Evolution and decay Poem by Steven Benjamin Walking through the infield, I hear the whistling trees The howling wind, and the rustling reeds. Listen to the silence. As the sun dawn’s, over the lonely racetrack Secretly. There was a time when championships were run here, Emotions too. The track is clear now, the crowd long silent, passed on even. I still hear their roar, or is it the engines An echo of memories, or imagined. Here, the earth moved once, The chequered flag was there, raised, waiting… breaths were held heroes were made and lives were claimed. With weeds glancing my shins I stride through the beautiful decay, A monument to past untamed passion. Abandoned, ever waiting Whispers of her past on the backs of leaves tumbling down the embankment over cracked tarmac. A past of danger, and of glory. She dared men. A different time, a different world. And in the minds of a brave few, long gone This patch of brokenness, was a frightening and daunting giant of chance. The world evolved around her. She remained, now Half claimed by time Waiting for death, or an odd few wanderers Willing to linger, and listen, to her soft whisper, that was once an old taunting song of vigor, once vibrant and wild, now just a cold, distant hum *** The original host of the 1950's French Grand Prix at Riems, the circuit is abandoned, but the main pit straight with Grand stand opposite, is part of a main road. Authorities have left it as a monument - tourists are free to roam and investigate, but asked to respect the place, hence no graffiti or demolition. I would’ve brought this post to you yesterday but it took me a while to actually look for the original poem in uh, shall we call it my ‘personal archives’. The thing is that the original version of this poem is one of the first I ever wrote – I was around 14 at the time and it was for a school project… so I wrote about something that I loved, but with a slight twist. The original had to do specifically with the first Formula 1 race in 1950, entitled ‘Evolution’, and I wrote it as though I was actually there, living the experience through the ‘memories’ and pictures of others – a fabricated memory so to speak. I went looking for it again because I was reminded of it after watching the film ‘Rush’. I reviewed it last year for ‘In The Kan’, and I recently bought the DVD… I highly recommend it. The feelings of nostalgia I felt prompted me to have another look at this piece. The changes I made (call it the 'decay' portion) were simply to reflect a lifelong desire of mine to visit some of the old racetracks of the world – something I imagine only aficionado’s dream about. You see, the old tracks weren’t governed by how many spectators could be seated in the stands (some didn’t even have stands) or which corners could best be captured on TV to cater for the massive audience and commercial rights… no, the best tracks were carved or laid out on unforgiving landscapes – a niche sport that was half banished to rural back countrysides, mountains and forests, well outside city limits (barring Monte Carlo of course, the first anomaly and part of what made it the jewel in the F1 crown, because it was and still is – 100 years on – the center stage filled with glitz, glamour and not to mention royalty - the first street circuit). Tracks like the old Nurburgring around the Medieval castle from where it got its name, the old Monza Oval, Spa Francorchamps – the original was a 15km monster track in a rough triangle connecting 3 towns, the original Osterreichring in the Styrian Mountains, the beautiful Charade Circuit in central France – and those are just the famous ones… there are so many that lay forgotten, overrun with weeds, half demolished, like forgotten cities of yore. Just like the Roman Colosseum and other such ruins, these tracks are ruins with less age but a folklore all their own. It says something about time – something like the automobile, that has captured the hearts of so many men, yet as it has evolved and outgrown eras and arenas, so we can see how fleeting it all is, just like the moment when one of those cars speeds past – it’s all recorded by time… one race after another, trying to beat the next man or just the clock, and that, as it turns out, is ultimately what always wins. --- Here's a short story I wrote with similar nostalgia "Black Velvet Ring"... Days of Glory [Image credits: silodrome.com, tumblr, pinterest, basementgeographer.com, wikipedia.org, retrorides.proboards.com]
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Story of remoteness, 7. Who will the poet fight for? Poem by David Martinez Romero Who shall fight, if not the poet. Those who do not sing, perhaps? Or maybe those who do not laugh, those who do not dance? No. Not them. But the poet has returned to fight for us, for all of us who feel the tide rising from within, for all of us who make a gift out of happiness and, with balanced patience, retire ourselves always into a hidden palace, into a woman, a landscape, a book. The poet came back in the name of love for the few, at last detached from the eternal hatred that flows too fast, and in the slowness of these words, words reborn into the cup of the New Hope, he shall gently reveal to anyone what is theirs. He will give to each what belongs to each one as he will take away from the void what was never his to have. With the same love that only the afternoon understands in its warm light he will bathe our hands tainted in ash, he will clean our neglected memories, he will grant time to what demands reproduction and needs of the future. The poet came to stay, he came like the sea, like the resting death, valiantly struggling to introduce Poetry into the city, into the lighted night, the last chance for men to exit from between two worlds. He shall fight, he will – he is already fighting –, for those who do not lament the infinite sound of the birds, for those who love without fear, without limit, and shout their love beyond the black corners and the deep moorlands. For the light when slowly softens, for the sheer pleasure of recreating the word, for the sole reason of blurring destinies, for the love and only the love to all that shimmers, for everything that drifts into its own light. And the day will come when everyone knows they live because someone fought for them. The day will come, I can feel it, when no one, not even the stones, are entitled to doubt the meaning of his existence. And all of them will also posses the proper words. >>> For more from David M.R., this poem and many others, including short films and scripts, visit his website HERE. [Image credits: Warrior4ancientzoanphotos.blogspot.com, digitalartgallery.com] Images added simply for symbolism - for the valor and fortitude of the ancient and old times are seemingly no longer required, but there are many ways to fight... The warrior and the poet have always entertained an entwined existence through the ages, and though warriors, as we know and remember them, have long since passed from time, their echoes of strength are felt and heard through the derivative voice and writings of these souls who see beyond the natural, both past, future and present... the soldier dies, but their spirit remains with the poet. A piece about time; the way we wear it, the sands of it over generations... but mostly this is just a quick look at sentiment, the past, and contributing to a tradition within a humble legacy. - By Steven Benjamin Two hands on my wrist, pointing to the past... Ever had that one something that sets you apart from all others? - A small detail about yourself that only you and a few loved ones know about. Something that’s practically inherent; and it can be anything – concealed or in plain sight. Perhaps you were born with different color eyes – a trait you share with your grandmother. Or maybe you have your great-granddad’s pocket knife, which was passed down through the generations to you. In my family I’m privileged to say we have a few things, but only one which comes to mind daily – something that ties me to my Dad, and his father – because I’m reminded of it whenever I perform the seemingly mundane task. It’s an unspoken tradition; one that could well have come about purely by accident, because by all accounts, all the men in my family have no idea who started it or why. What I speak of is the small idiosyncrasy shared by all the Benjamin men – we all wear our watches with the time-face on the inside of our wrists. This occurrence is rarer than you may think. I started doing it because that’s the way my father (God rest him) wore his. I then noticed the same thing with my uncle’s, which is when I learned that they had got it from their father and uncles (God rest them all, apart from my uncles of course). The origins nevertheless, remain unknown. Perhaps it’s too early to call it a family tradition since I wasn’t goaded into doing it – now though, wearing my watch the other way (the normal way) feels wrong and uncomfortable. I would feel proud though if I saw my future son (God will probably bless me with daughters once I’m eventually married) wearing his watch the same way… I suppose beyond my Granddad, my earlier ancestors probably wore those timepieces in specialized lapel pockets with the elegant hanging chain, as appose to the comparatively garish wrist watch. Either that or they were too poor to afford one. Anyway, traditions have to start somewhere, right? All in all, this bears no practical value or fashion sense, and has even proven to be problematic at certain times, especially when lifting things, but the sentimental significance far outweighs any would-be inconvenience. It’s a secretive tie to my family, something that distinguishes me as a proud Benjamin man and part of the humble legacy we forge and share. So, with no known origin (though it was most likely work related, to protect the watch - I have heard of many such incidences, even some military men favor it), the simple act exists, certainly in my mind, enhancing family ties. It’s an unspoken tradition, and a quiet link to my past, present and promising future. God Bless! --->>> *NOTE*: I will be away for the next week and a half, hiking the Fish River Canyon. So be blessed in my absence! And send a few prayers my way, I'll need it. Look out for my updates about the hike - if I survive that is... <<<--- |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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