High Art

July 8 2011

High wire act.
The pole, both hands

deftly balanced.

Strong prehensile feet,

responsive as a spider

tuned to its web.

Buffeted

by fitful gusts

as the rope drops, and rises,

he feels the eyes

riveted,

holding him aloft.

His singular thought  —

upright, centred

at one with the wire.

 …And others, who watch

to see him fall.

The aerialist will not be called

sideshow, stuntman

carnival huckster.

He is an artist

of the human body, under control,

of the immaculate mind

defying distraction.

He calls himself funambulist

which sounds suitably refined;

first among acrobats,

never mind

snake-charmer, and sleight-of-hand

tattooed lady, and tallest man

in the world.

But sooner or later

gravity will take him

down,

no net

no second chance.

The horrified crowd, gasping.

The orphaned pole, dropping fast.

And the funambulist

who refuses to panic, let discipline lapse

maintains his matchless form,

surrendering to fate

the final dance.

Leaving no doubt

he is an artist,

true to his calling

to the very last.

The seconds

before death

can take forever,

time slows

the universe stops.

So he might still be airborne
falling,

never bottoming out.

Like an astronaut, untethered

as his capsule drifts out of reach

and shrinks

to a tiny point of light

  —  one, among millions of stars.

And he has become

a human satellite,

orbiting the planet

in constant free-fall,

mummified

in his white pneumatic suit.

So give the funambulist

a high enough wire

and he will achieve perfection.

But he prefers gravity

and consequence.

Because he would not be an artist

without the risk of failure,

without raising the bar.

This poem was inspired by a newspaper article about Nik Wallenda, the scion of the iconic Flying Wallendas, who has been petitioning to perform a high wire stunt over the Niagara gorge:  a descriptor – “stunt” – he apparently detests, calling it a “slap in the face”.

Because he is neither stuntman nor circus act; his is an artist.

I thought this might open up an interesting exploration of art, and the artistic temperament. And I also thought the high wire offered rich possibilities for metaphor. (In the end, the poem is quit straight forward, and pretty much sticks to the literal.) But most of all, I absolutely fell in love with the word "funambulist". So I had to write the poem, if only to use the word!

There are many alternative titles, including A High Enough Wire, Without a Net, The Flying Wallendas, and Funambulist. I’m satisfied with my choice; although A High Enough Wire still tempts me.