Dolly Sprint,
yet as swift as a gazelle
when it meets a turn in the road
and as fast as the best of its league.
Spitfire Swing
The older cousin of later Triumphs,
yet overshadowed by its relatives
both older and younger.
Low slung, bulging headlights,
narrow grill, flared curves
along its back wheel-arches.
Not as fearsome as the Stag,
not as refined as the 2000,
Not as alloyed as the Dolly Sprint,
yet as swift as a gazelle
when it meets a turn in the road
and as fast as the best of its league.
Tuesday, 11 April 2017
NaPoWriMo #11: Flight of the Veyron
It seems cars are becoming a regular feature of my NaPoWriMo journey. We've already had one poem about the legendary Jaguar E-Type, so here's one about the equally majestic speed king itself.
Flight of the Veyron
A thousand horses
imprisoned in sixteen cylinders,
released at the press of a foot
on the throttle.
From the horse and cart
to a car with the face
of a big cat in a trance,
fixated on the track,
on moving in a straight line
faster than any speed warrior
has travelled before.
Hugging the tarmac,
retracting its rear spoiler
like a peacock's train
and tearing down the road
in a blur worthy of hyperspace.
Flight of the Veyron
A thousand horses
imprisoned in sixteen cylinders,
released at the press of a foot
on the throttle.
From the horse and cart
to a car with the face
of a big cat in a trance,
fixated on the track,
on moving in a straight line
faster than any speed warrior
has travelled before.
Hugging the tarmac,
retracting its rear spoiler
like a peacock's train
and tearing down the road
in a blur worthy of hyperspace.
Friday, 7 April 2017
NaPoWriMo #7: E-Type
So this is a bit later today than usual, but here comes a short poem inspired by one of the greatest British sports cars of all time.
E-Type
Who would have thought
that so much elegance
could be encapsulated
within sheets of metal.
A long, sloping bonnet,
oval feline headlamps
and shimmering chrome
illuminate a sea-coloured car.
When such a car is flying
down the twistiest of lanes,
one can hear its namesake
thundering within its cylinders.
E-Type
Who would have thought
that so much elegance
could be encapsulated
within sheets of metal.
A long, sloping bonnet,
oval feline headlamps
and shimmering chrome
illuminate a sea-coloured car.
When such a car is flying
down the twistiest of lanes,
one can hear its namesake
thundering within its cylinders.
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