Bargain (v3)

[NotQuiteSure]

.
v3
Wheeler-Dealer


It was a paradise for pickers, down a road that had no name,
yards of Raleighs, Reids, of Malvern Stars, bells and 'bars and frames.
The old bloke there had one good eye, his face could stop a clock,
as he looked me up and down he spat, like he had taken stock.

His hat was worn and sun-gray, pulled down low to cut the glare,
in his speech he was a miser, like he'd words, but none to spare.
It seemed he'd always been there – the ocker that time forgot,
and at first you'd be forgiven, thinkin he'd lost the plot.

But, he knows his lot, he knows what's what, he knows just what it cost.
He knows when everything is in its place or if that place gets lost.
He had such stuff would make you flush, fair cause your palms to sweat,
he had things that I'd not seen before and things I ain't seen yet.

There were things beyond the purse of kings, could bring a prince to heel.
Things to feed the poor, start a war, liberate or make you kneel.
There were racers, roads and tourers, cyclos, trekkers, trials and more.
There were butcher's bikes, kiddies trikes, tandems by the score.

A rank of penny farthings stood like horses in the stalls,
he'd recumbents, kangaroos and safeties proppin up the walls.
The Scrappy said he'd see me right, no need for wheeler-dealin,
cos he reckoned, come a full moon, his bicycles were breedin.

Yeah, he swore, that come the full moon, his bikes were going at it
in the sheds, their gears and rattlin chains would make a fearful racket.
"Such vigour," he said, lackin affect, made him "think, rooting rabbits!"
Addin, "must admit, that simile's one born of lazy habits."

I asked him if I seemed the sort to swallow all that whole.
He said, "son, there's them that hears the truth and them that won't be told.
And which is you is yours to say, it's you staking the claim.
You look in the mirror, what's gazing back, eh? What is its name?"

Well, I wasn't there to parse that line, I was there to make some deals,
when I felt my mouth fall open wide for I'd spied the prettiest wheels.
Wild oats were tangled in her spokes, seeds sown with little care,
she was garlanded with sedges, paint a bit the worse for wear.

Yet her lines were fine, her curves sublime, they gently drew the eye:
an icon out of history, a doll from days gone by.
And leanin right beside her, like her beau, an Elliott Brothers,
a brace of Belroys, O-lympics and oh, so many others!

I found a Speedwell, a neat Clem Eagle, Tom Wallace made my head spin
like a belly-eyed kid in a lollie shop, I did not know where to begin.
But then the afternoon was evening, the day'd been put to rout,
so I returned to her who'd won me heart and took my wallet out.

There was no negotiatin – he simply named his price,
mate, I almost bit his hand off, he'd no need to ask me twice.
I got that pair, three pairs more and a Repco, one for luck,
some spares to fill my 'Justin' case, the lot went in me truck.

Having settled up, I saddled up and headed west to town,
bumpy track and then the blacktop, with the sun a sinking down.
And though I had a ways to go, I was not going to rush,
Colin Hay came on the radio, and I was feeling flush.


Now, the years have passed, some slow, some fast, they've passed as years will,
and I wonder if your wond'ring, do I have those cycles still?
Well, the nine I bought, I brought back home and put straight in to storage:
kept 'em safe, old lock replaced, cos crims are known to forage.

Then, I sallied forth, went way up north, to run an auction there.
Helluva job, took more than a month, 'til I could return, to where
behind the padlocked door I found, surprise, surprise, a small increase,
and a summons, in a plastic bag, for 'disturbing the peace'.

#$@&! I ain't slow, I'll have you know, add two and two, get four.
Pulled out me thumbs, did the sums, why wait for the uproar?
See, the yard I had was 'bachelor pad, small, I needed space,
so I looked around, until I found the perfect, perfect place.

It was on its own, ten kay from town, the bush seemed almost tame.
Off the beaten track, I'll give you that, on a road that had no name.
Acacias guard the borders, eucalypts give scent and shade,
it's a bicycle Arcadia, here, where pedalled dreams are made.

Now, take a breath and ask yourself: today your lucky day?
Do you think you can afford it? Are you willin? Will you pay?
Cos, pickin's like a rider, sure to take you for a ride,
to where the grass is growin, greener, where the next shed holds the prize,

where a wish becomes a curse, where you ain't never satisfied,
can't lift your feet from off the pedals, just enjoy the downhill glide.
But, you feel free to wander, may find your heart's delight
here, we'll be closin in a hour. Cos the moon is full tonight.


________________________________________________________________



v2
Bargain


It was a paradise for pickers, down a road that had no name,
yards of Raleighs, Reids and Malvern Stars, bells and 'bars and frames.
The old bloke there had one good eye, his face could stop a clock,
as he looked me up and down he spat, like he was taking stock.

His hat was worn and sun-gray, brim pulled low to cut the glare,
in his speech he was a miser, like he'd words, but none to spare.
It seemed he'd always been here, 'the ocker that time forgot',
and at first you'd be forgiven for thinking he'd lost the plot.

But, he knows this lot, he knows what's what, he knows just what it cost.
He knows that everything is in its place and if that place gets lost.
He has such stuff as'd make you flush and cause your palms to sweat.
There were things that I'd not seen before and things I ain't seen yet.

There were things worth more'n the thrones of kings, they could bring a prince to heel.
Things to feed the poor, or start a war, liberate or make you kneel.
There were racers, roads and tourers, cyclos, trekkers, trials and more.
There were butcher's bikes and kiddies trikes and tandems by the score.

A line of penny farthings stood like horses in the stalls,
he'd recumbents, kangaroos and safeties proppin' up the walls.
But the Scrappy said he'd see me right, no need for wheeler-dealin',
cos he reckoned, come a full moon, his bicycles were breedin'.

Yeah, he swore, that come the full moon, his bikes were going at it
in the sheds, the gears and rattling chains would make a fearful racket.
'Their vigour,' he said, lacking affect, made him 'think of rootin' rabbits.'
Then he added, 'must admit, that simile's born of lazy habits'.

I asked him if I seemed the sort to swallow all that whole.
He said, 'son there's them that hears the truth and them that won't be told.
And which is you is yours to say, it's you who stakes that claim.
You look in the mirror, what's gazing back, eh? What is its name?'

Well, I wasn't there to parse that line, I was there to make some deals,
when I felt my mouth fall open wide for I'd spied the prettiest wheels.
Wild oats were tangled in her spokes, seeds sown with little care.
She was garlanded with sedges, paint a bit the worse for wear,

but her lines were fine, her curves sublime, they gently drew the eye.
A doll right out of history, an icon from days gone by.
And leaning right beside her, like a beau's an Elliott Brothers.
Repcos, Olympics and Belroys, oh, so many others!

I found a Speedwell, a neat Clem Eagle, Tom Wallace made my head spin.
Like a belly-eyed child in a sweet shop, I just didn't know where to begin.
Then the afternoon was evening, the day'd been put to rout,
I went back to her who'd won my heart and took my wallet out.

There was no negotiating, he simply named his price
and I almost bit his hand off, he'd no need to ask me twice.
I got that pair, and three pairs more and a singleton for luck.
Some spares to fill my 'Justin' case, the bikes went in me truck.

Now, the years have passed, some slow, some fast, they've passed as years will,
and I wonder if your wondering, do I have those cycles still?
Well, the nine I bought, I brought back home and put straight in to storage.
I kept them safe, old lock replaced, cos crims are known to forage.

Then I sallied forth, went way up north, to run an auction there.
One helluva job, took more than a month, 'til I could return, to where,
behind the padlocked door I found, surprise, surprise, a small increase,
and a summons, in a plastic bag, for 'disturbing the peace'.

Now, I ain't slow, I'll have you know, add two and two, get four.
Pulled out me thumbs and did the sums, why wait for the uproar?
It was real clear, what I had here was small, I needed space.
So, I looked around, until I found us the perfect, perfect place.

It was on its own, past the edge of town, where the bush was almost tame.
Off the beaten track, I'll give you that, down a road that has no name.
Acacias guard the borders, eucalypts give scent and shade,
it's a bicycle Arcadia, here, where pedalled dreams are made.



_________________________________________________________________________



Bargain


It was a picker's paradise, way down a road that had no name.
Yards of Raleighs, Reids and Malvern Stars, of bells and 'bars and frames.
The old bloke there had one good eye, his 'shake could crush a rock;
as he looked me up and down he spat, like he was taking stock.

His hat was worn and sun-gray, brim pulled low to cut the glare.
He spoke just like a miser, as if he'd words, but none to spare.
It seemed he'd always been there, 'the ocker that time forgot',
and at first you'd be forgiven, for thinking he'd lost the plot.

But he knows this lot, he knows what's what and he knows just what it cost.
He knows that everything is in it's place, even if that place gets lost.
There are pallets in the attics, there's all sorts been binned and bagged and shelved,
could be treasure hiding anywhere, everywhere's dust that must be delved.

There was such stuff as'd make you flush and cause your palms to sweat.
There were things that I'd not seen before and things I ain't seen yet.
There were things worth more than the thrones of kings, they could bring a prince to heel.
Things to feed the poor, or start a war, raise you up or make you kneel.

There were racers, roads and tourers, cyclos, trekkers, trials and more.
There were butcher's bikes and kiddies trikes, and tandems by the score.
There was a ring of penny farthings, far too many for me to count,
recumbents, kangaroos and safeties in a heap I'd not surmount.

But the Scrappy said he'd see me right, no need for wheeler-dealin',
cos he reckoned, come a full moon, that his bicycles were breeding.

Yeah, he swore, that come the full moon, his bikes were going at it,
their whirring gears and rattling chains would make a bloody racket.

'Their vigour,' he said, lacking affect, made him 'think of rooting rabbits.'
Then he added, 'must admit, that simile is born of lazy habits'.
I asked him if I seemed the sort to swallow all that whole.
He said, 'son there's them that hears the truth, and them that won't be told.

And which is you is yours to say, only you can stake that claim.
You gaze in the mirror, what's looking back, eh? What is its name?'
Well, I wasn't there to parse that line, no, I was there to make some deals.
Then I felt my mouth fall open wide - for I'd spied the prettiest wheels.

Wild oats were tangled in her spokes, seeds sown with little care.
She was garlanded with sedges, paint a bit the worse for wear,
but her lines were fine, her curves sublime, they gently drew the eye,
a real beaut out of history, an icon from days gone by.

And standing right beside her, like a beau, was an Elliott Brothers,
and here's a Belroy, there's a Repco, an Olympic and many others!
I found a Speedwell, a sweet Clem Eagle, a Tom Wallace made my head spin.
Like a greedy kid in a tuck shop, I just didn't know where to begin.

All too soon the 'noon was evening, the day'd been put to rout,
I returned to her who'd won my heart and took my wallet out.
I got that pair, and three pairs more, and a singleton for luck.
Some spares went into my 'just in' case, the bikes in to my truck.

The price the fella quoted me left no real room for arguing.
A bargain, fair and square, where fair is fair's not one that I'd be ruing.

Now, the years have passed, some slow, some fast, but they've passed as the years will,
and I wonder if your wondering, do I have those bicycles still?

Well, the nine I'd bought, I brought back home and put them into storage.
I kept them safe, old lock replaced, cos crims been known to forage.
But then I went north, south of Darwin, for I'd to run a house auction there.
One helluva job, took more than a month, before I could return, to where

behind the padlocked door I found, surprise, surprise, a small increase.
And a summons, in a plastic bag, for a disturbing of the peace.
Now, I ain't slow, I'll have you know, add two and two, get four.
Pulled out me thumbs and did the sums, didn't wait for the uproar,

cos it was clear that what I had here was too small, I needed space.
So I looked around, until I found us the perfect, perfect place.
It was on its own, past the edge of town, where the bush was almost tame,
off the beaten track, I'll give you that, down a road that has no name.

It's the kingdom of my two wheeled Queen, her kin and courtiers too,
they are free to roam, this is there home, we ain't rich, but we make do.
Acacias guard the borders, tall eucalypts give scent and shade.
It's a bicycle Arcadia, a place where pedalled dreams are made.

We have such stuff as'd make you flush and cause your palms to sweat.
We've things that you've not seen before, got stuff you don't own yet.
We've things worth more than the thrones of kings, they could bring a prince to heel.
Bargains galore, that none would deplore - so, are you ready to make a deal?




[tab][/tab]

[CalebPerry]

It is nice to see a narrative poem. Narrative poetry seems to be a dying art.

I'm a person who never learned to drive, so I have spent my entire life on bicycles to get around. I wasn't, however, a bicycle aficionado. I never rode a bike that was better than it needed to be.

This is a very ambitious effort. I worry that the poem is so chock-full of details that not all of them will be interesting to the reader, so I would recommend that you cut it down a little. Of course, you may see your audience as bicycle enthusiasts -- there's nothing wrong with tailoring a poem to a specific audience.

There is a sense of awe running throughout the poem at the experience that you (or the narrator) is having -- but the awe feels over-whelming. Most lines are written with a palpable sense of awe, and after a while it gets a little tiresome.

In my opinion, Long poems work best if they are in meter. You do seem to have a rough line length of 16 or 17 syllables, but some are shorter than that and some are longer. One line had 19 syllables, and it felt like I was being wrenched out of the rhythm. Worse, however, is that your language isn't always smooth; it is quite choppy in places.

The poem, in my opinion, wanders too far. You start out at a remarkable bike shop with a remarkable dealer, and one thinks that's going to be the whole poem. But then you jump to the future, then to a work-related trip to an auction, then to discovering that you have to move (the summons), then to moving, and then to your seeming metamorphosis into your version of the dealer you first encountered. So is this, ultimately, the meaning of your poem? -- how you turned into the crusty old bike dealer yourself, selling every kind of bike under the sun?

The main thing the poem needs, in my view, is smoother, more conversational language. Smooth, well-metered language will carry the reader or listener along more effortlessly. I also think you should try to bring more focus to the poem. Make a decision about what the central story is, and emphasize that. For example, you could focus on the initial experience at the bike shop, and then shorten the ending of the poem. You don't, for example, need to mention your trip to the auction.

One last thing: I'm not sure the rhymes were a good idea. Many lines feel like they were written for the rhymes. I see rhymes as appropriate for shorter, more lyrical poems. In longer poems, they become obvious to the reader/listener, and they just get in the way of the story.

[Mirrorball]

Not, for what it's worth I've got a medical condition that screws up my concentration to the point the DVLA doesn't always let me drive but I could maintain my focus for your poem. I should really get a bike/bargain.

Picking up on what Perry says about the rhyming, I agree that the rhyming is sometimes a distraction from the poem. Have you considered converting this into prose poetry? You could maintain the rhyming within block paragraphs, they would be less obvious and, for me anyway, it's be easier to read as a short story with poetic value. You could also break away from rhyme and structure where it helps.

On the flip side, the AABB does fit bike and there's a regular beat to cycling that does change speed, start and stop. You have mid sentence rhyming too e.g. where/there, before deplore in the final two stanzas. I suspect you'd rather keep it as a poem. I can see a lot of merits in it as is.

I finding myself reading poems on here and feel like I'm making suggestions for the sake of making suggestions because the overall quality is quite high. What sort of comment do you find most helpful e.g. technical?

[Macavity]

[tab][/tab]
Bargain


It was a picker's paradise, way down a road that had no name.
Yards of Raleighs, Reids and Malvern Stars, of bells and 'bars and frames.
The old bloke there had one good eye, his 'shake could crush a rock;........geezer?
as he looked me up and down he spat, like he was taking stock.

His hat was worn and sun-gray, brim pulled low to cut the glare.
He spoke just like a miser, as if he'd words, but none to spare....like the notion
It seemed he'd always been there, 'the ocker that time forgot',
and at first you'd be forgiven, for thinking he'd lost the plot.

But he knows this lot, he knows what's what and he knows just what it cost.
He knows that everything is in it's place, even if that place gets lost....................its?
There are pallets in the attics, there's all sorts been binned and bagged and shelved,
could be treasure hiding anywhere, everywhere's dust that must be delved.

There was such stuff as'd make you flush and cause your palms to sweat.
There were things that I'd not seen before and things I ain't seen yet.
There were things worth more than the thrones of kings, they could bring a prince to heel.
Things to feed the poor, or start a war, raise you up or make you kneel.

There were racers, roads and tourers, cyclos, trekkers, trials and more.
There were butcher's bikes and kiddies trikes, and tandems by the score.
There was a ring of penny farthings, far too many for me to count,
recumbents, kangaroos and safeties in a heap I'd not surmount.

But the Scrappy said he'd see me right, no need for wheeler-dealin',...Scrappy-Doo - I don't know why that was triggered
cos he reckoned, come a full moon, that his bicycles were breeding............love all the stuff above the breeding bikes

Yeah, he swore, that come the full moon, his bikes were going at it,
their whirring gears and rattling chains would make a bloody racket.

'Their vigour,' he said, lacking affect, made him 'think of rooting rabbits.'
Then he added, 'must admit, that simile is born of lazy habits'..........just don't feel that's his vocab
I asked him if I seemed the sort to swallow all that whole.
He said, 'son there's them that hears the truth, and them that won't be told.

And which is you is yours to say, only you can stake that claim.
You gaze in the mirror, what's looking back, eh? What is its name?'
Well, I wasn't there to parse that line, no, I was there to make some deals...love the tone of that
Then I felt my mouth fall open wide - for I'd spied the prettiest wheels.

Wild oats were tangled in her spokes, seeds sown with little care.
She was garlanded with sedges, paint a bit the worse for wear,
but her lines were fine, her curves sublime, they gently drew the eye,
a real beaut out of history, an icon from days gone by.

And standing right beside her, like a beau, was an Elliott Brothers,
and here's a Belroy, there's a Repco, an Olympic and many others!
I found a Speedwell, a sweet Clem Eagle, a Tom Wallace made my head spin.
Like a greedy kid in a tuck shop, I just didn't know where to begin.....................too familiar?

All too soon the 'noon was evening, the day'd been put to rout,
I returned to her who'd won my heart and took my wallet out.
I got that pair, and three pairs more, and a singleton for luck.
Some spares went into my 'just in' case, the bikes in to my truck.

The price the fella quoted me left no real room for arguing.
A bargain, fair and square, where fair is fair's not one that I'd be ruing.

Enjoyed this, but felt the poem's vigour was in the ocker that time forgot

cheers

mac

[NotQuiteSure]

Thanks for the read, and the detailed critique Perry. Revision posted which, I hope (!)
addresses the 'smoother language' issue.
(The 'auction trip' related to the 'full moon' in S5, the 'summons' to the 'fearful racket' in S6)

Regards, Not.


___________________________________________________________________


Hi Mirror, thanks for your persistence
I tried that 'block paragraph' idea or a version thereof with a piece called A Breath in the Moonlight,
(if you're interested, though I should warn you, that one is long!) - though perhaps the revision
(based on bars rather than metered lines) satisfies?

Regards, Not


___________________________________________________________________


Thanks for the read mac.


It was a picker's paradise, way down a road that had no name.
Yards of Raleighs, Reids and Malvern Stars, of bells and 'bars and frames.
The old bloke there had one good eye, his 'shake could crush a rock;
........geezer?
Don't know if this is 'aussie' enough. (Similarly 'ocker' would,
under different circumstances, probably be better replaced by
'codger', but same problem)
as he looked me up and down he spat, like he was taking stock.

....
He knows that everything is in it's place, even if that place gets lost
....................its?
Yeah, bugger!

....
But the Scrappy said he'd see me right, no need for wheeler-dealin',
...Scrappy-Doo - I don't know why that was triggered
That's a reference that's perilously close to insulting!
cos he reckoned, come a full moon, that his bicycles were breeding
............love all the stuff above the breeding bikes
Thanks. This was occasioned by a prompt elsewhere: 'Breeding Cycles'

....
Like a greedy kid in a tuck shop, I just didn't know where to begin
.....................too familiar?
Yes, probably, any alternatives?

Thanks again mac.

Regards, Not.
[tab][/tab]

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Revision posted
.

[David]

I think it reads well, and the metrics hold up pretty well throughout - you have to expect a bit of syllabic slippage in something like this, but that's par for the course.

The ending does seem a bit lame, though - a damp squib after the excellent pyrotechnics of a lot of the rest of the poem. You need to end with a bang - or a good old Basil Brush boom-boom!

For all that, it's an impressive achievement. I kept reading too.

Cheers

David

[NotQuiteSure]

I kept reading too

Can't ask for more than that

I agree with you on the ending, I'm convinced there should be a 'wizard of Oz'
joke in there somewhere, just haven't found it yet. And maybe something about
addiction. Will keep going.
Thanks for the feedback.

Regards, Not.

.

[bjondon]

Splendid, Not, you are restoring my faith in narrative poetry.
Actually this could go on much longer . . . a couple of circuits and wasn't even slightly saddle sore.
Perhaps the end is a bit anticlimactic - as cycle of life from bright-eyed picker to misty-eyed dealer
(just one trip up north did it!) seemed like a premature retirement. This is very performative so I can
see you might have been pitching it as short and sweet.
Horny bikes nice Izzardian detour . . . to be continued?
Can't wait to see this on Youtube.

Regards, Jules

[CalebPerry]

NQS, I'm sorry I never critiqued your second version. It takes so long to critique a very long poem that I couldn't go through the process a second time. In order to give you a proper opinion, I was going to load both poems in a table so that I could compare them directly, but that is a lot of work. If I can find the time, I may still do it.

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Hi Perry,
no apologies necessary.

______________


Thanks very much Jules.
Another for the 'anticlimax' I see. I think you're both right but
will have to let this sit a while before returning - definitely needs
a darker finish.

Regards, Not.
.

[NotQuiteSure]

.

- Minor reconstruction, couple of additions, and an attempt at a better ending.

.

[twoleftfeet]

G'day,NQS -very nice!

Lots of humour to chuckle at. I especially like
Well, I wasn't there to parse that line, I was there to make some deals,

So "Scrappy" is a "Paul Hogan" type of chappie,eh? (Q:Have you drunk Foorsta's all ya life,mate?" A: Not yet! )

"Breeding cycles" - very good.

I do think these bits are letting the side down a bit:

There were things beyond the purse of kings, could bring a prince to heel.
Things to feed the poor, start a war, liberate or make you kneel.

Much enjoyed
T

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Hi T.

Thanks for the read.


Take your point about those lines, they don't fit at all do they? Simplest solution is to cut them and shuffle everything up (which works well), leaving
And though I had a ways to go, I was not going to rush,
Colin Hay came on the radio, and I was feeling flush.
as a sort of hanging couplet (to end the first section). Though I suspect that won't work by itself.

There is/was a tv program called "Aussie Pickers" that happened to be showing at the same time as the 'breeding cycle' prompt was posted (elsewhere) so that's where the Scrappy came from (and vague recollections of the Paul Hogan of the tv series, rather than Crocodile Dundee, of course).

Regards, ¬


.

[JJWilliamson]

Yes, I enjoyed this poem too, Not. Quite an achievement for such a long narrative.

Metrically speaking it carries more than its fair share of irregularities and for me that impeded the flow of this delightfully jaunty tale.
I particularly liked the idea of the bikes going hammer and tongs at "it" when the moon was full. Great stuff that.

I'm not sure about a trim, as has been suggested, mainly because it would be difficult to say what to keep and what to drop. This could be one of those never-ending writes.

If it was mine I'd revisit the meter and work my proverbials off, over time, to get the right fit. That's not to say I'm against substitutions, in fact the opposite would be true, it's just that it seriously departs from the initial heptameter of S1. My funambulist poem took me about a month to get the tetrameter to work as I originally visualised it.

Your poem has the makings of a classic.

Best

JJ

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Hi JJ,
thanks for the read, and the encouraging words.

My funambulist poem took me about a month to get the tetrameter to work as I originally visualised it.

So, factoring in length and levels of skill, shouldn't take me more than two or three years? Fair enough.
I'll be in the corner with my proverbials.

Thanks again.

Regards, Not


.

[JJWilliamson]

It's a tough road, Not

So, factoring in length and levels of skill, shouldn't take me more than two or three years? Fair enough.
I'll be in the corner with my proverbials. ... It didn't really take a month. Just in case you're wondering.

Thanks again.

Regards, Not


.

JJ

[NotQuiteSure]

It didn't really take a month. Just in case you're wondering.

I'm not sure there's a response to this that couldn't be misconstrued

Regards, Not


.

[1lankest]

I agree with the others, this is great. I’d especially echo Jj and Jules and I’d love to hear this narrated in the live.
I do, however, agree with David about the ending.
Quite an achievement though, bravo.

Luke

P.s

I have a different kind of cycling poem coming up!

[NotQuiteSure]

.
Hi Luke,

thanks very much. As JJ has made clear, there's still much to do, and who knows,
maybe a better ending will turn up Thanks again.

Regards, Not.


.