Sunday, 3 October 2010

Flightpaths - 1913 by Dick Jones

The strangest of times: a skein of geese
crossing the bedroom window, heading west
and no body of water within seven miles.

I am playing the pagan - lying late amongst
the Sunday morning bells.

Heaven is a cloudless sky
in late September, harvest past,
leaves on the turn.

At first I think I hear the binder,
wheels beating, turning at the headrow,
but the fields are bare.

Such a beating, a clattering.
More geese searching for a lake
in this land of furrows? Or
the rector in his Wolsely
come to seek me out?

And then my window darkens
into the shape of wings, jagged wings –
Weston mill uprooted, reeling across the fields?
Certainly a hurricane of sorts in the throat of this beast
squatting low over the beeches,
dabbling its feet in leaves, roaring
in a black updraft of rooks.

An aeroplane, fearful in the untried air –
nothing like the rising bird
it mocks, This is a man,
dressed in wire and canvas,
climbing out of the long grass.
This is a godless man ascending,
out of the dust, towards the light.


Dick Jones, UK

5 comments:

Crafty Green Poet said...

Initially wooed by the First World War poets and then seduced by the Beats, Dick Jones has been exploring the vast territories in between since the age of 15. Published in a variety of magazines throughout the years of rambling. Amongst them are Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Ireland Review, Qarrtsiluni, Westwords, Mipoesias, Three Candles, Other Poetry, Ouroboros Review.

theaikenite said...

This one is quite good.

Gordon Mason said...

Can't agree with theaikenite. This poem isn't quite good, it is very good. The images and the rhythms bring flight to life.

ms pie said...

a wonderful flow of sights that bring autumn into view....

gospelwriter said...

I love all the sights and sounds, images around first flight... and for some reason, this really pulls me:

I am playing the pagan - lying late amongst
the Sunday morning bells.


... and I understand some part of the reason for it when I read the final lines about the godless man ascending, / out of the dust, towards the light.

A really beautiful poem, thank you.