by Virginia Betts
Fired-up for take-off,
wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,
I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.
Wing walker without a rope,
hurtling to the light fantastic,
untethered.
First to sign up
to step off the map;
where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;
even the brightest star is already dead.
With outstretched arms I
surrender to the sun,
glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,
into the white-hot core;
white heat devouring sound,
eclipsing time,
searing conscience and
annihilating thought.
Not arrogance that brings me here,
but fear.
The elemental need to fly, unfettered,
to pilot my own craft;
to pierce reality,
and seek the truth behind it,
and, in seeking, half expect to find it.
And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,
negotiate safe water-landings
when at last I am earthbound;
within my hand,
a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story
when I return
scorched and burned.
I wrote this poem a while ago. If you want to leave a comment on what you think it is about, feel free. My son watched ‘Rocket Man’ and thought it captured Elton John/fame perfectly. I wrote it before I saw Rocket Man, although this is one of my favourite films. However, I see what he means. It comes from my collection , Tourist To The Sun, which I hope to publish in full, and is one of a number of spacey poems I have written. This poem has been published online before. Enjoy – there will be more to come.
Virginia Betts 