This book of poetry offers unique insight into the world of motorcycles, bikers and those who move to the beat of a different drummer. The poems provide a peek into the experiences and observations of that lifestyle and are presented like snapshots in a photo-album of words.
This book is for bikers the ones
who ride to live and live to ride.
This book is for poets, the ones
who breathe life into words and
live through their poems.
This book is for the wildflowers
that grow through the cracks
of cement and thrive through
the potholes of the life.
This book is for the hard core,
the hard asses, the wild ones,
the easy riders and even
the weekend warriors.
This book is not for the timid, the wanna bee or anyone who
never crossed the line drawn by society.
This book is for Members Only.
Excerpt
My Reason
I write for those who go outside the box
and climb over the fence defying the signs,
Danger Keep Out, No Trespassing.
They are the ones who dance along the
precipice, doing pirouettes on the edge
of the abyss between the real and the ideal.
And as others have tried to bridge that
chasm with a structure made of old worm
holed planks, myth and magic tied with twine,
a string of lies, producing only an unfinished
catwalk that juts out like a diving board.
I write for those who will not take that leap
of faith, but use mortar, stone, and steel
in the here and now to span that gulf.
I write for those who live outside the lines
drawn by society, the biker, the hipster
and the burn out, those who don’t want
to live the life of the nine to five crowd,
wear stuffed shirts, a suit and tie, and be
a contestant in the rat race, running through
the maze looking for a slice of the American
Dream, that pie in the sky, that piece of cheese,
to be number one, the big cheese, a king,
an emperor, because they see the emperor
has no clothes and the cheese is Swiss
and full of holes. They see the Polly-O
String is dangling. I write for them.
I write for the musician, the artist, and the poet,
those who don’t want to go with the flow
of music. They seem to be tuned out or out
of tune but they follow a different beat.
They twist and shout, but they don’t dance
when others call the tune, or agree with
the choreography, it’s all hokey-pokey;
a big hustle to join the line and do the glide.
Call them wallflowers, I write for them.
I write for the outlaw, the outcast and the
outlandish. But they are not out of touch.
They are what they are and I am what I am.
I am a poet. I am on the outside looking in.
I write for myself.
Professional Reviews
Ride Motorcycle Poetry with Peter Dugan
It is a fast, roaring poetic motorcycle ride with combos of detailed colloquial language that Peter V. Dugan takes readers on in his book, Members Only. First he takes them inside a space that could be a motorcyclists’ hang-out. But in the title poem, Members Only, the frequenters are teenagers. “After school, we climb the old bare wood stairs/ up the musty hallway to the attic,/. . . – A black shag carpet remnant covers the floor and an/ old mattress and box spring lay in the corner/. . . And hung on the wall by the door is the old wooden/ STOP sign with names, initials and symbols/carved into it. . . the official membership list to a private club/. . . You have become one of us: you are one of the people/ your parents warned you about.” As Mr. Dugan inscribes in the copy purchased by a naturalist friend.“This is the other wildlife of Long Island.”
Blossoms
Twelve and thirteen year old girls
Tom-boy tough with braces and pig-tails,
Hang out, chew gum and smoke cigarettes
On the corner of Wilson and Marlboro.
They speak a salt dialogue peppered
With four letter words, chattering about
The latest fab fad, who’s in and what’s
Cool, what’s out and who’s a fool.
Still torn between hopscotch and jump
Rope, tight tee shirts and training bras,
They practice to be flirtatious and playful
Suffering from pubescent pop-star
Infatuations.
These budding flowers wait to be plucked
By the high school boys, preppies,
greasers or jocks, driving fancy cars,
motorcycles and pick-up trucks.
An early spring can lead to a sultry summer.
In Ladies in Waiting, “Outside the bar/ sixteen and seventeen/ year-old princesses/ dress in tank tops,/ tie-dyed tee-shirts,/ cut denim shorts,/ and Indian skirts,/. . . moon-dance under/ the neon lights/ and dream of bankers/ and brokers/ driving white/ Corvettes to carry them away,/ but tonight/ they settle/ for black leather/ bikers on Harleys.
But as the characters grow older they graduate into motorcyclists.
There is a lot of motorcycling in this collection. Bikers in Let the Hammer Fly “Ride down/ Ocean Parkway/ on a summer night,/ suspended/ above the ground/ on a thin/metal frame,/ flying on two wheels. . .”
It is interesting to see the contemporary American poetry applied to motorcyclists and their vehicles: At The Intersection “A tremor shakes the air/ the sound of heavy metal / thunder in a canyon.”
“I write for those who go outside the box,/ and climb over the fence defying the signs,/ Danger, Keep Out, No Trespassing,” Mr. Dugan writes in his opening poem, Reason.
Other poems in the book: The Black Motorcycle, Jesus Never Rode a Harley, Terminal Velocity, Scooter Tramps, Beauty and Her Beast, The American Story, etc.
Maxwell Corydon Wheat Jr.
The Protagonist Rides On: Patricia Carragon on Peter Dugan’s Members Only
Cowboys never die. They live on as legends. They’re the dreamers and rebels on horseback – rugged individualists – gritty and tough like their terrain out West. But on Long Island, they ride motorcycles on asphalt. They wear black leather. They’re America’s heroes who refuse to conform. Peter V. Dugan’s Members Only is a coming of age exploration into Long Island’s maverick culture of bikers and scooter tramps, rock and roll and beer, scars and tattoos. Peter’s poems take us to a higher level. We learn that Walt Whitman does ride a Harley. In “My Reason,” Dugan writes:
I write for the musician, the artist and the poet,
those who don’t want to go with the flow
of music.
I write for the outlaw, the outcast and the
outlandish. But they are not out of touch.
They are what they are and I am what I am.
I am a poet. I am on the outside looking in.
Poets, musicians and artists suffer the consequences for being different in thought and attitude like the outlaws, outcasts and the outlandish. Dugan’s poetry speaks for them. His poems convey respect and dignity for them since he is one of them. And this theme is consistent throughout his book.
In The Gray Pilgrim, Dugan takes us on a journey with an aging renegade, born and bred on Long Island, but born to ride across the nation. As you read on, you sense a legend is being born. You hear the Harley groan. You smell the grease. You see a bandana covering the veteran biker’s gray hair. In spite of his weathered face, he is ageless – a pilgrim searching for stories. He must be a poet. Yet some see him differently:
To some he is an eccentric renegade filled with
purposeless wanderlust.
But Dugan rebels and continues his saga. His protagonist rides on. The author concludes his piece, using words that create a legend:
The fringes of his jacket gave the appearance
of wings, an eagle gliding on the wind.
Walt Whitman rides a Harley Davidson.
Peter V. Dugan’s Member’s Only is a no holds bared peek into the world of bikers. Past the grease and grit, his poetry travels towards life and people. Walt Whitman does ride a Harley. And bikers, like cowboys, are living legends, and Members Only is worth the ride.
Patricia Carragon
