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Thanks, L, P, M. Bitumened is better, I think. More concise in the mouth and stronger sense of being reduced to tar. 'Blasted', Pat, does give the sense of vanquishment but the roadiness is lost. Interestingly, if the poem were read in Tasmania, it would be pronounced 'bitter-minned' as opposed to 'bitchew-minned'. Max, are we all superannuant poets? B > On 3 Jan 2014, at 11:38 pm, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > > Would not "bitumened" do it? I mean as well as "bitumenised" but less of a > mouthful. I'm not sure it's better in any other way L > > >> On 2 January 2014 21:08, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote: >> >> Thanks, Doug. I was trying with 'Bitumenised' to leave the final >> impression that the feisty girl had left us in her wake. She was the only >> fluid thing as opposed to us: interested parties, enforcers, onlookers, all >> rendered static by her spirit, blending in with the road only she could >> walk upon. But it's hard to do all that in a word. I made one up. >> >> I'm open to alternative suggestions. >> >> Cheers, >> Bill >> >>> On 3 Jan 2014, at 5:54 am, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote: >>> >>> Yeah, the story & its tension is there, Bill. Not sure I get >> 'Bitumenised.' Just well oiled on the night? >>> >>> Doug >>>> On Dec 31, 2013, at 10:53 PM, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> >> wrote: >>>> >>>> Ah b'leve ah won't be sinking down, then, on the strength of your >> praise, Andrew. >>>> >>>> Cheers, >>>> Bill >>>> >>>>> On 1 Jan 2014, at 2:14 pm, Andrew Burke <[log in to unmask]> wrote: >>>>> >>>>> A recognisable moment there in a fine narrative poem. (I'll play >>>>> Crossroads, the Robt Johnson version, now to kick off 2014 - then the >>>>> Clapton one. Brilliant stuff.) >>>>> >>>>> Andrew >>>>> >>>>> >>>>>> On 1 January 2014 00:20, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> >> wrote: >>>>>> >>>>>> First for 2014 is a reworked job. Greetings all for new year. >>>>>> >>>>>> Bill >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> Crossroads >>>>>> >>>>>> i >>>>>> >>>>>> I was standing at the crossroads. Port Fairy. >>>>>> 1986. I was not alone. >>>>>> >>>>>> Two, maybe three hundred people stood at the crossroads >>>>>> that Saturday night. Milling about. >>>>>> >>>>>> Strange expression, milling. As if we were making something. >>>>>> Something more than a ragged circle, >>>>>> >>>>>> looking in. >>>>>> The corner streetlight shone through flicking insects >>>>>> >>>>>> on glistening black skin. >>>>>> Her headband was not up to the task >>>>>> >>>>>> of absorbing night sweat, righteous lather. >>>>>> Left hand brandishing a can of VB, >>>>>> >>>>>> right hand dismissing the concerns of a host >>>>>> of scraggy Commancheros, whose black bikes, >>>>>> >>>>>> evenly reversed to the kerb outside The Stump, >>>>>> one-eyed the lot of us. >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> ii >>>>>> >>>>>> Younger than either the Aboriginal woman >>>>>> or any of the bikers, two policemen, >>>>>> >>>>>> both sporting blue short-sleeved shirts bearing >>>>>> crease-marks ironed in that folk festival morning, >>>>>> >>>>>> paced uneasily, making brief eye contact >>>>>> with anyone speaking >>>>>> >>>>>> but mostly gazed over heads, >>>>>> expectantly. >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> iii >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> It had started so simply. Sun had started >>>>>> to miss the tables dragged out to the front of the pub. >>>>>> >>>>>> From the shadow of the public bar, >>>>>> A black flash tripped or kicked an unexpected chair, >>>>>> >>>>>> sending it up on two legs, balancing, >>>>>> before toppling into the neatly parked Triumph Bonneville, >>>>>> >>>>>> which, almost graciously, folded down in the dust. >>>>>> One glance, instant decision. >>>>>> >>>>>> Off. Up and over the picket fence next door. >>>>>> Black legs pounding across paspalum. >>>>>> >>>>>> He was over the next fence before >>>>>> a single Commanchero was at the first. >>>>>> >>>>>> Punters piled out of the pub. >>>>>> Half a dozen of the least tubby bikers set off >>>>>> >>>>>> across the backyards of Port Fairy >>>>>> in search of Koori quarry. >>>>>> >>>>>> The rest assembled by their bikes, muttering, >>>>>> gesticulating, beers forgotten on tables, on grass. >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> iv >>>>>> >>>>>> The shaping up at the crossroads might have begun >>>>>> when one of the Commancheros, suddenly sober, accused: >>>>>> >>>>>> ‘That’s his girlfriend. She was in the bar this arvo.’ >>>>>> Or maybe she taunted them. >>>>>> >>>>>> I don’t know. But I was there. >>>>>> With all the others. Massing. >>>>>> >>>>>> Not at High Noon. But at High Closing Time >>>>>> At 10 to 11. On a Saturday night. >>>>>> >>>>>> Distant violin and footstomp still, over at The Vic >>>>>> But folkies are not an incendiary bunch. >>>>>> >>>>>> ‘Yaargh, ya weak bastards, all o’yez,’ >>>>>> she spat, before turning and making her way >>>>>> >>>>>> through an easily parting channel of onlookers. >>>>>> Hairy Commancheros, police, folkers, me. Bitumenised. >>>>>> >>>>>> bw >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> -- >>>>> Andrew >>>>> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/ >>>>> 'Undercover of Lightness' >>>>> http://walleahpress.com.au/recent-publications.html >>>>> 'Shikibu Shuffle' >> http://abovegroundpress.blogspot.com.au/2012/03/new-from-aboveground-press-shikibu.html >>> >>> Douglas Barbour >>> [log in to unmask] >>> >>> http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/ >>> http://eclecticruckus.wordpress.com/ >>> >>> Latest books: >>> Continuations & Continuations 2 (with Sheila E Murphy) >>> http://www.uap.ualberta.ca/UAP.asp?LID=41&bookID=962 >>> Recording Dates >>> (Rubicon Press) >>> >>> Swept snow, Li Po, >>> by dawn’s 40-watt moon >>> to the road that hies to office >>> away from home. >>> >>> Lorine Niedecker >