"bakelite" poems
I set my cruise on the highway and
am passed by a red AMC Eagle.
This red rusty AMC Eagle has a
wind shied covered in frost because,
I'm guessing, the defrost motor burned
up in a bakelite mushroom cloud from the
dashboard.
It is held together with duct tape
and grit. The pilot sits behind his cardboard
console ludicrously warm in winter parka,
scarf,
hat
and gloves.
I pass him waving dressed
in my tshirt and shorts.
Driving in my new, awesomely
economical car.
Four dashboard vents dump lava warm air
to keep me pleasingly toasty.
The pilot will never understand that I wave
not at his expense, but in envy. The billboard
on my right says it all,
If I have to explain you wouldn't understand.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
We're antique and aware of it,
old fashioned and they stare a bit, but that's a part of the charm, a penny farthing to ride on with gaiters to tie on, keeping the spats nice and clean.
Home for some tiffin and the lady's been shopping down at Macy's for doilies, thank god it wasn't Tiffanys for diamonds, the wireless set goes off and the gramophone's switched on, a 78 Bakelite revolves in the room where the mood's right for romance.
We dance modernistic, the Cha cha's futuristic, they'll never do better than this
then we kiss and say goodnight, in separate beds we sleep so tight and a strip of carpet between them, keeping things nice and clean, men,
you know what I mean.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
It all becomes retro
a bit like the sixties in a Parisian fashion show and
it's
all for one and I for one would like to go
retro.
Bakelite was alright and
crystal sets for the news,
but now it's crystal meths for the mad nights
and I have the blues. but
can't sing.
But
bring me a railroad and I'll lay down a track,
give me some retro
I want to go back.
I could wind back the clock for some 80's glam rock and
I could wind back in time to the Maginot line or
I could wind it some more to the hundred years war, to the ships and the pilgrims who went to find fame in that country of which I can never remember the name, to Grimm and his tales, to Glendower of Wales and if retro's the way to go then that's where I want to be **** the modernity of the
21st century, all systems go
back to retro.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
I set my cruise on the highway and
am passed by a red AMC Eagle.
This red rusty AMC Eagle has a
wind shied covered in frost because,
I'm guessing, the defrost motor burned
up in a bakelite mushroom cloud from the
dashboard.
It is held together with duct tape
and grit. The pilot sits behind his cardboard
console ludicrously warm in winter parka,
scarf,
hat
and gloves.
I pass him waving dressed
in my tshirt and shorts.
Driving in my new, awesomely
economical car.
Four dashboard vents dump lava warm air
to keep me pleasingly toasty.
The pilot will never understand that I wave
not at his expense, but in envy. The billboard
on my right says it all,
If I have to explain you wouldn't understand.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Despite the Bakelite ****
etched with a range of degrees,
the vintage Wedgewood oven
has only two temperatures:
warm and nuclear ash.
But **** it looks good—a sleek hulk
of white porcelain and polished chrome,
a 1950s Cadillac parked next to the fridge.
When the house is dark
the fluorescent stovetop
glows like a dashboard
illuminating candy wrappers and road maps,
and the kitchen soon stretches to landscape.
I wander in, whiskey in hand, and stand
on a road cutting across a darkened field.
Below cast iron burner grates
pilot lights flicker and burn:
blue seeds poised to blossom
when the Bakelite dials turn.
I reach for the bottle
and the kitchen ignites
into a meadow of larkspur.
Fragrant flowers
mixing bourbon;
I drink it all down,
let the blues drive.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
I saw an old farmhouse
It reminded me more of a home than just a house
I pictured myself living there
I pictured having the windows shut and the curtains drawn closed
I imagined silence
Behind this house there was a big mountain
Snow white clouds spilling over the peak like pouring milk
There was that silent sound again
Back inside I pictured an old black bakelite telephone in the passage
Only I knew the number
I could phone out
But there would be no incoming calls
I've chosen it this way
The kitchen is cozy and modest
A *** plant in the windowsill
The television and radio have been stacked inside the ceiling
They have become dust collectors
The only sound is the ticking of the clock
It doesn't matter if it runs down
Time is not important here
Not in this space
I eat
I think
I go for a walk
I return
I drink a cup of tea
It's late afternoon and the sun wants to retire
I read
I think some more
I turn out the light
I go to sleep and forget
Jun 19, 2023
Jun 19, 2023 at 5:35 PM UTC
As modern as day is to night,
why don't we shout out,
'bring back Bakelite.'
It's a wonderful thing,it
makes records that sing and
radios that play those.
While we're about it
bring back
the Milkman,the jerry can,
the men that pan gold,
the youth to the old.
As modern as day is to night
bring back my hindsight
it might not be right but
it would be good.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
Bad times
And yes also some very good times
Sunday evening was always bath time in our house
BATH TIME!!!
Well yes we had a bath
With a cold tap
But
Hot water came from a wood fired boiler in the corner
Hoping
Will it be my turn to go first tonight
Because with nine kids the rest went in two by two
So
Out with the first one then in went a saucepan full of boiling water
Then in went the rest, two in two out in with the water
But we never complained and rarely fell sick
Cooking
Mum had an old black wood fired range
On rare occasions coal if there was a little extra money
But oh what mum could do on/in that range
Come home from school and the air would be redolent with the aroma of home made bread
On the hob a great pan of bubbling rabbit stew made with veg from the garden and rabbits the older kids snared
Yes, good plain wholesome food
Television
Oh boy televion
A screen about 12 by 10 in a dark brown Bakelite case
Not new of course, we couldn't afford that
The back was permanently off so that every time it went wrong
Dad could jump up, reach inside and wiggle the valves
I'll never know to this day how he never electrocuted himself
I will never forget our toilet to my dying day
Out of the back door and turn left then in
A wooden seat under which was a large cast iron pail
Usually it was torn squares of newspaper but on special occasions
REAL toilet paper
Three times a week that pail would be taken to the veg garden and the contents buried
The following year we would have fantastic veg
Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
A hunk of bakelite
Clothed in dusty silk
Skulks in the basement,
Silently shrilling
In disconnected tones.
Beside it, on the shelf,
A well-worn Polaroid,
Neatly boxed in original packaging,
Wonky tripod pointedly retracted.
A faded leather wrist-strap
Clings to a yellow stained face,
Where bent fingers forever recall
Three-thirty-eight-and-seventeen-seconds.
Products of a generation
That raced off to chase the ever new,
Never standing still,
Onwards and onwards, until
One day when they come
To sit upon the shelf,
And to reminisce
Of all that might have been.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
... the fizz of a Bakelite switch casting
out dark in a storm - a hot scented bath and
the warm-dry robe I wear after...
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 6:35 PM UTC
Pressed-foil bowls or bakelite cowls
Sitting still and open-mouthed
Ready to eat her dog-eared ash
Burnished or scarred as she burns-up her brass
Incensed as at a Virginia Mass
The tobacco weaves yellow shrouds
Coarse saffron fingers tap-tap at your rims
And dapple sweet drags on your lips
You could tell us some tales of long-drunken sins
Where the day-fags leave off and the night-fags begin
Of the filters with flares or the Park Drives with fins
With red lipstick, split lips and rouge films
Long nights without sleep extinguished in you
Harsh mornings begun in your bed
Some twisted, some stabbed as they poke them in you
The product of nicotine-jumpy sinews
Your pile overflows, now over to you,
Please tell: what goes out in your head?
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 3:54 AM UTC
gliding up
and sliding down
a life full of muddy trails
extends like a coiling cord
a Bakelite phone
hoping to ring
eyes watching
from the window
waiting for your stormy head
to appear from behind
the curve in the road
thinking about all the things
that must be said
then running back
to a closed room
somewhere out of sight
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
Morning came
she woke up
in her room
she listened
the old brown
Bakelite
radio
was churning
out music
she got up
remembered
her father
had hit her
before bed
she opened up
the green door
and went through
the bright lit
sitting room
her father
sitting there
eating up
his breakfast
she passed through
he watched her
said nothing
she went past
the kitchen
and bathroom
her mother
was coming
out the bog
how are you
young Ingrid?
Mother said
Dad hit me
before bed
Ingrid said
why was that?
Mother said
I went out
with Benny
we played games
cut my thumb
Ingrid showed
her mother
the bandaged thumb
let me see
how it is
Mother said
she unwrapped
the cut thumb
how did you
cut the thumb?
Ritual
Benny said
what Injuns
used to do
joining thumbs
that are cut
blood brother
and sister
Ingrid said
is that why
your father
hit you one?
Mother asked
I don't know
Ingrid said
Mother washed
the cut thumb
and put on
a plaster
off you go
to get washed
then get dressed
Ingrid went
to the bog
and sat down
she could hear
raised voices
Father's roar
Mother's shout
exchange
of insults
a duet
of anger
words flying
like dark birds
Ingrid thought
where's Benny
wish he was
here with me
my brave knight
with his quiff
of brown hair
hazel eyes
and that sword
his old man
made for him
he like me
10 years old
the voices
had silenced
an eerie
cold silence
was out there
Ingrid sat
stiff as death
listening
with held breath.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
The boy stood on the burning deck
He'd never seen the like
His vintage radio refused to work
Because of melted Bakelite.
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 9:06 AM UTC