Analysis of Cherrylog Road
Off Highway 106
At Cherrylog Road I entered
The ’34 Ford without wheels,
Smothered in kudzu,
With a seat pulled out to run
Corn whiskey down from the hills,
And then from the other side
Crept into an Essex
With a rumble seat of red leather
And then out again, aboard
A blue Chevrolet, releasing
The rust from its other color,
Reared up on three building blocks.
None had the same body heat;
I changed with them inward, toward
The weedy heart of the junkyard,
For I knew that Doris Holbrook
Would escape from her father at noon
And would come from the farm
To seek parts owned by the sun
Among the abandoned chassis,
Sitting in each in turn
As I did, leaning forward
As in a wild stock-car race
In the parking lot of the dead.
Time after time, I climbed in
And out the other side, like
An envoy or movie star
Met at the station by crickets.
A radiator cap raised its head,
Become a real toad or a kingsnake
As I neared the hub of the yard,
Passing through many states,
Many lives, to reach
Some grandmother’s long Pierce-Arrow
Sending platters of blindness forth
From its nickel hubcaps
And spilling its tender upholstery
On sleepy roaches,
The glass panel in between
Lady and colored driver
Not all the way broken out,
The back-seat phone
Still on its hook.
I got in as though to exclaim,
“Let us go to the orphan asylum,
John; I have some old toys
For children who say their prayers.”
I popped with sweat as I thought
I heard Doris Holbrook scrape
Like a mouse in the southern-state sun
That was eating the paint in blisters
From a hundred car tops and hoods.
She was tapping like code,
Loosening the screws,
Carrying off headlights,
Sparkplugs, bumpers,
Cracked mirrors and gear-knobs,
Getting ready, already,
To go back with something to show
Other than her lips’ new trembling
I would hold to me soon, soon,
Where I sat in the ripped back seat
Talking over the interphone,
Praying for Doris Holbrook
To come from her father’s farm
And to get back there
With no trace of me on her face
To be seen by her red-haired father
Who would change, in the squalling barn,
Her back’s pale skin with a strop,
Then lay for me
In a bootlegger’s roasting car
With a string-triggered I2-gauge shotgun
To blast the breath from the air.
Not cut by the jagged windshields,
Through the acres of wrecks she came
With a wrench in her hand,
Through dust where the blacksnake dies
Of boredom, and the beetle knows
The compost has no more life.
Someone outside would have seen
The oldest car's door inexplicably
Close from within:
I held her and held her and held her,
Convoyed at terrific speed
By the stalled, dreaming traffic around us,
So the blacksnake, stiff
With inaction, curved back
Into life, and hunted the mouse
With deadly overexcitement,
The beetles reclaimed their field
As we clung, glued together,
With the hooks of the seat springs
Working through to catch us red-handed
Amidst the gray breathless batting
That burst from the seat at our backs.
We left by separate doors
Into the changed, other bodies
Of cars, she down Cherrylog Road
And I to my motorcycle
Parked like the soul of the junkyard
Restored, a bicycle fleshed
With power, and tore off
Up Highway 106, continually
Drunk on the wind in my mouth,
Wringing the handlebar for speed,
Wild to be wreckage forever.
Scheme | XAXXBX XXCDEC XFDGHI JBKXAL MNXOXM EGXXPX XKXQCX XHRXXX XSBTXU XXTXKP EIFBHJ VLCXSK OBVXRX XXXQKN CWXXXX AXCXXE XXXUXG XXKXWC |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11 111110 01011 10010 1011111 1101101 0110101 101110 101011110 0110101 0101010 01111010 1111101 1101101 11111001 0101101 1111101 101101011 011101 1111101 01001010 100101 1111010 1001111 00101101 1101110 0101011 1101101 11010110 01001111 01011101 11101101 101101 10111 1101110 10101101 11101 0101100100 11010 0110001 1001010 1101101 0111 1111 11011101 1111010010 111111 1101111 1111111 111011 101001011 111001010 10101101 111011 10001 10011 110 110011 1010010 11111011 101011100 1111111 11100111 101001 101101 1110101 01111 11111101 111101110 1110011 0111101 1111 0010101 10110111 1101101 111011 10101111 101001 111011 11000101 0101111 111111 010110100 1101 110010010 110101 1011010011 1011 101011 01101001 1101 0100111 1111010 1011011 101111110 01011010 111011101 111101 01011010 111111 0111100 1101101 0101001 110011 1101000 1101011 1001011 11110010 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 3,282 |
Words | 591 |
Sentences | 10 |
Stanzas | 18 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6 |
Lines Amount | 108 |
Letters per line (avg) | 24 |
Words per line (avg) | 5 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 144 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 33 |
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"Cherrylog Road" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/46552/cherrylog-road>.
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