This is for them. For all those people, known and unknown, who’ve been part of all those journeys. For security staff, stewards and stewardesses, and the one pilot; all of whom went the extra (air) mile.
For CB, Uncle George, Mom and Dad, and everyone on flight KR 007. For the Italian baggage handler in Milan who gave me twenty minutes of the most undecipherable advice I have ever received. For the old lady who reached over and held my hand for a whole hour before I slipped into a prescription drug-induced stupor. For my travelling companions over the years, both willing and unwilling.
This is for all of them. And for all of you.
To borrow a line from the Orange mobile advert, ‘I am who I am because of everyone.’
Thursday, 22 April 2010
29th September, '06
At Mumbai International
his baggage is weighed and
checked in.
“Any carry-ons, sir?”
asks the girl at the counter,
“No, but there will be
at the other end,”
he says.
She looks up at him
and smiles
her rehearsed smile,
reserved for those
slightly odd
passengers, or perhaps
the clearly insane.
The rehearsed smile,
filed under dual-purpose;
to be used
without prejudice
on occasions such as this.
“That's funny,” she says,
still smiling;
he’s not sure if she’s serious
or joking.
She hands him his tickets
stamped and signed,
“Boarding
in 40 minutes,
you will find the gate, Sir,
at the end of the line
enjoy your flight,”
she says,
with her head tilted
just slightly to one side.
A single strand of hair
falls across her face;
he wilts in her freshness,
but this time
he knows-
she’s definitely joking.
his baggage is weighed and
checked in.
“Any carry-ons, sir?”
asks the girl at the counter,
“No, but there will be
at the other end,”
he says.
She looks up at him
and smiles
her rehearsed smile,
reserved for those
slightly odd
passengers, or perhaps
the clearly insane.
The rehearsed smile,
filed under dual-purpose;
to be used
without prejudice
on occasions such as this.
“That's funny,” she says,
still smiling;
he’s not sure if she’s serious
or joking.
She hands him his tickets
stamped and signed,
“Boarding
in 40 minutes,
you will find the gate, Sir,
at the end of the line
enjoy your flight,”
she says,
with her head tilted
just slightly to one side.
A single strand of hair
falls across her face;
he wilts in her freshness,
but this time
he knows-
she’s definitely joking.
19th August, '05
I grew up in the shadows of planes.
There on the front lawn
of my grandmother's house,
where hide and seek
and other pastimes
would be interrupted
every three minutes or so,
by what to my mind
were giant steel birds
gliding over the rooftops.
Tiles shivered and single
glazed windows rattled
in their wake,
while I gazed up with fingers
in my ears
and wondered
what they ate.
I grew up in the shadows of planes.
There in the back garden
of the house where
my first memories
are still stored
in boxes in the loft.
Every so often I climb
up the ladder
to when I was eight,
and look at old black and
white photographs
take on a bit of colour
(yellow hair, a sepia chair)
before decomposing.
Other treasures are there too —
now brittle baubles
of my boyhood;
board games,
passive action figures,
and the once-white police cab
I spent countless hours in,
grazing my knees
as I furiously pedalled across
the gigantic lawn,
which inexplicably shrunk
to the size of a scab
over the years.
I grew up in the shadows of planes,
and live in them still.
There on the front lawn
of my grandmother's house,
where hide and seek
and other pastimes
would be interrupted
every three minutes or so,
by what to my mind
were giant steel birds
gliding over the rooftops.
Tiles shivered and single
glazed windows rattled
in their wake,
while I gazed up with fingers
in my ears
and wondered
what they ate.
I grew up in the shadows of planes.
There in the back garden
of the house where
my first memories
are still stored
in boxes in the loft.
Every so often I climb
up the ladder
to when I was eight,
and look at old black and
white photographs
take on a bit of colour
(yellow hair, a sepia chair)
before decomposing.
Other treasures are there too —
now brittle baubles
of my boyhood;
board games,
passive action figures,
and the once-white police cab
I spent countless hours in,
grazing my knees
as I furiously pedalled across
the gigantic lawn,
which inexplicably shrunk
to the size of a scab
over the years.
I grew up in the shadows of planes,
and live in them still.
29th September, '06
Slowly he shuffles along
the carpeted green mile
to his seat, where, white-knuckled,
he struggles
in vain with the buckle
for a while,
until the stewardess trots
ivory-horse like
up the aisle,
and stands patiently
by his side.
“Nervous?” He nods.
“First time?” she asks, with that knowing
feline smile
that he has grown accustomed to.
“No,” he assures her,
“I've been nervous before.” Finally,
she relents
and leans forward,
snapping him into place
with an efficient click.
All that was left now was the moist sponge
to be placed on his head
“Quick and painless please,”
he said,
as a drop of sweat slid down his face
and he waited for darkness.
***
Darkness,
like that which slowly descended
on Charles Justice
in 1909,
when he found himself
strapped to the same chair
he had helped design
eleven years before
while a prisoner
in the Ohio State Penitentiary.*
A cruel twist of fate,
that he
no doubt reflected upon,
minutes before the current
swelled through his veins,
short-circuiting one organ
after another,
rendering his body
a hollow shell.
The smell
of death
wafted through the chamber,
as attendants gathered
up bits of justice
scorched.
*Charles Justice designed metal clamps to replace the leather straps on electric chairs, thereby allowing for the inmate to be secured more tautly and minimize the problem of burnt flesh. These revisions were incorporated into the chair and Justice was, a few months later, released on parole. He was subsequently convicted for murder and returned to prison on a death sentence.
the carpeted green mile
to his seat, where, white-knuckled,
he struggles
in vain with the buckle
for a while,
until the stewardess trots
ivory-horse like
up the aisle,
and stands patiently
by his side.
“Nervous?” He nods.
“First time?” she asks, with that knowing
feline smile
that he has grown accustomed to.
“No,” he assures her,
“I've been nervous before.” Finally,
she relents
and leans forward,
snapping him into place
with an efficient click.
All that was left now was the moist sponge
to be placed on his head
“Quick and painless please,”
he said,
as a drop of sweat slid down his face
and he waited for darkness.
***
Darkness,
like that which slowly descended
on Charles Justice
in 1909,
when he found himself
strapped to the same chair
he had helped design
eleven years before
while a prisoner
in the Ohio State Penitentiary.*
A cruel twist of fate,
that he
no doubt reflected upon,
minutes before the current
swelled through his veins,
short-circuiting one organ
after another,
rendering his body
a hollow shell.
The smell
of death
wafted through the chamber,
as attendants gathered
up bits of justice
scorched.
*Charles Justice designed metal clamps to replace the leather straps on electric chairs, thereby allowing for the inmate to be secured more tautly and minimize the problem of burnt flesh. These revisions were incorporated into the chair and Justice was, a few months later, released on parole. He was subsequently convicted for murder and returned to prison on a death sentence.
14th August, '07
How does it feel?
to be on your own,
with no direction home,
like a complete unknown,
like a rolling stone.
— Bob Dylan, ‘Like a Rolling Stone’
“Where is Home?” they ask,
and I have no answer.
Is it Bangalore,
where the roads, heaving
under the weight
of traffic and expectation
criss-cross each other,
fly over and under,
like choked arteries across
its beating heart?
Where I sat, late
one August evening,
soaked in rain
and indifference,
looked through
a stained glass screen
at people blowing smoke rings
and wisps of conversation,
and wondered
at what might have been.
Or Trivandrum,
the mild-mannered city of my birth,
where the smell of rain
always seemed to be in the air,
hovering just above
the rust-brown earth?
Grease and engine oil
are the things I remember,
there in the garage near our Home;
one dark green,
the other like earwax,
running off hands and wheels
to join with puddles,
making mini rainbows in the soil
all along the pock-marked lane.
Bright green jackfruits silently swung
from trees
behind the compound wall,
observing all
that took place;
occasionally plunging
to their deaths,
bursting like supernova
when they met
the ground,
fluorescent innards spraying
in all directions.
In the sun
they would lie,
like baffled anemones;
flies would hover and mourn,
until a cow wandered over
and administered the last rites.
Or indeed,
is it Oxford,
where apple trees
and pumpkin pies
lie scattered like seeds
across the landscape
of memories?
Where my brother's first footsteps
are still etched in the snow,
next to the snowman
which was devoured
slowly,
along with our innocence,
by the sun.
29th September, '06
Any journey
longer than the battery life
on his iPod
is much too long,
and often,
not worth taking.
But, perhaps, with the right songs,
he reasons,
he might just get through
even this one.
His in-flight playlist
is at hand,
a special song for take-off,
Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly awayand one just before
he lands,
for every situation
a different band,
each song carefully chosen,
with the volume
set to loud.
Admittedly,
there are a few surprise
entries on the list,
but he has found
that what sounds like
rubbish
on the ground, often
scales new heights
of profundity in
the clouds.
And so with R Kelly
yelling about how he
believes he can fly,
I used to think that I could not go on
And life was nothing but an awful song...
he sits back and closes his eyes,
it’s going to be okay.
I believe I can soar,
See me running for that open door…
“Sir, could you turn off your electronic device please, it could interfere with our in-flight navigation systems.”
He surrenders meekly
as the plane taxies down
the runway.
Daft, after all,
to expect her to know
that the cube of chrome
he clutches in sweaty palms
is a security blanket,
life-jacket, and inflatable
raft, all rolled into one.
"Flight attendants, prepare for take-off please."
The spring of hope
dissolves into a wave
of apprehension;
ebbing and flowing,
in the pit
of his stomach.
The tiny screen in front of him
displays a nose-eye view
of the flight,
but he can’t bear to watch
as the ground disappears,
first from beneath his feet
and then sight.
He feels himself lurch
forward, free-falling,
into open skies,
hope and belief and R Kelly all gone,
all he is left with
is the smell of stale oxygen,
(like the inside of a church)
and the strange
infantile urge
to cry.
longer than the battery life
on his iPod
is much too long,
and often,
not worth taking.
But, perhaps, with the right songs,
he reasons,
he might just get through
even this one.
His in-flight playlist
is at hand,
a special song for take-off,
Come fly with me, let’s fly let’s fly awayand one just before
he lands,
for every situation
a different band,
each song carefully chosen,
with the volume
set to loud.
Admittedly,
there are a few surprise
entries on the list,
but he has found
that what sounds like
rubbish
on the ground, often
scales new heights
of profundity in
the clouds.
And so with R Kelly
yelling about how he
believes he can fly,
I used to think that I could not go on
And life was nothing but an awful song...
he sits back and closes his eyes,
it’s going to be okay.
I believe I can soar,
See me running for that open door…
“Sir, could you turn off your electronic device please, it could interfere with our in-flight navigation systems.”
He surrenders meekly
as the plane taxies down
the runway.
Daft, after all,
to expect her to know
that the cube of chrome
he clutches in sweaty palms
is a security blanket,
life-jacket, and inflatable
raft, all rolled into one.
"Flight attendants, prepare for take-off please."
The spring of hope
dissolves into a wave
of apprehension;
ebbing and flowing,
in the pit
of his stomach.
The tiny screen in front of him
displays a nose-eye view
of the flight,
but he can’t bear to watch
as the ground disappears,
first from beneath his feet
and then sight.
He feels himself lurch
forward, free-falling,
into open skies,
hope and belief and R Kelly all gone,
all he is left with
is the smell of stale oxygen,
(like the inside of a church)
and the strange
infantile urge
to cry.
29th September, '06
“…life's this game of inches. We're in hell right now, gentlemen. Believe me. And we can stay here, get the shit kicked out of us, or we can fight our way back, into the light. The inches we need are everywhere around us. We can climb out of hell, one inch at a time.”
— Tony D'Amato, as played by Al Pacino in ‘Any Given Sunday’ (1999)
Inside, the lights grow
dimmer, in anticipation of
some aerial drama.
On cue, a stage-hand races
along the aisle,
bearing cans
which she uses to spray on
both sides, leaving just
the faintest trace
of potpourri in the air.
A dense fog descends,
like dry ice,
through which the
‘No Smoking’ light flashes
and beeps at regular intervals.
Reading lights above
passengers heads are turned
on and off in some indecipherable
Morse code,
punching bullet holes
through the haze.
Meanwhile,
the shadows close in,
slowly seeping out
from under the seats and
overhead luggage bins.
The display on the screen
has now changed
to a map of the world,
a yellow dot indicating
the plane’s approximate location.
“In a few moments, the flight attendants will be passing around the cabin to offer you hot or cold drinks, as well as a selection of meals...”
It is at this point
the apparition emerges,
it’s ghost-like form appearing
to skip along the passage,
almost tripping over
the outstretched feet of
the lucky few
bestowed with sleep.
It is always the same vision,
that of a little lad,
a smiling spectre clad in
shorts and striped t-shirt,
a phantom of a boy
the memory of whom is
now consigned to a box
in a loft,
recalled occasionally
while reminiscing
about journeys gone by,
medication and baggage
-free journeys;
journeys that were spent
largely awake with little
at stake. In short,
journeys
of the sort that were no longer
possible
to undertake.
The yellow dot turns into a worm.
— Tony D'Amato, as played by Al Pacino in ‘Any Given Sunday’ (1999)
Inside, the lights grow
dimmer, in anticipation of
some aerial drama.
On cue, a stage-hand races
along the aisle,
bearing cans
which she uses to spray on
both sides, leaving just
the faintest trace
of potpourri in the air.
A dense fog descends,
like dry ice,
through which the
‘No Smoking’ light flashes
and beeps at regular intervals.
Reading lights above
passengers heads are turned
on and off in some indecipherable
Morse code,
punching bullet holes
through the haze.
Meanwhile,
the shadows close in,
slowly seeping out
from under the seats and
overhead luggage bins.
The display on the screen
has now changed
to a map of the world,
a yellow dot indicating
the plane’s approximate location.
“In a few moments, the flight attendants will be passing around the cabin to offer you hot or cold drinks, as well as a selection of meals...”
It is at this point
the apparition emerges,
it’s ghost-like form appearing
to skip along the passage,
almost tripping over
the outstretched feet of
the lucky few
bestowed with sleep.
It is always the same vision,
that of a little lad,
a smiling spectre clad in
shorts and striped t-shirt,
a phantom of a boy
the memory of whom is
now consigned to a box
in a loft,
recalled occasionally
while reminiscing
about journeys gone by,
medication and baggage
-free journeys;
journeys that were spent
largely awake with little
at stake. In short,
journeys
of the sort that were no longer
possible
to undertake.
The yellow dot turns into a worm.
3rd September, '07
I’m contemplating pulling out my suitcase
And packing everything I own;
I didn’t back then, but I do know now
That wherever you are is home.
- The artist formerly known as Prince, 'A Million Days.'
My current address
is no longer a postcode;
it is a column I leave blank
on forms for the telephone,
and temporary job
applications.
My current abode
is no longer a room
or a place that I own;
it is a road,
that makes its way from London
to Pontarddulais.
The M4,
snaking past Reading,
then Swindon and Bristol, before
transcending
the Severn
and descending
in Wales.
I am waiting.
As life is currently lived out
in transit
between two cities:
on one end the bay,
on the other the Thames.
As always,
it is the two Hs that loom
high over the Severn bridge
that call out;
spread-eagled,
my markers by day,
my lighthouses by night,
my radar and compass, both,
twin signposts
on that eternal journey,
the quest for Home.
14th July, '06
Charlie: All airlines have crashed at one time or another, that doesn't mean that they are not safe.
Raymond: Qantas.
Charlie: Qantas?
Raymond: Qantas never crashed.
Charlie: Qantas?
Raymond: Never crashed.
Charlie: Well, that's just --
Raymond: Never crashed.
— Conversation between Charlie and Raymond Babitt played by Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman in ‘Rain Man’ (1988)
BA Flight 382,
from Bombay to London
is numbered this way
because it is an in-bound
flight*, an aircraft that
departed from Heathrow
as Flight 381, and now,
having flown half-way
around the world,
understands
it is on the return leg
of its journey.
He, on the other
hand, remains suspended
somewhere
between sky and land.
His seat, 4B,
suggests that, like
the plane itself, he is
headed for Home.
On All Nippon Airways, there
would be no 4,
so he would be in row
5, and home would
be in the opposite
direction.
Shi, the Japanese word
for 4.
and also for Death,
the final termination.
4 means you die, 5 keeps you alive.
Do the numbers decide
the destination, or vice versa?
Superstitions thrive
in the rarefied air of the chamber,
and other numbers
routinely disappear.
Like 9, which in Japanese
sounds like the word for torture
and 17, which, when
re-arranged in Roman numerals
spells VIXI.
Veni, Vidi, Vici, Vixi.
I came, I saw, I flew the Concorde.
And I lived, in past tense.
(In the present, he is past tense.
Approaching terror.)
Makes no sense,
and yet, no 17 on Lufthansa,
no 13 either. And so the rows go,
the seats still in place,
only the numbers erased.
Why tempt Fate when you
can attempt to confuse her?
And so,
no gate number 4,
13, or even 44
at Seoul’s Inchon Airport,
while the guard at the door
of the Holiday Inn
in Delhi
informs me,
with alarming sincerity,
that out of respect
to their customers,
there is no thirteenth floor.
*As per convention in commercial aviation, International inbound (return flights) are numbered evenly, while outbound flights depart from their city of origin with odd flight numbers.
29th September, 06
On the worm crawls,
slowly devouring everything
in its path;
while up ahead on
the big screen,
Clint Eastwood drawls
at some drunk
before drawing his gun-
something to do with
feeling lucky
and being a punk.
He turns his head away
from the ensuing gun-fight,
choosing, instead, to
focus his energy
on his own battle,
fending off the waves
of nausea
that lap gently
against his side.
He imagines it
from the inside,
peaceful and tranquil,
a calm
sea of vomit,
who knows?
you might even roll up
your trouser legs
and dangle
your toes in it.
But he knows, all too well,
that at any moment,
without a doubt,
the tide will rise
and swell, ripping
him inside out,
like a beast unleashed.
It will not be tamed;
not by Valium
or by Zofran,
instead, it will grow
stronger and bigger, with
the arms and torso
of a man, the ears and
horns of a goat;
Pan, god of the dark
forests of the sky,
seeking obeisance. There is
but one way
to please him,
to reach for the wretched bag,
to reach, and then retch,
fall at his feet
in mute panic, and beg
for release. Only then will
he rest, only then
will the vile storm
cease within,
with the sea still
churning
beneath your skin,
and you on your knees,
on a beach of black bile.
***
Wherever a man may happen to turn, whatever a man may undertake, he will always end up by returning to the path which nature has marked out for him.
— Goethe
HOME / h_Um / noun, adj, adv, verb
slowly devouring everything
in its path;
while up ahead on
the big screen,
Clint Eastwood drawls
at some drunk
before drawing his gun-
something to do with
feeling lucky
and being a punk.
He turns his head away
from the ensuing gun-fight,
choosing, instead, to
focus his energy
on his own battle,
fending off the waves
of nausea
that lap gently
against his side.
He imagines it
from the inside,
peaceful and tranquil,
a calm
sea of vomit,
who knows?
you might even roll up
your trouser legs
and dangle
your toes in it.
But he knows, all too well,
that at any moment,
without a doubt,
the tide will rise
and swell, ripping
him inside out,
like a beast unleashed.
It will not be tamed;
not by Valium
or by Zofran,
instead, it will grow
stronger and bigger, with
the arms and torso
of a man, the ears and
horns of a goat;
Pan, god of the dark
forests of the sky,
seeking obeisance. There is
but one way
to please him,
to reach for the wretched bag,
to reach, and then retch,
fall at his feet
in mute panic, and beg
for release. Only then will
he rest, only then
will the vile storm
cease within,
with the sea still
churning
beneath your skin,
and you on your knees,
on a beach of black bile.
***
Wherever a man may happen to turn, whatever a man may undertake, he will always end up by returning to the path which nature has marked out for him.
— Goethe
HOME / h_Um / noun, adj, adv, verb
1. a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person or family.
2. the place in which one's domestic affections are centred
3. any place of residence or refuge
4. a person's native place or own country.
A place to be born to,
A place to leave behind,
A place to return to,
find the memories,
and try them on for size.
And then,
when the evening shadows
lengthen
across your path —
A place to be
imperceptibly drawn to,
like an elephant
to its graveyard.
8th August, '07
A man travels the world in search of what he wants, and then returns home to find it.
— Anon
A strange feeling,
being a guest
in your own house.
Visiting for a few days,
and then returning.
To where? Who knows?
“Make yourself at Home,”
they said,
with mock sincerity.
But I’m not sure I did,
choosing to slip unseen
like a ghost
through the shadows,
rather than play host
to a roomful of friends.
A scoop of heaven,
nothing less;
set in the woods,
with a brook,
my new address.
But Home,
unlike a House,
can never be seen.
While my sisters pretended
to sleep, I sat out
in the back
and sipped orange coke.
Soon it would be time
to hit the road again.
For those who travel are always guests.
And everywhere is Home.
— Anon
A strange feeling,
being a guest
in your own house.
Visiting for a few days,
and then returning.
To where? Who knows?
“Make yourself at Home,”
they said,
with mock sincerity.
But I’m not sure I did,
choosing to slip unseen
like a ghost
through the shadows,
rather than play host
to a roomful of friends.
A scoop of heaven,
nothing less;
set in the woods,
with a brook,
my new address.
But Home,
unlike a House,
can never be seen.
While my sisters pretended
to sleep, I sat out
in the back
and sipped orange coke.
Soon it would be time
to hit the road again.
For those who travel are always guests.
And everywhere is Home.
29th September, '06
Blurry-eyed,
he looks up at the
steward, who has arrived
to check on
‘white knuckles’
in seat 4B.
“Everything alright, Sir?”
he asks, with a ridiculous
grin, as he flicks
the light switch. A hush
descends
on rows three to six;
a couple discreetly point
and whisper,
their gaze
dousing the embers
of his pride; he imagines
himself reeking of sweat
and vomit,
as they shift
from side to side,
their cold accusatory
glances seemingly intensified
in the light.
The worm moves
another inch
while the steward
metamorphoses into a butterfly.
“We have a fine
selection on our menu, Sir,
this evening,”
it says, as it flaps
a solitary wing.
“May I suggest opening
with claustrophobia,
followed by
finely matured agoraphobia,
served alongside a
healthy fear of
heights, finally washed
down with a warm
shot of turbulence.
I hope you will agree, Sir,
that it is quite an enticing
spread, nothing but
the finest,
the best in its class,
we here at BA like
to think of every meal
as being your last.”
he looks up at the
steward, who has arrived
to check on
‘white knuckles’
in seat 4B.
“Everything alright, Sir?”
he asks, with a ridiculous
grin, as he flicks
the light switch. A hush
descends
on rows three to six;
a couple discreetly point
and whisper,
their gaze
dousing the embers
of his pride; he imagines
himself reeking of sweat
and vomit,
as they shift
from side to side,
their cold accusatory
glances seemingly intensified
in the light.
The worm moves
another inch
while the steward
metamorphoses into a butterfly.
“We have a fine
selection on our menu, Sir,
this evening,”
it says, as it flaps
a solitary wing.
“May I suggest opening
with claustrophobia,
followed by
finely matured agoraphobia,
served alongside a
healthy fear of
heights, finally washed
down with a warm
shot of turbulence.
I hope you will agree, Sir,
that it is quite an enticing
spread, nothing but
the finest,
the best in its class,
we here at BA like
to think of every meal
as being your last.”
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
12th August, 07
Silence runs in my family.
Silence,
like the kind my grandfather possessed,
always drowned out
everything else,
bouncing off the carpets
and seeping
through the walls,
the silence.
There in his chair
I still see him
sometimes,
watching his offspring,
little replicas of him,
scattered all over the floor
like a disassembled matryoshka doll.
Words would not come,
they had gone long ago, taken
in one fell stroke.
Still, he would watch
as they played
out scenes from his youth,
smiling all the while,
yet seeing nothing
but transience.
Silence,
of the kind that roared
in my ears like the sea,
like a million unsaid words,
while I lay sprawled
on the road,
beside my father
his white robe stained
with dirt.
My fake sheep-skin cap
offered little protection
against fear,
but I don’t recall
feeling pain.
“Son, are you hurt?”
was what I heard
from behind the visor
of his shiny red helmet,
the echo
both deep and hollow
at the same time,
rendering the voice
unrecognisable.
What I didn't see was
the face,
folding into grimace, as rock
pierced skin
and connected with bone,
forming a hole that we would watch
spout blood for weeks
to follow.
“Son, are you hurt?”
was all my father asked
from behind his red helmet
to his lamb
in sheepskin,
while all the while he bled
in silence.
Silence,
like the kind my grandfather possessed,
always drowned out
everything else,
bouncing off the carpets
and seeping
through the walls,
the silence.
There in his chair
I still see him
sometimes,
watching his offspring,
little replicas of him,
scattered all over the floor
like a disassembled matryoshka doll.
Words would not come,
they had gone long ago, taken
in one fell stroke.
Still, he would watch
as they played
out scenes from his youth,
smiling all the while,
yet seeing nothing
but transience.
Silence,
of the kind that roared
in my ears like the sea,
like a million unsaid words,
while I lay sprawled
on the road,
beside my father
his white robe stained
with dirt.
My fake sheep-skin cap
offered little protection
against fear,
but I don’t recall
feeling pain.
“Son, are you hurt?”
was what I heard
from behind the visor
of his shiny red helmet,
the echo
both deep and hollow
at the same time,
rendering the voice
unrecognisable.
What I didn't see was
the face,
folding into grimace, as rock
pierced skin
and connected with bone,
forming a hole that we would watch
spout blood for weeks
to follow.
“Son, are you hurt?”
was all my father asked
from behind his red helmet
to his lamb
in sheepskin,
while all the while he bled
in silence.
29th September, 06
Time
seems to stand still
when you are staring down
the inside
of an air-sickness bag.
With one hand he
covers his eyes, with
the other he holds it
up to the edge
of his face, frozen
into place,
with the knowledge
that there was nowhere
to hide.
Voices ring
in his head, but
they mean nothing,
merely words,
casually tossed up
in the air, and falling
back down like buttons.
They no longer seem
even human,
the voices;
they play
out in his head in a
mechanical drone,
the sour-metal tone
of a robot, spewing
useless information, like
the slot-machines at
the fairground,
that predict
both your weight and
your future
for a pound.
“Research shows,”
says the voice,
“that one would have
to fly every day
for fifteen thousand years
to statistically be
involved in an aircraft
accident.”
Sadistically, the statistics
are almost always wrong,
but the voice goes on —
“You are far more
likely to get flushed
down a toilet than burn
while air-borne. Your
weight is 45 stone.
Thank you and have a nice day.”
He turns his head
sideways. Shapes appear
in the window
but he looks away.
In the distance, two
planes cross
each other,
like fireworks from the sun.
seems to stand still
when you are staring down
the inside
of an air-sickness bag.
With one hand he
covers his eyes, with
the other he holds it
up to the edge
of his face, frozen
into place,
with the knowledge
that there was nowhere
to hide.
Voices ring
in his head, but
they mean nothing,
merely words,
casually tossed up
in the air, and falling
back down like buttons.
They no longer seem
even human,
the voices;
they play
out in his head in a
mechanical drone,
the sour-metal tone
of a robot, spewing
useless information, like
the slot-machines at
the fairground,
that predict
both your weight and
your future
for a pound.
“Research shows,”
says the voice,
“that one would have
to fly every day
for fifteen thousand years
to statistically be
involved in an aircraft
accident.”
Sadistically, the statistics
are almost always wrong,
but the voice goes on —
“You are far more
likely to get flushed
down a toilet than burn
while air-borne. Your
weight is 45 stone.
Thank you and have a nice day.”
He turns his head
sideways. Shapes appear
in the window
but he looks away.
In the distance, two
planes cross
each other,
like fireworks from the sun.
22nd April, '96
The smell of airplanes
clung to hair and skin
and hid
amongst clothes
in my father's luggage,
escaping slowly
as we opened each
one and rummaged within
in search of treasures,
always hidden,
both for practical purposes
and to amuse us.
Pencil cases were
usually found
up pant legs,
while shirt sleeves,
when unbuttoned,
would reveal
erasers and felt tip
markers,
that would be
paraded proudly
at school the next day.
Chocolates, always
still in the box,
to keep them
from spoiling,
while hard-boiled candy
was scattered loose
in nooks
and crevices,
some of them sticking
to the bottom
where they remained,
like solitary oysters
secretive,
and self-contained,
closed off to the world,
until they were pried away
just before the next journey.
clung to hair and skin
and hid
amongst clothes
in my father's luggage,
escaping slowly
as we opened each
one and rummaged within
in search of treasures,
always hidden,
both for practical purposes
and to amuse us.
Pencil cases were
usually found
up pant legs,
while shirt sleeves,
when unbuttoned,
would reveal
erasers and felt tip
markers,
that would be
paraded proudly
at school the next day.
Chocolates, always
still in the box,
to keep them
from spoiling,
while hard-boiled candy
was scattered loose
in nooks
and crevices,
some of them sticking
to the bottom
where they remained,
like solitary oysters
secretive,
and self-contained,
closed off to the world,
until they were pried away
just before the next journey.
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