Peter Behrens's Blog, page 576

Elizabeth Bishop "Filling Station"

                                                                                              ©2012 Becky Smith
The Elizabeth Bishop poem, with an editorial note from Brian Bartlett, AL's Halifax correspondent:
          "Peter, Now that Autoliterate has posted Mathew Dickman's "Gas Station," the natural follow-up would be Elizabeth Bishop's wry poem below, originally from her collection Questions of Travel (Farrar, Straus & Gieroux, 1965). The filling station that inspired the poem in Great Village, NS, has been replaced by an Irving one"--BB
         And check this link to the Elizabeth Bishop Society of Nova Scotia"--PB
Filling StationOh, but it is dirty!
-- this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color --
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret? Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

Elizabeth Bishop "The Filling Station"

                                                                                              ©2012 Becky Smith
The Elizabeth Bishop poem, with an editorial note from Brian Bartlett, AL's Halifax correspondent:
          "Peter, Now that Autoliterate has posted Mathew Dickman's "Gas Station," the natural follow-up would be Elizabeth Bishop's wry poem below, originally from her collection Questions of Travel (Farrar, Straus & Gieroux, 1965). The filling station that inspired the poem in Great Village, NS, has been replaced by an Irving one"--BB
         And check this link to the Elizabeth Bishop Society of Nova Scotia"--PB
The Filling Station
Oh, but it is dirty!
-- this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color --
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret? Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

Matthew Dickman Poem

  -                                       from Jeff Brouws, "Highway Series" http://www.jeffbrouws.com/series/highway_F01.html

GAS STATION 
There's no telling what the night will bringbut the moon. That's a no brainer. A no brainer moon sitting there at its desk, wishing it was outsideon the play ground with little Rebecca Steinberg,her hair came down around her shoulderslike streamers on new year's eve.The night is going to be a very long nightand I am walking into itwith my sleeves rolled up,my cap on tight,all my worthwhileness stuffed into my back pocket like a wallet full of transcendental credit. The bullshit elegance of shadows and the moon like the inside of a jawbreakerafter all the color has been licked off,all that sweet dye and sugar,layer by layer until only the soul of the thing is left, the hard center that will choke you to deathif you're not careful. Which I wasn't the summer I turned fourteen.Anton and I had cornered a younger kid behind the 7-11 who was fat and walking with his little sister.We screamed at him say you're fat! Say it, say you're fat.And he did, he said it, he cried and said itand whatever strength he had as an older brother, as someone his sister looked up to from behind her big blue eyes,caught fire between usand went out like a match.Well, I lived and he lived and Anton lived for twelve more yearsbut we killed something,we dug a hole and buried it,and later that night I was walking past the Chevron gas stationon 92nd and Foster,next to the 92nd Street Club Dancers, and this guy came out swinginga gun, his face like an apartment
that no one had lived in for years,the gun pointing just above my head when it went off,the moon exploding and the wind picking up all the pieces like a mother picking up all the dirty clothes in a house full of children who never listened  to a word she said.
                                                             -Matthew Dickman

 

My Brilliant Careerism, part 11

My new novel, THE O'BRIENS launches in the US this Tuesday, March 6, with a Pléaráca Leabhar at the Irish Arts Center, Hells Kitchen, NYC. 730pm . And that means book party.  Ticket info here.

I was profiled in the New York Times this week. You can find that here.

On Thursday March 8  I'll be talking and reading at one of my favourite bookstores, Politics & Prose in Washington DC. That event will be at 7:00pm. Info here.

And on St Patrick's Day, Saturday March 17, at 6:00pm I'll be talking (about varieties of Irishness) and reading from THE O'BRIENS at Marfa Book Co., in Marfa Texas.

More events coming up in April and May in New England, New Brunswick, New York, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Toronto. The events list is up on my website.

At some of the  events I plan to show a few slides from my O'Brien family archive.

More "Advanced Design" Chevy Trucks

From Jim Graham in California: 
"Jim Graham here with Desert Dingo Racing - http://www.desertdingo.com. My wife Roxanne turned me on to your blog and suggested I send along a photo of the truck we use as our race car hauler. It's owned by Dennis "Crusty" Lange and runs like a champ. I drove it from Felton, Calif. to Gerlach, Nev., then to Fallon, Nev. and back to Felton (875 mile roundtrip) and the only issue was the driver side window fell out.


Crusty's putting power steering in it now (I looked like Popeye after the trip) and we'll be replacing the plywood on the deck, but otherwise no changes. Crusty was considering painting it and we collectively yelled "ZOMG! NO!" so it will keep the patina..."--J.G.

note: Autoliterate has a thing for GM's "Advanced Design"  series of 1947-55 trucks. One of the reasons is that my first trip to West Texas was in a 1952 Chevrolet 1-ton, all the way from Banff Alberta, down the Rocky Mountain front. Blue highways all the way, as we couldn't quite work up to interstate speed.

GM Advanced Design

Okay, I think the GM "Advanced Design Series" of trucks, which ran from 1947-55, are about as beautiful as a truck gets. BB caught this one in Santa Barbara. I learned to drive (St. Margarat's Station, Quebec; summer of '67) on a 1953 A-D Chevrolet truck with Montana plates and a suicide knob.

F100 needs a home

From Alex Emond, our south Saskatchewan (and Banff) correspondent. "The house with all the trucks around it is on the edge of Swift Current. Obviously the guy has a problem with old pickup trucks. Usually some of them have "For Sale" signs on them....I might have to meet the dude and ask if I can take more pictures. These are only the trucks that are visible from the far end of his driveway. Who knows what lurks in the back yard? Or in the shop ? I'll bet he's got trucks in the basement."  
. F2

Vintage Dodge Truck in Saskatchewan

From our South Saskatchewan correspondent, Alex Emond:
"The old Dodge truck is out on the Hwy just outside Ponteix. That guy has a garage there and does work for locals ...cars trucks tractors ...you name it."




Looks like a c. 1940 Dodge truck. Saskatchewan is high and dry, like West Texas, so the metal lasts.
Oh I would like to buy this machine and get it on the road again. Looks like (almost) current Saskatchewan plates, so it can't have sitting all that long. If you buy a truck and plan to have it shipped, Autoliterate strongly, passionately, recommends Safe-Way Auto Transport out of Kentucky. They use their own trucks, which means your machine won't get shopped around from freight terminal to terminal; their drivers are extremely responsible and do exactly what they promise; and their prices are reasonable. They moved my truck from deep in West Texas to Bangor, Maine, and they have just delivered a friend's truck from Greensboro, NC to Marfa, Texas.

Larry Levis "Whitman"

Whitman:         "I say we hadbetter look our nation searchingly in the face, like a physician diagnosingsome deep disease." -Democratic Vistas
"Look for me under your bootsoles."
On Long Island, they moved myclapboard houseAcross a turnpike, & thenfelt so guilty theyNamed a shopping center afterme!
Now that I'm required readingin your high schools,Teenagers call me a fool.Now what I sang stopsbreathing.
And yetIt was only when everyonestopped believing in meThat I began to live again—First in the thin whine ofMontana fence wire,Then in the transparent,cast-off garments hungIn the windows of the poorestfamilies,Then in the glad music ofCharlie Parker.At time now,I even come back to watch youFrom the eyes of a taciturnboy at Malibu.Across the counter at thebeach concession stand,I see you hot dogs, Pepsis,cigarettes-My blond hair long, greasy,& swept backIn a vain old ducktail,deliciously Out of style. And no onenotices.Once I even came back asme,An aging homosexual who theTilt-a-WhirlAt county fairs, the chilledpaint on each gondolaChanging color as it picked upspeed,And a Mardi Gras tattoo on myleft shoulder.A few of you must have seen myphotographs,For when I looked back,I thought you caught themeaning of my stare:
Still water,Merciless.
A Kosmos. One of the roughs.
And Charlie Parker's graveoutside Kansas CityCovered with weeds.
Leave me alone.A father who's outlived hisonly child.
To find me now will cost you everything.
                                -Larry Levis, from his Winter Stars

Jaguar Mk VII

This image just in from photographer Alison Langley. My guess is: a 1956 Jaguar Mk VII. But I'm not very up on big English saloons of the 1950s. I know that a big Jag was one way to go if you wanted walnut-and-English-leather ambience without paying for Rolls or Bentley. Never could quite figure where Daimlers fit into the English car class-system. Saw the Queen riding in one, once.