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The Loneliest Motorcycle

Original Poetry

Translation

The Loneliest Motorcycle

I was six years old when I crossed a desert that no map could show and found you there.

Stephen L. Harrison

You leaned into the wind like something waiting to be remembered. The paint was peeling. The chrome had turned dull.

I was six

Your handlebars were tilted as if they were listening.

when I crossed a desert

You seemed to say, 'My child, I am the loneliest motorcycle.'

no map could name

I knelt beside you. My knees left pale marks in the dust. I didn’t know how engines worked. I only knew what waiting felt like.

and found you there.

Your wires were hanging loose, like veins without blood. No ignition. No spark. No promise of a roar.

You leaned into the wind

I tapped the fuel tank gently, as if it were a sleeping animal. It responded with an empty silence.

like something waiting

I told you about roads I had only seen in books — long paths full of possibilities. I described the wind like other boys talked about their fathers. How it might keep you steady. How it might push you forward.

to be remembered.

I imagined painting you red. Bright red, even. Bright enough to stand out.

Paint blistered.

We would pass the biker gangs, without any burdens, no weight on your seat, no one asking anything from us. Just movement. Just the horizon.

Chrome dimmed to ash.

But even then I noticed the broken glass of your lights, the wires coming apart like thoughts.

Your handlebars tilted

Some things are not waiting to begin. Some things are resting because they need to.

as if listening.

The garage I imagined for you was dry. No shouting. No flames touching the walls. Nothing burning that couldn’t be fixed.

My child, you seemed to say,

The evening stretched on. The desert grew wider. The dust cooled.

I am the loneliest motorcycle.

I sat with you until the sun faded to a glowing ember.

I knelt beside you.

For the first time, I wasn’t asking you to move.

My knees left pale moons in the dust.

Just two shapes in the quiet — metal and bone — learning that being still is not failing.

I didn’t know how engines worked.

It is surviving.

I only knew

And when I left you there, I took something home — not the motorcycle, not the dream of red paint —

how waiting felt.

but the understanding that loneliness can sit with loneliness and neither has to make noise to be real.

Your wires hung loose,

veins without current.

No ignition.

No spark.

No promise of roar.

I tapped the fuel tank softly,

as if it were a sleeping animal.

It answered with hollow quiet.

I told you about roads

I had only seen in books —

long ribbons of possibility.

I described wind

the way other boys described fathers.

How it might hold you steady.

How it might carry you forward.

I imagined painting you red.

Scarlet, even.

Bright enough

to be chosen.

We would pass the biker gangs,

free of burden,

no weight upon your saddle,

no one asking anything of us.

Just motion.

Just horizon.

But even then

I noticed

the broken glass of your lights,

the loom of wires

unravelling like thought.

Some things are not waiting to start.

Some things are resting

because they must.

The garage I invented for you

was dry.

No shouting.

No flames licking at walls.

Nothing burning

that could not be mended.

Evening stretched long.

The desert widened.

Dust cooled.

I sat with you

until the sun thinned to ember.

For the first time

I was not asking you to move.

Just two shapes in the quiet —

metal and bone —

learning that stillness

is not failure.

It is survival.

And when I left you there,

I carried something home —

not the motorcycle,

not the dream of red paint —

but the knowledge

that loneliness

can sit beside loneliness

and neither has to roar

to be real.

Explanation

Stephen L. Harrison's poem "The Loneliest Motorcycle" explores themes of solitude and companionship through the metaphor of a neglected motorcycle. The speaker, recalling a childhood memory, discovers the motorcycle in a desert, a place "no map could name," suggesting an emotional or existential wilderness. The motorcycle, with "paint blistered" and "chrome dimmed to ash," symbolizes forgotten dreams and the passage of time.

The speaker's interaction with the motorcycle is tender and introspective. Kneeling beside it, they leave "pale moons in the dust," a sign of their presence and connection. The motorcycle's "wires hung loose," and lack of "ignition" and "spark" reflect a life without energy or purpose. The speaker's imagination fills this void, envisioning roads "seen in books" and painting the motorcycle "red" to make it "bright enough to be chosen."

Emotionally, the poem moves from a sense of longing and nostalgia to acceptance and understanding. The speaker recognizes that "some things are not waiting to start," acknowledging that rest and stillness are necessary for survival. The tone is reflective and gentle, capturing the quiet companionship between the child and the motorcycle.

Harrison uses vivid imagery and metaphor to convey the motorcycle's loneliness and the speaker's empathy. The "broken glass of your lights" and "wires unravelling like thought" evoke a sense of fragility and introspection. The free verse form allows for a natural, flowing exploration of these themes, emphasizing the emotional resonance of the imagery.

Ultimately, the poem suggests that loneliness can be shared and understood without needing to be loud or dramatic. It reflects on the idea that stillness and survival are intertwined, offering a poignant meditation on the nature of solitude and connection in human experience.

Word Dictionary15

Word	Easy Meaning	Translation	Pron.
blistered	covered with blisters	damaged by heat or wear	blis-terd
chrome	shiny metal finish	a shiny metallic surface	krohm
ignition	starting mechanism	the system that starts the engine	ig-nish-un
horizon	distant line where earth and sky meet	the distant line where the earth meets the sky	huh-ry-zuhn
scarlet	bright red color	a bright red shade	skar-let
loom	framework for weaving	a device for weaving threads	loom
unravelling	coming apart	becoming undone	un-rav-uh-ling
ember	glowing coal	a small piece of burning coal or wood	em-ber
solitude	state of being alone	being alone	sol-i-tood
companionship	friendship	the company of others	kuhm-pan-yun-ship
existential	related to existence	about existence	eg-zis-ten-shul
introspection	self-examination	looking inward at one's own thoughts	in-truh-spek-shun
fragility	delicateness	the quality of being easily broken	fra-jil-i-tee
resonance	echoing sound	a deep, full, and reverberating sound	rez-uh-nuhns
meditation	deep thought	engagement in deep thought or contemplation	med-i-tay-shun

Poet & Context

PoetStephen L. Harrison

EraContemporary

Stephen Leslie Harrison is a reflective and emotionally driven writer from Highley, Shropshire. He has a passion for poetry and creative expression, often exploring themes of solitude and introspection.

WhenContemporary period

WhyThe poem explores themes of solitude, memory, and the human condition through the metaphor of a lonely motorcycle. It reflects on the nature of waiting and the quiet companionship found in shared loneliness.

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

solitudecompanionshipintrospectionsurvival

Literary devices

metaphor: The motorcycle represents forgotten dreams and solitude.imagery: Vivid descriptions of the desert and the motorcycle's state.free verse: Allows for a natural flow and exploration of themes.

Ανάλυση ποίησης

The Loneliest Motorcycle

Original Poetry

Translation

The Loneliest Motorcycle

I was six years old when I crossed a desert that no map could show and found you there.

Stephen L. Harrison

You leaned into the wind like something waiting to be remembered. The paint was peeling. The chrome had turned dull.

I was six

Your handlebars were tilted as if they were listening.

when I crossed a desert

You seemed to say, 'My child, I am the loneliest motorcycle.'

no map could name

I knelt beside you. My knees left pale marks in the dust. I didn’t know how engines worked. I only knew what waiting felt like.

and found you there.

Your wires were hanging loose, like veins without blood. No ignition. No spark. No promise of a roar.

You leaned into the wind

I tapped the fuel tank gently, as if it were a sleeping animal. It responded with an empty silence.

like something waiting

to be remembered.

I imagined painting you red. Bright red, even. Bright enough to stand out.

Paint blistered.

We would pass the biker gangs, without any burdens, no weight on your seat, no one asking anything from us. Just movement. Just the horizon.

Chrome dimmed to ash.

But even then I noticed the broken glass of your lights, the wires coming apart like thoughts.

Your handlebars tilted

Some things are not waiting to begin. Some things are resting because they need to.

as if listening.

The garage I imagined for you was dry. No shouting. No flames touching the walls. Nothing burning that couldn’t be fixed.

My child, you seemed to say,

The evening stretched on. The desert grew wider. The dust cooled.

I am the loneliest motorcycle.

I sat with you until the sun faded to a glowing ember.

I knelt beside you.

For the first time, I wasn’t asking you to move.

My knees left pale moons in the dust.

Just two shapes in the quiet — metal and bone — learning that being still is not failing.

I didn’t know how engines worked.

It is surviving.

I only knew

And when I left you there, I took something home — not the motorcycle, not the dream of red paint —

how waiting felt.

but the understanding that loneliness can sit with loneliness and neither has to make noise to be real.

Your wires hung loose,

veins without current.

No ignition.

No spark.

No promise of roar.

I tapped the fuel tank softly,

as if it were a sleeping animal.

It answered with hollow quiet.

I told you about roads

I had only seen in books —

long ribbons of possibility.

I described wind

the way other boys described fathers.

How it might hold you steady.

How it might carry you forward.

I imagined painting you red.

Scarlet, even.

Bright enough

to be chosen.

We would pass the biker gangs,

free of burden,

no weight upon your saddle,

no one asking anything of us.

Just motion.

Just horizon.

But even then

I noticed

the broken glass of your lights,

the loom of wires

unravelling like thought.

Some things are not waiting to start.

Some things are resting

because they must.

The garage I invented for you

was dry.

No shouting.

No flames licking at walls.

Nothing burning

that could not be mended.

Evening stretched long.

The desert widened.

Dust cooled.

I sat with you

until the sun thinned to ember.

For the first time

I was not asking you to move.

Just two shapes in the quiet —

metal and bone —

learning that stillness

is not failure.

It is survival.

And when I left you there,

I carried something home —

not the motorcycle,

not the dream of red paint —

but the knowledge

that loneliness

can sit beside loneliness

and neither has to roar

to be real.

Explanation

Word Dictionary15

Word	Easy Meaning	Translation	Pron.
blistered	covered with blisters	damaged by heat or wear	blis-terd
chrome	shiny metal finish	a shiny metallic surface	krohm
ignition	starting mechanism	the system that starts the engine	ig-nish-un
horizon	distant line where earth and sky meet	the distant line where the earth meets the sky	huh-ry-zuhn
scarlet	bright red color	a bright red shade	skar-let
loom	framework for weaving	a device for weaving threads	loom
unravelling	coming apart	becoming undone	un-rav-uh-ling
ember	glowing coal	a small piece of burning coal or wood	em-ber
solitude	state of being alone	being alone	sol-i-tood
companionship	friendship	the company of others	kuhm-pan-yun-ship
existential	related to existence	about existence	eg-zis-ten-shul
introspection	self-examination	looking inward at one's own thoughts	in-truh-spek-shun
fragility	delicateness	the quality of being easily broken	fra-jil-i-tee
resonance	echoing sound	a deep, full, and reverberating sound	rez-uh-nuhns
meditation	deep thought	engagement in deep thought or contemplation	med-i-tay-shun

Poet & Context

PoetStephen L. Harrison

EraContemporary

WhenContemporary period

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

solitudecompanionshipintrospectionsurvival

Literary devices

metaphor: The motorcycle represents forgotten dreams and solitude.imagery: Vivid descriptions of the desert and the motorcycle's state.free verse: Allows for a natural flow and exploration of themes.