The angry swans.
It is axiomatic that the maxim for the writer such as I is “Write about things you know.”
This means fluid mechanics, the countryside and despair. Which to choose for Mastermind? I did this yesterday in my lunch break. It’s true, it just sort of comes out.
Way above, my windswept anguish
sheer white trail, in azure blue
gorging air, Jet-A devouring
triple bypass, turbine true.
Anus hot, with noisy vapours
screeching marvel, of ground-based man
permission granted, no need for favours
you soar clean o’er, this troubled land.
Far ahead, on your flight level
come the swans, for winter’s rest
in frigid air, in vee formation
their compass set, on south southwest.
As they bank, make slight adjustments
your four mouths gape, feast on the flock
with not one swan, left in the heavens
the glutton flies, on to New York.
Through ice-like glass, in pressure cabin
Hiawatha, sips gimlet gin
she felt no bump, nor leery tremor
Just one white feather, sticks to the fin.
O Hiawatha, my hope flies with you
not up in club-class, but back in coach
where they look out, not on cirrus
but on long blood streaks, on fuselage.
Update : Blisterin’ Barnacles. Maroon buggers up again!
I wrote this for a very special poetry site but hesitated to send it thinking not to swamp that special place with my public yearnings. I was wrong. Things are developing there, and hence forth I believe it to be the best platform for my poetic muse.
I know that you too have poetry in your souls trying to germinate. When it sends out its roots, please, take it to this wonderful word-garden.