Reading:
Poem at thirty thousand feet Making art, so it was said, gave temporary ease from fear of dying. Perhaps it does although it's power is somewhat limited in scope. In the studio, if things are going well, you may hope To live to make that other painting waiting in your head. But if you’re five miles up, afraid of flying, jotting lines Of poetry does not quite annul the dread the floor Will drop out or engines fail and you’ll be dead. I listen as the high harmonics of the engine whine Blend with tinnitus in teasing paranoia, monitoring sound For any micro-variation that might portend Disaster. But making art can work the other way round. When you’ve wrecked a week’s work with one careless Brushstroke it’s all too easy to lose the will to live. So is an hour or two lost in the act of creation And happily oblivious of the terrors at the end of life Worth all that torment with brush or palette knife You go through as you strive for some unknown perfection? Yes, on the whole, I’d say. Nevertheless I pray that EZY8567 Lands safely and these lines of mine do not end up in fiery heaven. My prayer consists of touching wood. Or at least I would If I could. Up here I’m down to metal. Not to worry though, In some countries, so I’ve heard, metal is preferred to touch for luck. Our vicar, when I mentioned this strange custom said, ‘Yes I know.’ And then explained in tones of mild complaint, that as wood stood For the cross, so metal symbolised the fixing nails. ‘That must tick All the boxes.’ I said, under my breath, not wanting to offend. Anyway we’ve landed in Catania so something must have worked. I’ll put my money on the laws of physics, meticulous engineers, And the expertise of pilots. All the same, I’ve spent three whole hours In the air sober. Perhaps writing poetry does give one respite from fear, Let’s hope it still works when I need it as the end draws near!
Peter Lloyd Jones 