In
Transit
May 14 2014
In transit
having left, and not yet arrived
the usual rules of time
are on hold.
You relinquish control
to the law of physics,
the density
of invisible air.
To pilots, controllers
navigational webs.
The world spins
and you are temporarily exempt
from its forward motion.
Where life is suspended
and time feels heavy
and you have to let go.
At any given moment
half a million souls
have lifted off;
a good sized city,
out of touch
with solid ground.
Idle time
which doesn't strictly count.
Except when an early birth
In transit
having left, and not yet arrived
the usual rules of time
are on hold.
You relinquish control
to the law of physics,
the density
of invisible air.
To pilots, controllers
navigational webs.
The world spins
and you are temporarily exempt
from its forward motion.
Where life is suspended
and time feels heavy
and you have to let go.
At any given moment
half a million souls
have lifted off;
a good sized city,
out of touch
with solid ground.
Idle time
which doesn't strictly count.
Except when an early birth
jerks us back
to the real world.
A squalling girl
A squalling girl
emerging into this small
curved space,
her first breath
dry recycled air.
And then again, an alien
when she first arrives
And then again, an alien
when she first arrives
on earth.
Who will be different, ethereal
a little mysterious
the rest of her life.
And where some
Who will be different, ethereal
a little mysterious
the rest of her life.
And where some
will unexpectedly die.
A dead body
discreetly stowed
in a cold cramped lavatory,
where a mile-high couple
may have just made love.
But mostly, a mid-sized city
A dead body
discreetly stowed
in a cold cramped lavatory,
where a mile-high couple
may have just made love.
But mostly, a mid-sized city
high above the clouds,
whose inhabitants
are dispersed into
thousands of planes
kept aloft
night and day,
scrolling computers,
pretending to sleep
crying babies
and too much to drink.
And when they land
another half a million souls
are taking their place, assuming their trust;
their lives on hold
30,000 feet up.
In flight, in transit, time has a different quality: almost as if it doesn't count. "Free time " becomes more than metaphorical. And there is a fatalism, a ceding of control, that I think is especially liberating for tightly wound type-As. I have this feeling of "letting go" whenever I'm aloft, since I'm powerless no matter what: that is, letting go after the white-knuckling of lift-off is done!
This poem began when I read an article on in-flight medical emergencies. The fact that stuck with me was that in modern aviation there are always about half a million people in the air above earth: a good-sized city continuously aloft; and all those people in a similar suspended state. I thought back to 9/11, when the sky over theUS
was abruptly closed, and this small principality of 500,000 people were
suddenly stateless, landless, stuck at 30,000 feet. (OK, not that many, since
it was only aviation over North America that was shut
down.)
In the article, he also talked about births and deaths in the air: that dead bodies are covered with a blanket, or stowed in an "out-of-order" washroom, or -- in the case of meticulous Singapore Airlines -- dispatched to a purpose-made corpse locker. I couldn't help but contrast these cataclysmic life events with the usual numb boredom of air travel. As in any real city, the tediously and obliviously diurnal co-exists with high drama.
The more I read it, the more I like "assuming their trust". I confess that it was originally only there because I needed a rhyme -- love, above, and up needed a 4th. Because who hasn't succumbed to the superstitious feeling that the only way this heavier-than-air machine can be kept aloft is by a collective act of will? Concentrate, or we may very well plummet to earth! It calls back to "the density/ of invisible air": giving the poem a nice concluding sense of coming full circle.
crying babies
and too much to drink.
And when they land
another half a million souls
are taking their place, assuming their trust;
their lives on hold
30,000 feet up.
In flight, in transit, time has a different quality: almost as if it doesn't count. "Free time " becomes more than metaphorical. And there is a fatalism, a ceding of control, that I think is especially liberating for tightly wound type-As. I have this feeling of "letting go" whenever I'm aloft, since I'm powerless no matter what: that is, letting go after the white-knuckling of lift-off is done!
This poem began when I read an article on in-flight medical emergencies. The fact that stuck with me was that in modern aviation there are always about half a million people in the air above earth: a good-sized city continuously aloft; and all those people in a similar suspended state. I thought back to 9/11, when the sky over the
In the article, he also talked about births and deaths in the air: that dead bodies are covered with a blanket, or stowed in an "out-of-order" washroom, or -- in the case of meticulous Singapore Airlines -- dispatched to a purpose-made corpse locker. I couldn't help but contrast these cataclysmic life events with the usual numb boredom of air travel. As in any real city, the tediously and obliviously diurnal co-exists with high drama.
The more I read it, the more I like "assuming their trust". I confess that it was originally only there because I needed a rhyme -- love, above, and up needed a 4th. Because who hasn't succumbed to the superstitious feeling that the only way this heavier-than-air machine can be kept aloft is by a collective act of will? Concentrate, or we may very well plummet to earth! It calls back to "the density/ of invisible air": giving the poem a nice concluding sense of coming full circle.
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