Classic and Contemporary Poetry
FIRST FLIGHT, by CAROL COATES First Line: The day, brittle with ice Last Line: The cryptic notations of even flight. Alternate Author Name(s): Cassidy, Alice Caroline Coates Subject(s): Aviation & Aviators; Flight; Airplanes; Air Pilots; Flying | ||||||||
The day, brittle with ice, snaps underfoot, and newly sifted snow holds the sunlight in a soundless peace. No motion stirs, not even a bird cuts its black flight against the turquoise sky not a whisper of wind shivers the naked trees or drifts the swans-down snow across the wide chill sweep of runways merging the roads of earth and sky. The hangar doors slide to the touch and superb in the armor of the skies, sheathed in immaculate steel, the scintillating chariot of the air rolls to the take-off. Slowly the motor's music climbs to a crescendo where speech sinks into pantomime, and thought shudders into silence. Then, spurning the ground, up, up, on silver pinions like a skimming bird topping the trees, we climb the horizon's arch, as sovereigns of speed and power challenge the zenith's goal, as partners of the winged gods omnipotent in thought, pluck the sun from its orbit or trace the constellations to their lair. Sheer precipices of space greet the falling gaze, catapulting the eyes down, down, through islands of spun mist to the unreal lake below, to white oil tanks lying like hatboxes on the shelves of the winter sun, toy trains shunting matchsticks on playtime tracks, narrow ribbons edging the fields where creeping dots glint like beetles, and from horizon to horizon we marvel at a world made in miniature to meet a table top. Forgetting our feet tread the ethereal air, careless of time, of safety, we soar, regarding security as some old friend, till the curve of an unsignalled corner parches the tongue with terror. What if the panting engines fail or the pilot's hand forget the swing of an aerial arc! But the perfect pulse of the great bird's heart and the smooth glide of parallel wings make trivial the novice fear. Though oblivious above, time below demands an end. We circle, then down the steps of the sky descend, deserting the clouds, beckoning away the trees, the house-tops. Too soon, in a miracle of poised flight the waiting wheels spin to the runway's touch and shorn of wings we taxi the field, grieving at solidity below. A diminuendo in the deafening music signals an end, the tempo of the propeller's beat slackens to its rallentando close, and the blade falls, like the final note of a symphony secure and come to rest. The sensation of feet stabbing the earth loosens the limbs and wakens the mind to the nonchalance of a steady hand entering in the log book the cryptic notations of even flight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL; WRITTEN IN GERMANY by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE NIGHT SONG OF THE PERSONAL SHADOW by GYORGY PETRI THE HAWAIIAN FLIGHT SQUADRON by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN INSPIRATION by GRACE HOLBROOK BLOOD MONHEGAN GULLS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON CHAMBER MUSIC: 25 by JAMES JOYCE |
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