Poetry about Poetry ... original or previously published poetry, September 2001
The Way a Plane Takes Off
Each dawn I stalk blind alleys. Rhythms easy as a stroll
can't hurt. Some days, words slouch together, a sullen,
faceless mob. Beat it, the poet! one yells,
and ideas scatter. Off! Police in rubber masks call out,
Get off the streets! I duck into school yards I remember,
up fire escapes to roofs of buildings bombed,
burned-out from other drafts. I snap my fingers madly
for ideas. Suddenly I'm taxiing on tarmac. Cessnas
and jets take off to exotic rendezvous.
Hours strapped in a cockpit of words are gifts,
risky as flight. Years ago on my first solo,
I was alone, lashed to wings over Georgia,
stunned by the roar of rotors tuned as one flame.
I stared at a maze of gauges--this way for up,
this switch to call for help, this swinging compass
home. I tucked the stick to my thigh, a sassy roll,
corkscrewing up at the sun. Safe landings come
by trusting wholly unstable air. Sometimes
the wind is music, sometimes it's only wind.
Years ago, when my wife and I went flying,
we found our way by feel into the air. Now,
I hear the clatter and whir of disk drives
and wonder who's in control. Alone with words
without radar, what can flesh do but go
wherever thrust takes us, believing wings
will lift. The far-off, round horizon is blurred,
but slowly I close the canopy over a cockpit of sounds.
Shoving the throttle, I feel the shudder of pistons
and line up gladly for takeoff, rolling at last
down a runway, thrusting somewhere on words.