Saturday, January 15, 2011

Discovering other paths ought to make us wander further into the woods, yes?

What if our souls, after so many, many flights, never return to our bodies?

What if I never really got off that plane in 2008 from Tokyo?

What if I never left that ferry to Gibraltar?

What if I never stepped drunk from that train into the Serbian night in 1994 and never got turned back?

What would I know? Who would I be?

What if you never met me in Vancouver in September?

So much of everything would be different.

But you did; and I did all of those things, too.

I love vapour trails and looking up and thinking about the origin and destination of those planes and the passengers; all headed somewhere they were needed or even loved.

I wonder if they have had dinner yet or are wondering outside their view? Who is watching them fly past?

I am, on those clear Alberta skies.

And blowing kisses, too.

Because landing is the best thing ever.

-Love Sid.



chrisrawk said...

The Prize-Winning Poem (by Fleur Adcock)

It will be typed, of course, and not all in capitals: it will use upper and lower case
in the normal way; and where a space is usual it will have a space.
It will probably be on white paper, or possibly blue, but almost certainly not pink.
It will not be decorated with ornamental scroll-work in coloured ink,
nor will a photograph of the poet be glued above his or her name,
and still less a snap of the poet's children frolicking in a jolly game.
The poem will not be about feeling lonely and being fifteen
and unless the occasion of the competition is a royal jubilee it will not be about the queen.
It will not be the first poem the author has written in his life
and will probably not be about the death of his daughter, son or wife
because although to write such elegies fulfils a therapeutic need
in large numbers they are deeply depressing for the judges to read.
The title will not be 'Thoughts' or 'Life' or 'I Wonder Why'
or 'The Bunny-rabbit's Birthday Party' or 'In Days of Long Gone By'.
'Tis and 'twas, o'er and e'er, and such poetical contractions will not be found
in the chosen poem. Similarly cliches will not abound:
dawn will not herald another bright new day, nor dew sparkle like diamonds in a dell,
nor trees their arms upstretch. Also the poet will be able to spell.
Large meaningless concepts will not be viewed with favour: myriad is out;
infinity is becoming suspect; aeons and galaxies are in some doubt.
Archaisms and inversions will not occur; nymphs will not their fate bemoan.
Apart from this there will be no restrictions upon the style or tone.
What is required is simply the masterpiece we'd all write if we could.
There is only one prescription for it: it's got to be good.

Anonymous said...


Sid Heart said...

Oh dear.

Anonymous said...

what if.
what if they knew the truth.
what if.