Welcome to the August 2016 Poem of the Month!
The kids are heading back off to college and high school, and I am suddenly realizing how busy of a summer it has been. I’ve spent my fair share of time on an airplane this summer – repeatedly to Santa Clara and Boston for work, to Las Vegas for a Conference, to Alabama to see my family.
While I’ve traveled enough to have my routines, to stockpile some frequent flyer miles, to qualify for early boarding, and to hope that the wifi on the plane works so i can get some uninterrupted time attacking my inbox, after coming across this month’s poem, I think on my next flight I may just settle in with an old, classic novel instead…
Hope everyone had a fantastic summer!
Stewart
Tony Hoagland
(1953 – )
Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet
At this height, Kansas
is just a concept,
a checkerboard design of wheat and corn
no larger than the foldout section
of my neighbor’s travel magazine.
At this stage of the journey
I would estimate the distance
between myself and my own feelings
is roughly the same as the mileage
from Seattle to New York,
so I can lean back into the upholstered interval
between Muzak and lunch,
a little bored, a little old and strange.
I remember, as a dreamy
backyard kind of kid,
tilting up my head to watch
those planes engrave the sky
in lines so steady and so straight
they implied the enormous concentration
of good men,
but now my eyes flicker
from the in-flight movie
to the stewardess’s pantyline,
then back into my book,
where men throw harpoons at something
much bigger and probably
better than themselves,
wanting to kill it,
wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt
to prove that they exist.
Imagine being born and growing up,
rushing through the world for sixty years
at unimaginable speeds.
Imagine a century like a room so large,
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime
and never find the door,
until you had forgotten
that such a thing as doors exist.
Better to be on board the Pequod,
with a mad one-legged captain
living for revenge.
Better to feel the salt wind
spitting in your face,
to hold your sharpened weapon high,
to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves.
What a relief it would be
to hear someone in the crew
cry out like a gull,
Oh Captain, Captain!
Where are we going now?
