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Every so offten I recieve emails and letters from Bikerpoets or folks who would like to find out about publishing their work or the work of a friend or loved one. I recieved an email in March From Jan Woodland of New Hampshire inquiring about publshing the poetry of her late husband Jack Woodland.
She said, she believed Jack had mentioned knowng me and we may have met at Bike Week in Laconia. I'm pretty sure I remember meeting Jack a couple of times at the Poets in the Attic, poetry readings in Wolfboro NH.
Below is short note Jan sent me telling
me about Jack and his poetry.
"Jack and I lived in Alton, NH. He had lived here forever, we had gotten married in 2006. I don't know why, but I remember him talking about you. ack was very involved with Christian Motorcyclists Assoc. and was at their coffee house in the Weirs during bike week. He didn't start writing poetry until after his 1st wife passed away in 1999. I will e-mail you a few of his poems. Jan ..."
And here is a poem by Jack Woodland ...
(3.)
(Asphalt Dancing)
Motorcycles line upt
Like greyhouds at the gate.
Engines rev, throttle feathered,
toe tapping the ground.
Blood pounding in my veins
like the driver of a locomotive.
Honda pants to go.
Snap of the clutch,
The challenge begins.
20 laps of adrenaline rush.
Banshee screaming motorcycles.
Good Start.
Turn one.
Shifting down, light front brake.
80 to 40.
Out of turn one,
hard on throttle,
Back straight away
push 100 mph,
Oh yeah, feels good.
Chicane comping up,
Down shifting, hold the line.
Take a deep breath into chicane.
Like a darting bird, body moves right ... then left.
Knee dragging as bike leans, 45 degrees.
Out of turn four,
longest straight away.
Sprinting 130 mph, plus!
Dunlap's feel good,
engine smooth, look'in good lap after lap
Lap ten
Unwanted noise.
Chicane again raises its ugly head.
Pit stop eminent.
Damn, lost it!
Like clothes in a dryer, tumbling at 70 mph.
Hay bales flying.
Ah, better luck next time.
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Jack's poem above here and Rusty Sproket's poem below here, to me seen very close together in tone and nature. For one thing we should never forget that most of the big motorcycle events ... Daytonia, Laconia and Sturgis are realy centered around motorcycle events, Hill Climbs, Flat track and the Big Track.
I've writen a poem ( Bikers are a Strange Breed.) But, I also believe Bikers / Motorcyclists are a creed with many believes, values, Symbols and (for no better word,) ritchuwills common to one another. One of my Harvard Photogtrphy Instuctors, John Ludders-Booth told he wanted to do a photography book on the common icons and images inside Bikers homes. In one of the first slide shows John Ludders-Booth showed us in class I recognized a could of the motorcycists in the slides. As I have said before as a creed there always seems to be a common connections.
Between the late Jack Woodland and Rusty Sproket there are many of these common bonds ... They both have / had sidecar rigs, they both are / were members of the CMA, I find their poetry very simalar most likely due to these commom bonds and nature. And though Jack's ( Asphalt Dancing ) poem is mostly writen about a race track in NH. and Rusty's Hill Climb poem is about a Hill Climb in Pa., I can feel the kinship.
(4.)
(Freemansburg Hillclimb
Freemansburg, PA )
by Rusty Sprocket,
The big hill
looms over the crowded meadow
where the five thousand
wait to be fed
the risky thrills they hunger for-
Watching
the brave/foolish riders
on their stretched machines
with long swingarms
and fuelly motors
claw upward
through the ancient dirt
and lug-loosened rocks
that make up their mountain track...
just
to get to the brink
in one piece while racing
the big digital clock
ticking off hundredths of a second
in a blink
The crowd's
eyes
squint upward against the sun
to see if momentum
(the trick of the trade)
is lost
or if a rut catches a wheel
and pulls the rider
off the track he wants to run
The crowd's
ears
attune to the steady uphill growl
to hear
if the motor's throb skips
and traction
(a rider's salvation)
is lost
The crowd's
heart
lifting with the rider's climb
yet fearing an up-hill silence
which means a stall
and a rider's grim fall
his bike on its side
which cannot help but slike
and both then tumble downward
hurting things
until snagged on a jutting rock
or grabbed by rope-holding
hill workers...
or worse...
a rider flipped
with his bike coming over him
and gravity
making a bad thing drastic...
the drama they all came to see
but hope they don't
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