Sunday, July 09, 2006

The Verses of a Plane

What follows are a series of verses I wrote while flying home. I will mark the point at which i handed the laptop over to the girl seated behind me and at her request wrote more poems. I will also leave my message to her and some of her response (i.e. not her email address).

I’m a plane in flight,

Which is my personal plight

But I intend this song to be light

And only somewhat trite

For you to be uplifted

My rhymes must be gifted

And all ready we have hit the wall

Which will be my fall

For no words end with ifted but gifted and lifted

But fear not, my desperation is not so great

As to attempt a rhyme with “snifted”

For that is not a word and I would hesitate, to use it.

My plane is over the Atlantic Ocean

To be precise it flies above the Davis Straits

And I feel I am in dire straits above the Davis Straits

Being awake brings forth this emotion.

The twins, the puppies, the little pair.

The jugs, the guppies, the special two.

Tits are the thing,

with which one catches

the concentration Imagination and Salivation,

of the king.

If you can’t think of anything clever to say rip off Shakespeare…

The girl behind me struggles with her sleep

Eyes closed, she finds, she cannot keep

I would suggest to her sunglasses

But disturbing her, would be the work of asses.

The girl to my fore shakes and shivers,

She quakes and she quivers,

She drops her seatbelt on my shoe

What a thing to do!

To my right, is a young lady

Who’s mastery of flight

Is absolutely flawless

First she had a nap

Now TV is watched

The gentleman to my left

Is a reader no less

He now examines the in-flight magazine

With the cool eye of the excruciatingly bored.

And I sit in the middle

My thumbs I do twiddle

And time I must piddle, away

Four hours to fritter, have I.

I could watch a movie!

Wouldn’t that be groovy?

But all of the films are in full run

And watching a flick but missing the start,

Why that is simply not fun!

And I must bemoan!

And loudly I groan!

For a comedy channel… we have not.

Perhaps I should be happy with what I have got!..

Perhaps not

Testacles, my dear boy are the pinnacle

For if a tight spot is the home for a testacle

Comfort is utterly impossible

The pinch utterly impassable

On the plane they server food, unpalatable

They make announcements, inaudible

They have movie screens, invisible

And a horrid smell, indefinable.

But it’s hardly my place to complain…

I believe I need a strategy game

A strategy game

To keep me sane

A strategy game

While on the plane

Being without, such a diversion

I make the conversion

And use my energy to write lyrics

And quietly I am murdered by semantics

Murder on Phonics!

More on this one when I find out what Phonics are exactly.

I fought the law!

Till the law run!

And now it’s coming back!

With a bigger gun!

The Hun…

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d write down your name

And call you when I got home

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d write out a sonnet

All about your bonnet

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d make a list

Of all the really good lists.

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d draw you a picture

Of what I see.

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d fold it into a shape

Or wear it as a cape.

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d throw it away

And spend with you another day.

If I had a scrap of paper

I’d tear it half

And give the big half to you

If I were you I’d be more like me

So I wouldn’t really be you at all

I’d be me, altogether differently

And you would seem appal.

Well that is what I could flower

In merely half an hour

Imagine the throughput

If I was not so stupid

Now who will read my blasted poems?

Crazy lyrics

Stupid Songs

A posting on the internet will see them read

But shallow as I am I feel the need for a more immediate audience.

If my nearest neighbour was not a child of eight I would ask her, what she thought…

But sadly she is and I must not.

These poems are somewhat explicit, entirely unsolicited.

They are also very hard to follow, being the result of a mental billow

Perhaps my neighbour the explicit reader will see clear to evaluating my written work? Perhaps I should ask?

He is watching TV, I see. I believe I shall wait, for my need is not nearly so great.

As to cause inconvenience, to an unwitting audience.

I had quietly hoped someone would be reading over my shoulder, but others are not nearly as nosy as I!

This is the point at which the laptop was passed over to The Audience, an American girl with an active interest in poetry... and was recieved back with an instruction to write more...

A new audience (and indeed subject matter)

Has seen fit to make its presence felt

And a blow she has dealt, me

By requesting more of my non-science

I had the poor fortune,

To hand words to a lover of poetry

And now, tongue in cheek

I must satisfy the geek.

And now turn your gaze

To the wonderful maze

That is made up with many a seat

And of course, an unhelpful smattering of feet…

This hazard is trawled

By stewards unshawled

The great unwashed*

And bankers half sloshed

*A phrase my geography teacher often used to describe his class.

As someone with legs of an inconvenient length

It is my unfortunate strength

To trip the unwary

A prospect they find scary

So I’m given looks! Glary!... and so on.

The greatest avenue of adventure and excitement open to a passenger on a plane is a trip to an even more confined space, where they can find terror and relief in equal measure.

I refer of course to a trip to the lavatory.

Stumble and stammer,

On a door you hammer

And suddenly you’re in the dim

Hit the switch and lock the door

Now at least you can see the floor

Relief is granted by an unconformable piece of plastic.

But then the terror renders you a spastic,

The awful sound of air moving at speed!

One more shock as the switch now plunges you into a darkness most grim…

But at least you have pee’d.

If you wish to read more of my random thoughts leave an email address on here and I’ll send the url of my rarely updated oft ignored blog.

[The response of the girl:] An intentional blow. I wondered if your work would change at all after some solicitation.

By Rory Glynn