The War on the Car
War and car don’t rhyme
though you’d never know it
by looking. Having formed
every square and passage to its
wheels, asphalt and cement sock
sewn tight, imposed angular
bound vision into knotted
contortions leave limbs
wrenched, dislocated, cramped
shadows of known reach, each inch
twisted out of vehicular
contractions of morphogenetic
plenitude into rigor of its
intersections, each one timed out
of squared seconds stacked laterally
across expanses of imagination’s
former self, dark formulations
of encounter rising from ashes
of place, declarations of war ring
with sardonic amplifications
of victorious erasure’s contempt
for the loser who looks first
right, then left (except in England’s
green pastures) and steps
into it. Sometimes it’s a river
of asphalt. When the shape
of water is lost, the war enters
a new phase, waxing gibbous
in pedestrians’ minds and the dreams
of commuters waiting
for the light to change. Ghosts
of entire forests wail but war
is already beside the point since world
that ended remains without adequate
ventilation leaving this one with its
lavender and lilac floating on what
can only be considered a very subtle
inflection with little credibility
beyond fading claims of necessity
and undulations of blue to fend
for itself with no chance of sure
footing. Hephaestus may step
out of the truck, squat and blunt,
dip the key in oil and fire the ignition,
but who sees him and where can you go
when the nets drop in badly rhymed
imitations of real streets, impassable
idea of rush, a declension of free way
as it plays out in sluggish rivers of red
in the night, stalled light. Meanwhile,
the war returns when hordes of cycles
descend on the city out of the north
an important sign of further
origins than the regular
ones. The cars, taken by surprise,
roll back before two-wheeled bell
ringing berserker onslaught.
Regrouping at Holts, they emit
an impassable wall of carbon
monoxide lays waste to every
living thing around, leaving marauding
cycles down and scattered across endless
asphalt sweep. Cars win the war
driving back and forth over mangled frames,
twisted tires, honking and squealing
their all-weather Michelins. A national
Automobile Appreciation Day is declared
and everyone has an extra fill-up on the Mayor
before resuming their place in line
Michael Boughn's poem, "THE WAR ON THE CAR," subtly addresses the complex relationship between consumerism, environmental degradation, and the destructive nature of war. Car culture is used metaphorically to suggest how they represent consumer culture as a war with the environment.
The poem opens with the idea that "War and car don’t rhyme," suggesting a disconnect between the destructive nature of war and the symbolism of cars. However, the poem goes on to illustrate how cars have shaped the urban landscape and infrastructure with its asphalt and cement to facilitate the use of cars, but in doing so, they impose rigid and unnatural structures on the environment.
The poem uses the concept of "war" to illustrate the environmental destruction and upheaval caused by consumer culture, symbolizing the destructive consequences of prioritizing cars over environmental sustainability. This allegory can be extended to real-world conflicts, many of which are indeed fought over resources like oil. The poem thus indirectly critiques the destructive wars waged for access to such resources.
The poem's description of "lavender and lilac floating," hints at the loss of natural beauty and environmental integrity, which might be seen as an allegory for how war and resource exploitation degrade the natural world, leaving it bereft of its inherent beauty.
Boughn’s poem is a poignant metaphor about the environmental cost of consumer culture, while indirectly touching upon the devastating consequences of wars fought for resources, to shed light on the destructive nature of both consumerism and war.