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Blueberries +
 Bibliographic Information Author Frost, Robert Genre Poetry Journal or Book North of Boston Publisher David Nutt Year of Publication 1914 Pages 59-66 Additional information - " You ought to have seen what I saw on my way To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day : Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum In the cavernous pail of the first one to come ! And all ripe together, not some of them green And some of them ripe ! You ought to have seen ! " road village roadside plant affect pleasure " I don't know what part of the pasture you mean." " You know where they cut off the woods—let me see— It was two years ago—or no !—can it be No longer than that ?—and the following fall The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall." " Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow. That's always the way with the blueberries, though : There may not have been the ghost of a sign Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine, But get the pine out of the way, you may burn The pasture all over until not a fern Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick, And presto, they're up all around you as thick And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick." “ It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit. I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot. And after all really they're ebony skinned : The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind, A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand, And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned." " Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think ? " " He may and not care and so leave the chewink To gather them for him—you know what he is. He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his An excuse for keeping us other folk out." " I wonder you didn't see Loren about." " The best of it was that I did. Do you know, I was just getting through what the field had to show And over the wall and into the road, When who should come by, with a democrat-load Of all the young chattering Lorens alive, But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive." road agriculture road condition " He saw you, then ? What did he do ? Did he frown ? " " He just kept nodding his head up and down. You know how politely he always goes by. But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye— Which being expressed, might be this in effect : ' I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect, To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.' " " He's a thriftier person than some I could name." " He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet." " Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “ “I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.” car “ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. " car metaphor " He seems to be thrifty ; and hasn't he need, With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed ? He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say, Like birds. They store a great many away. They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet." " Who cares what they say ? It's a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow. “ “I wish you had seen his perpetual bow— And the air of the youngsters ! Not one of them turned, And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.” “ I wish I knew half what the flock of them know Of where all the berries and other things grow, Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop. I met them one day and each had a flower Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower ; Some strange kind—they told me it hadn't a name. " " I've told you how once not long after we came, I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth By going to him of all people on earth To ask if he knew any fruit to be had For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad. There had been some berries—but those were all gone. He didn't say where they had been. He went on : ' I'm sure—I'm sure '—as polite as could be. He spoke to his wife in the door, ' Let me see, Mame, we don't know any good berrying place ? ' It was all he could do to keep a straight face. " If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him, He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim, We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year. We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear, And the sun shines out warm : the vines must be wet. It's so long since I picked I almost forget How we used to pick berries : we took one look round, Then sank out of sight like trolls underground, And saw nothing more of each other, or heard, Unless when you said I was keeping a bird Away from its nest, and I said it was you. ' Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew Around and around us. And then for a while We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile, And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out, For when you made answer, your voice was as low As talking—you stood up beside me, you know. " We shan't have the place to ourselves to enjoy— Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy. They'll be there to-morrow, or even to-night. They won't be too friendly—they may be polite— To people they look on as having no right To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain. You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain, The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves, Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves."  
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A Roadway +
 Bibliographic Information Author Dunbar, Paul Laurence Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar Publisher Dodd , Mead , and Company Year of Publication 1913 Pages 214-215 Additional information - Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray: For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way. road class metaphor plant sky forest animal affect road side  +
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Cities +
 Bibliographic Information Author H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1916 Pages 44-46 Additional information - metaphysics Can we believe—by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street, each patterned alike, no grace to lighten a single house of the hundred crowded into one garden-space. street town urban affect Crowded—can we believe, not in utter disgust, in ironical play— but the maker of cities grew faint with the beauty of temple and space before temple, arch upon perfect arch, of pillars and corridors that led out to strange court-yards and porches where sun-light stamped hyacinth-shadows black on the pavement. urban town architecture affect road That the maker of cities grew faint with the splendour of palaces, paused while the incense-flowers from the incense-trees dropped on the marble-walk, thought anew, fashioned this— street after street alike. urban town metaphor plant tree roadside road affect For alas, he had crowded the city so full that men could not grasp beauty, beauty was over them, through them, about them, no crevice unpacked with the honey, rare, measureless. So he built a new city, ah can we believe, not ironically but for new splendour constructed new people to lift through slow growth to a beauty unrivalled yet— and created new cells, hideous first, hideous now— spread larve across them, not honey but seething life. And in these dark cells, packed street after street, souls live, hideous yet— O disfigured, defaced, with no trace of the beauty men once held so light. street town urban affect Can we think a few old cells were left—we are left— grains of honey, old dust of stray pollen dull on our torn wings, we are left to recall the old streets ? street town urban affect nostalgia Is our task the less sweet that the larve still sleep in their cells? Or crawl out to attack our frail strength: You are useless. We live. We await great events. We are spread through this earth. We protect our strong race. You are useless. Your cell takes the place of our young future strength. Though they sleep or wake to torment and wish to displace our old cells— thin rare gold— that their larve grow fat— is our task the less sweet? Though we wander about, find no honey of flowers in this waste, is our task the less sweet— who recall the old splendour, await the new beauty of cities?  
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Don't get me wrong oblivion +
 Bibliographic Information Author Cummings, Edward Estline Genre Poetry Journal or Book E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962 Publisher Liveright Year of Publication 1916 Pages 940-941 Additional information - don't get me wrong oblivion I never loved you kiddo you that was always sticking around spoiling me for everyone else telling me how it would make you nutty if I didn’t let you go the distance and I gave you my breasts to feel didn’t I and my mouth to kiss    O I was too good to you oblivion old kid that’s all    and when I might have told you to go ahead and croak yourselflike you was always threatening you was going to do I didn’t I said go on you inter- est me I let you hang around and whimper    and I’ve been getting mine Listen there’s a fellow I love like I never love anyone else that’s six    foot two tall with a face like any girl would die to kiss and a skin    like a little kitten’s that’s asked me to go to Murray’s tonight with him and see the cab-    aret and dance you know well if he asks me to take another I’m going to and if he asks me to take another after that I’m going to do that and if he puts me into a taxi and tells the driver to take her easy and steer for the morning I’m going to let him and if he starts in right away putting it to me in the cab    I’m not going to whisper    oblivion do you get me    not that I’m tired of automats and Childs’s and handling out ribbon to    old ladies that ain’t got three teeth and being followed home by pimps and stewed guys and sleeping lonely in a whitewashed room three thou- sand below Zero   oh no I could stand that but it’s that I’m O Gawd how tired of seeing the white face of you and feeling the old hands of you and being teased and jollied about you and being prayed and implored and bribed and threatened to give you my beautiful white body    kiddo that’s why car driving driver urban affect passenger  
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Instructions +
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Soiled Dove +
Bibliographic Information Author Sandburg, Carl Genre Poetry Journal or Book Chicago Poems Publisher Henry Holt and Company Year of Publication 1916 Pages 153 Additional information - Let us be honest; the lady was not a harlot until she married a corporation lawyer who picked her from a Ziegfeld chorus. Before then she never took anybody's money and paid for her silk stockings out of what she earned singing and dancing. She loved one man and he loved six women and the game was changing her looks, calling for more and more massage money and high coin for the beauty doctors. Now she drives a long, underslung motor car all by her- self, reads in the day's papers what her husband is doing to the inter-state commerce commission, re- quires a larger corsage from year to year, and won- ders sometimes how one man is coming along with six women. car driver metaphor  +
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The Bridge: VII The Tunnel +
Bibliographic Information Author Crane, Hart Genre Poetry Journal or Book The Collected Poems of Hart Crane Publisher Liveright Publishing Corporation Year of Publication 1933 Pages 49-54 Additional information - To Find the Western path Right thro' the Gates of Wrath —Blake Performances, assortments, résumés— Up Times Square to Columbus Circle lights Channel the congresses, nightly sessions, Refractions of the thousand theatres, faces— Mysterious kitchens.... You shall search them all. Some day by heart you’ll learn each famous sight And watch the curtain lift in hell’s despite; You’ll find the garden in the third act dead, Finger your knees—and wish yourself in bed With tabloid crime-sheets perched in easy sight. infrastructure Then let you reach your hat and go. As usual, let you—also walking down—exclaim to twelve upward leaving a subscription praise for what time slays. Or can’t you quite make up your mind to ride; A walk is better underneath the L a brisk Ten blocks or so before? But you find yourself Preparing penguin flexions of the arms,— As usual you will meet the scuttle yawn: The subway yawns the quickest promise home. train Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright— Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right, Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright —Quite unprepared rush naked back to light: And down beside the turnstile press the coin Into the slot. The gongs already rattle. And so of cities you bespeak subways, rivered under streets and rivers.... In the car the overtone of motion underground, the monotone of motion is the sound of other faces, also underground— train “Let’s have a pencil Jimmy—living now at Floral Park Flatbush—on the Fourth of July— like a pigeon’s muddy dream—potatoes to dig in the field—travlin the town—too— night after night—the Culver line—the girls all shaping up—it used to be—” Our tongues recant like beaten weather vanes. This answer lives like verdigris, like hair Beyond extinction, surcease of the bone; And repetition freezes—“What “what do you want? getting weak on the links? fandaddle daddy don’t ask for change—IS THIS FOURTEENTH? it’s half past six she said—if you don’t like my gate why did you swing on it, why didja swing on it anyhow—” And somehow anyhow swing— The phonographs of hades in the brain Are tunnels that re-wind themselves, and love A burnt match skating in a urinal— Somewhere above Fourteenth TAKE THE EXPRESS To brush some new presentiment of pain— “But I want service in this office SERVICE I said—after the show she cried a little afterwards but—” Whose head is swinging from the swollen strap? Whose body smokes along the bitten rails, Bursts from a smoldering bundle far behind In back forks of the chasms of the brain,— Puffs from a riven stump far out behind In interborough fissures of the mind...? And why do I often meet your visage here, Your eyes like agate lanterns—on and on Below the toothpaste and the dandruff ads? —And did their riding eyes right through your side, And did their eyes like unwashed platters ride? And Death, aloft,—gigantically down Probing through you—toward me, O evermore! And when they dragged your retching flesh, Your trembling hands that night through Baltimore— That last night on the ballot rounds, did you Shaking, did you deny the ticket, Poe? For Gravesend Manor change at Chambers Street. The platform hurries along to a dead stop. The intent escalator lifts a serenade Stilly Of shoes, umbrellas, each eye attending its shoe, then Bolting outright somewhere above where streets Burst suddenly in rain.... The gongs recur: Elbows and levers, guard and hissing door. Thunder is galvothermic here below.... The car Wheels off. The train rounds, bending to a scream, Taking the final level for the dive Under the river— And somewhat emptier than before, Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then Lets go.... Toward corners of the floor Newspapers wing, revolve and wing. Blank windows gargle signals through the roar. anthropomorphism car metaphor sound road weather thunder train And does the Daemon take you home, also, Wop washerwoman, with the bandaged hair? After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors— The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare, O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands Back home to children and to golden hair? Daemon, demurring and eventful yawn! Whose hideous laughter is a bellows mirth —Or the muffled slaughter of a day in birth— O cruelly to inoculate the brinking dawn With antennae toward worlds that glow and sink;— To spoon us out more liquid than the dim Locution of the eldest star, and pack The conscience navelled in the plunging wind, Umbilical to call—and straightway die! O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam, Kiss of our agony thou gatherest; Condensed, thou takest all—shrill ganglia Impassioned with some song we fail to keep. And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope, The sod and billow breaking,—lifting ground, —A sound of waters bending astride the sky Unceasing with some Word that will not die...! * A tugboat, wheezing wreaths of steam, Lunged past, with one galvanic blare stove up the River. I counted the echoes assembling, one after one, Searching, thumbing the midnight on the piers. Lights, coasting, left the oily tympanum of waters; The blackness somewhere gouged glass on a sky. And this thy harbor, O my City, I have driven under, Tossed from the coil of ticking towers.... Tomorrow, And to be.... Hereby the River that is East— Here at the waters’ edge the hands drop memory; Shadowless in that abyss they unaccounting lie. How far away the star has pooled the sea— Or shall the hands be drawn away, to die? driving infrastructure pollution ocean river urban city Kiss of our agony Thou gatherest, O Hand of Fire gatherest—  
The Song of the Motor Car +
Bibliographic Information Author Naylor, James Ball Genre Poetry Journal or Book Collier’s Publisher - Year of Publication 1909 Pages 22 Additional information - I’m the coy and ingenuous toy of the strenuous Era of Civilized Man, I’m the truly respectable, duly delectable Outcome of project and plan; And my gassy and thunderful, massy and wonderful Shape splits the landscape in twain, As I race where the fountain speaks grace to the mountain peaks— Then over valley and plain. driving mountain personification technology sound topography Oh! it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the cool of the morning gray, And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice at the close of day; And the echoes wake—and the echoes quake, In their sylvan retreats afar; For I am the fizzing, the buzzing, and whizzing, Redoubtable Motor Car! car sound onomatopoeia speed I’m the snappiest, pluckiest, happy-go-luckiest Work of Man’s reckless career— The machine of divinity green asininity Never can conquer or steer; And there’s never a note or bar honked by the Motor Car Rounding an angle or curve, But it cheats the pedestrian—beats the equestrian— Out of his poise and his nerve. car driving sound pedestrian animal For it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the blaze of the noonday bright, And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice in the starry night; And the echoes quake and shiver and shake, In their rocky retreats afar; For I am the puffing, the chugging, and chuffing And masterful Motor Car! car sound night Through the haze of the dreamiest days of the gleamiest Summers I speed to and fro, In the height of the glorious, mighty, uproarious Tempest I come and I go; I’m the tool and the servant, the cool and observant Rare creature of project and plan, And the coy and ingenuous toy of the strenuous Era of Civilized Man. metaphor summer technology wind personification And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the song I sing In the cool of the ev'ning’s hush. And it’s—“honk, honk-honk!”—is the raucous ring Of my voice in the morning’s blush; And in the echoes wake—and the echoes shake, In their woody retreats afar; For I am the purring, the whizzing, and whirring And marvelous Motor Car! car sound  
The Mountains +
Bibliographic Information Author Reynolds, Elsbery Washington Genre Poetry Journal or Book AutoLine o'Type Publisher The Book Supply Company Year of Publication 1924 Pages 17 Additional information - When we view the mountains all around, From their vast stillness not a sound, They seem just like some silent friend On whom we safely can depend. They rise to proud and lofty height, Forbidding and dark are they at night. Their summits kiss the heavens high, They ever remind us God is nigh. If the mountains were never stationed there, We would not have the purified air, Nor would flowing rivers be sustained, If in the mountains it never rained. On mountain height both east and west, For every living mortal there is rest. We view the peaks in contemplation Of God's great plan for all creation. The clouds in glory round them spread, The sun in grandeur settles on their head. Winter stays to chill the month of May, The lightning fondly choose them for their play. The mountains grim forever stand, While men will roam about the land. Men are fond of other men to greet, Mountains never have been known to meet. Of the peaks around both high and low, The one we favor most is San Antonio. We like to go up there whene'er we can, It's easy in a Studebaker Six Sedan. mountain car model —The Car with Character.  +
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Dominic has +
Bibliographic Information Author Cummings, Edward Estline Genre Poetry Journal or Book E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962 Publisher Liveright Year of Publication 1958 Pages 680 Additional information - dominic has a doll wired to the radiator of his ZOOM DOOM car car part metaphor sound onomatopoeia icecoalwood truck a car wistful little clown whom somebody buried upsidedown in an ashbarrel so of course dominic took him home & mrs dominic washed his sweet car dirty face & mended his bright torn trousers(quite as if he were really her & she but)& so that 's how dominic has a doll & every now & then my wonderful friend dominic depaola gives me a most tremendous hug knowing i feel that we & worlds are less alive than dolls &  +
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The Spirit of Transportation +
Bibliographic Information Author Unknown Genre Poetry Journal or Book Motor Land Publisher - Year of Publication 1922 Pages 23 Additional information - I am the Spirit of Things that Are, Born of an urgent need, Of the Force that lies In a Man's surmise In a day ere the Age of Speed. metaphor speed I was at hand when the primal herd Toiled o'er the heavy sledge, As they dragged their load To their cave abode By the rippling river's edge. Mine was the thought in that early day, Stirred for the human weal, That inspired the sage In that darkened age With that vision of Life—the Wheel. Then came the horse as the slave of man, Carriage and coach and four, And the years flashed by And the time was nigh, To reveal what the future bore. Then came the quickening urge of Trade, Commerce must travel far, And my wings I gave To this earth-born slave With the joys of the motor car. car metaphor pleasure sublime I am the Spirit of Things that Are, Born of an urgent need, Of the Force that lies In a Man's surmise In a day ere the Age of Speed. metaphor speed  +
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Get there if you can and see the land you were once proud to own +
Bibliographic Information Author Auden, Wystan Hugh Genre Poetry Journal or Book - Publisher - Year of Publication 1928 Pages 65-68 Additional information - Get there if you can and see the land you once were proud to own Though the roads have almost vanished and the expresses never run: road affect road condition Smokeless chimneys, damaged bridges, rotting wharves and choked canals, Tramlines buckled, smashed trucks lying on their side across the rails; infrastructure bridge train car road road condition Power-stations locked, deserted, since they drew the boiler fires; Pylons fallen or subsiding, trailing dead high-tension wires; infrastructure risk Head-gears gaunt on grass-grown pit-banks, seams abandoned years ago; Drop a stone and listen for its splash in flooded dark below. Squeeze into the works through broken windows or through damp-sprung doors; See the rotted shafting, see holes gaping in the upper floors; Where the Sunday lads come talking motor bicycle and girl, Smoking cigarettes in chains until their heads are in a whirl. other mobilities bicycles car gender Far from there we spent the money, thinking we could well afford, While they quietly undersold us with their cheaper trade abroad; At the theatre, playing tennis, driving motor cars we had, In our continental villas, mixing cocktails for a cad. car driving class urban infrastructure metaphor These were boon companions who devised the legends for our tombs, These who have betrayed us nicely while we took them to our rooms. Newman, Ciddy, Plato, Fronny, Pascal, Bowdler, Baudelaire, Doctor Frommer, Mrs Allom, Freud, the Baron, and Flaubert. Lured with their compelling logic, charmed with beauty of their verse, With their loaded sideboards whispered ‘Better join us, life is worse.’ Taught us at the annual camps arranged by the big business men ‘Sunbathe, pretty till you’re twenty. You shall be our servants then.’ Perfect pater. Marvellous mater. Knock the critic down who dares — Very well, believe it, copy; till your hair is white as theirs. Yours you say were parents to avoid, avoid then if you please Do the reverse on all occasion till you catch the same disease. When we asked the way to Heaven, these directed us ahead To the padded room, the clinic and the hangman’s little shed. Intimate as war-time prisoners in an isolation camp, Living month by month together, nervy, famished, lousy, damp. On the sopping esplanade or from our dingy lodgings we Stare out dully at the rain which falls for miles into the sea. Lawrence, Blake and Homer Lane, once healers in our English land; These are dead as iron for ever; these can never hold our hand. Lawrence was brought down by smut-hounds, Blake went dotty as he sang, Homer Lane was killed in action by the Twickenham Baptist gang. Have things gone too far already? Are we done for? Must we wait Hearing doom’s approaching footsteps regular down miles of straight; Run the whole night through in gumboots, stumble on and gasp for breath, Terrors drawing close and closer, winter landscape, fox’s death; Or, in friendly fireside circle, sit and listen for the crash Meaning that the mob has realized something’s up, and start to smash; Engine-drivers with their oil-cans, factory girls in overalls Blowing sky-high monster stores, destroying intellectuals? engine driver car oil metaphor risk Hope and fear are neck and neck: which is it near the course’s end Crashes, having lost his nerve; is overtaken on the bend? road road condition driving risk Shut up talking, charming in the best suits to be had in town, Lecturing on navigation while the ship is going down. town navigation other mobilities Drop those priggish ways for ever, stop behaving like a stone: Throw the bath-chairs right away, and learn to leave ourselves alone. If we really want to live, we’d better start at once to try; If we don’t, it doesn’t matter, but we’d better start to die.  
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Frontiering in an Automobile +
Bibliographic Information Author Delany, Philip Genre Non-Fiction Journal or Book Outing Publisher - Year of Publication 1903 Pages 131-136 Additional information - pioneer Romance is fast being crowded out of the life of the pioneer; once he depended upon his own sturdy legs, or those of his broncho or burronow he may, if he like, ride in an automobile, the latest pathfinder of the plains. The machine has its thrilling side, too. affect car pleasure technology pioneer To climb mountain passes with a thirty-per-cent grade, to coast down rocky roads with only a few feet from wheels to the edge of an abyss of picturesque wonders, to swing along southern paths made famous by the Indians and pony express riders of only a few years ago, and along which a motor-car had never before been seen, this is an automobile trip that has exploring and sight seeing, and excitement enough to suit the most adventurous spirit. Such a journey I took this spring with Mr. W. W. Price, who has, with an automobile, re-discovered many a Western cañon, pass and desert. car road condition car part desert mountain Native American passenger scenery topography It took us two hours to run from Colorado Springs—our starting point—to Pueblo, past Pike's Peak and Cheyenne Mountain, most of the way over hot alkali plains, furrowed deep by cloud-burst and spring freshets. From Pueblo, taking supplies for the machine, we struck south across country. We were soon out of the world, drifting across a roadless land made more weird by the light which the moon threw over it. We were trying to locate the main highway to Walsenburg. For a time we crawled along where lines showed teams had once gone, until we came to a Mexican ranch of adobe houses; but the three big headlights on the machine discovered no one and we crept slowly away from the corral, the machine thudding sullenly under us. Then suddenly we blundered into the roadway and away we went at a rate of thirty miles an hour, transfixing with wonder a few Mexicans who were camping near by. adobe car part driving mountain engine highway infrastructure metaphor Midwest night passenger road side rural slowness sound Spring South from Walsenburg, the next day we swung past the Spanish Peaks, snow-white above the evergreens. Mountains were everywhere. They leaned in to- ward us threateningly through the clear air from all sides. Then down through Trinidad, toward Raton, New Mexico, the way wound around foothills, black with outcroppings of coal. From Raton we left the railroad lines, which had paralleled us, and pushed across the level plains, where cattle turned and ran in herds at the sight of a motor on the old Mexican land grant and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. After a night in an old adobe house in Cimarron we went down through the cañon, its rocky walls echoing in hollow calls the throbbing of the machine. As we hurried along, a fuzzy-coated burro walked out placidly before the car and nonchalantly jogged along, and the machine slowed down, necessarily, and followed the burro pace-maker. And so we were led into Elizabethtown, whose placer diggings were the scene of a wild scramble in '68. adobe air affect animal car driving risk engine scenery Southwest Having come in to Elizabethtown through a hole we went out over a cloud. There are no other ways. The mountains surround it. The Indians call this pass “arrow stick in pole," it is so steep. Once at the summit, twisting and bending like a floundering whale, the car coasted down to the irrigated plain of Taos, where Indians, resting on their hoes, eyed us silently, and Mexicans saluted gracefully. Three miles beyond we swooped suddenly down upon the settlement of five-story, terraced houses of the Red Willow Indians. In their gaudy blankets they swarmed to the earthen housetops and watched us silently. But when, after much coaxing, we crowded the car with redskins and sent it dashing up and down at breakneck speed there were such war-whoops as city dwellers never hear. car road condition driving risk infrastructure mountain Native American These Indians believe that the Great Spirit has guided them to this promised land. They wandered here from the north, and we listened, standing with bare heads in an underground council chamber, to the recital in Spanish of the story of their faith. They are a fine example of the early American aristocracy at its best. They have some lessons for modern American society. In Taos, too, lived and lies Kit Carson, the hunter and trapper, scout and soldier. From Taos we pushed through sand for many miles. The only living thing we saw was a gray coyote. But the desert is clean and sunny, which is something. At last we reached harder soil and green things growing. Indians greeted us on the way, and finally we came to the cliff dwellings of Pajorito Park, one of the many ruins of the great centuries-ago cities of the Southwest. One of the localities showed that 250,000 people lived there in houses, some of them five stories, or about seventy-five feet high. Irrigation, agriculture, industries and arts were all parts of their daily life. desert driving road surface animal scenery Native American Southwest agriculture Running in to Santa Fé we passed wagons crowded with Indians, gorgeous in color, from bullet-headed papoose to squaw and buck. They all watched us stolidly, while the bronchos reeled and jumped with fright until we were out of sight. Then the bronchos probably received some attention. affect driving Native American Southwest Santa Fé is rich with history, and the road on to Las Vegas is rich with color and beautiful landscape. The wild green on every side is cut with clean white streams full of trout for the angler. The little Mexican adobe village of San José, which has scarcely changed in a century, nestles in the heart of this country. adobe driving road road side scenery rural Southwest When we went through San José I began to understand over again and in a new way Mark Twain's "Adventures of a Connecticut Yankee." The whole of King Arthur's court on bicycles could not have started the stir we created in that single automobile. We went through the place like the wind, the machine snorting, whistle tooting, while the poor inhabitants huddled into frightened groups out of reach. We were a kind of first thunderstorm to them. affect car intertext car metaphor personification We had a plunge in the Las Vegas Hot Springs and started north again along the old Santa Fé trail, meeting few people and seeing little that was new. One begrizzled old man, at an isolated shack, watched us so wistfully as he brought us some water that we half wanted to take him into the car and drive him into civilization, but he is probably happier as he is. From Raton it is back, over the same way we came, to Colorado Springs and home. driving rural Midwest Southwest And so the machine is conquering the old frontier, carrying the thudding of modern mechanics into the land of romance. There are many pleasures in such a journey; you bring a new thing to an old people and they re-teach you old things that should never be forgotten. You see, perhaps, the wildest and most natural places on the continent; and there's a touch of adventure, for such a trip cannot be taken without some danger. We crowded what used to take months to do in nine days-nine hundred miles up mountain and down valley. The trails of Kit Carson and Boone and Crockett, and the rest of the early frontiersmen, stretch out before the adventurous automobilist. And when he is tired of the old, there are new paths to be made. He has no beaten track to follow, no schedule to meet, no other train to consider; but he can go with the speed of an express straight into the heart of an unknown land. And he isn't in much greater danger than the man who pilots his machine between the trucks and carriages of a crowded city street. It is only the beginning of automobile exploring and frontiering in the old West. car metaphor pioneer pleasure scenery sublime technology urban  
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The Roadway +
Bibliographic Information Author Jones, Joshua Henry Genre Poetry Journal or Book Poems of the Four Seas Publisher Books for Libraries Press Year of Publication 1921 Pages 3 Additional information - There are hill roads and dale roads, And roads that bind and twist; Some wide roads and cramped roads Which many souls have missed. There are blind roads and night roads That lead to where we fall. The long road's a hard road But the best road after all. road road condition metaphor Some good roads, some bad roads Are roads of dust and grime; Some rest roads and toil roads, Then some that lead to crime. The best road's the west road Which becks with quiet call. The straight road, though hard road, Is the best road after all. road condition metaphor dust West affect There's a love road and a hate road; And this last road trails to hell. There's a cool road; a clean road That leads by friendship's well. But the best road is the west road That calls us one and all. 'Tis a bright road—a right road And—the one road after all. road condition metaphor affect West  +
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Knutsford Park Races +
Bibliographic Information Author McKay, Claude Genre Poetry Journal or Book Constab Ballads Publisher Watts & Co. Year of Publication 1912 Pages 59-61 Additional information - Batch o' p'licemen, lookin' fine, Tramp away to de car line; No more pólicemen can be Smart as those from Half Way Tree: Happy, all have happy faces, For 'tis Knutsford Park big races. car No room in de tram fe stan': "Oh! de races will be gran',— Wonder ef good luck we'll hab, Get fe win a couple bob!" Joyous, only joyous faces, Goin' to de Knutsford races. Motor buggy passin' by, Sendin' dus' up to de sky; P'licemen, posted diffran' place, Buy dem ticket on de race: Look now for de anxious faces At de Knutsford Park big races! car exhaust pollution Big-tree boys a t'row dem dice: "P'lice te-day no ha' no v'ice,— All like we, so dem caan' mell,— Mek we gamble laka hell”: Rowdy, rowdy-looking faces At de Knutsford Park big races. Ladies white an' brown an' black, Fine as fine in gala frock, Wid dem race-card in dem han' Pass 'long to de dollar stan': Happy-lookin' lady faces At de Knutsford Park big races. Ge'men wid dem smart spy-glass, Well equip' fe spot dem harse, Dress' in Yankee-fashion clo'es, Watch de flag as do'n it goes: Oh! de eager, eager faces At de Knutsford Park big races! Faces of all types an' kinds, Faces showin' diffran' minds, Faces from de udder seas— Right from de antipodes: Oh! de many various faces Seen at Knutsford Park big races! Jockeys lookin' quite dem bes', In deir racin' clo'es all dress' (Judge de feelin's how dem proud) Show de harses to de crowd: Now you'll see de knowin' faces At de Knutsford Park big races. Soldier ban', formed in a ring, Strike up "God save our king"; Gub'nor come now by God's grace To de Knutsford Park big race: High faces among low faces At de Knutsford Park big races. Ladies, 'teppin' up quite cool, Buy dem tickets at de pool; Dough 'tis said he's got a jerk, Dere's no harse like Billie Burke: Look roun' at de cock-sure faces At de Knutsford Park big races. animal Hey! de flag is gone do'n, oh! Off at grips de harses go! Dainty's leadin' at a boun', Stirrup-cup is gainin' ground': Strainin', eager strainin' faces At de Knutsford Park big races. Last day o' de race—all's done, An' de course is left alone; Everybody's goin' home, Some more light dan when dey'd come: Oh! de sad, de bitter faces After Knutsford Park big races!  
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Provincetown +
Bibliographic Information Author Hersey, Marie Louise Genre Poetry Journal or Book Modern Verse: British and American Publisher Henry Holt and Company Year of Publication 1921 Pages 159-161 Additional information - All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd Elbows its way past glittering shops to strains Of noisy rag-time, men and girls, dark skinned,— From warmer foreign waters they have come To our New England. Purring like sleek cats The cushioned motors of the rich crawl through While black-haired babies scurry to the curb: Pedro, Maria, little Gabriel Whose red bandana mothers selling fruit Have this in common with the fresh white caps Of those first immigrants—courage to leave Familiar hearths and build new memories. summer city zoomorphism sound east road traffic East sound personification affect African American Blood of their blood who shaped these sloping roofs And low arched doorways, laid the cobble stones Not meant for motors,—you and I rejoice When roof and spire sink deep into the night And all the little streets reach out their arms To be received into the salt-drenched dark. Then Provincetown comes to her own again, Draws round her like a cloak that shelters her From too swift changes of the passing years The dunes, the sea, the silent hilltop grounds Where solemn groups of leaning headstones hold Perpetual reunion of her dead. road surface cobblestone city personification road law urban car metaphor At dusk we feel our way along the wharf That juts into the harbor: anchored ships With lifting prow and slowly rocking mast Ink out their profiles; fishing dories scull With muffled lamps that glimmer through the spray; We hear the water plash among the piers Rotted with moss, long after sunset stay To watch the dim sky-changes ripple down The length of quiet ocean to our feet Till on the sea rim rising like a world Bigger than ours, and laying bare the ships In shadowy stillness, swells the yellow moon. other mobilities Between this blue intensity of sea And rolling dunes of white-hot sand that burn All day across a clean salt wilderness On shores grown sacred as a place of prayer, Shine bright invisible footsteps of a band Of firm-lipped men and women who endured Partings from kindred, hardship, famine, death, And won for us three hundred years ago A reverent proud freedom of the soul.  
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