The body of the plane

THE BODY OF THE PLANE

I have seen expectation

on the faces around me

as we embark through the

lit-up sloping tunnel to the

DC9 airplane emblazoned with

the name of a Greek hero/

and some people in midst of

the crowd we have just seen

before in the last tax-free shop

that sells liquor in a preferred

two-pack-box with an advert

promising a good present

with make-believe economy.

Faces/ somber/ disillusioned,

enquiring like the businessman

detached and without illusions

like the man who sits in the

wrong seat/ investigated by

he clued-up young woman

with her Dell laptop and the

sharp wide-awake talk.

Then as the long-haired and

mustached friend sat down

next to her/ she's nervous and

seeks another seat/ put-off

by his macho vibes.

There is tension before any

take-off/ the usual shuffling of

feet, of bodies settling down

and this pushback movements

of a bald-headed silly man

in front of me/ however it’s not

easy to write into my journal

if he moves back and forward

continually on this tight air ship

sailing into the winds of hope

and it may bring some comfort

to a friend, a best of many friends

now hurt by some misfortune

as darkened clouds that have

hovered for a while across her

most fragile being…

Now it’s pushing through the

inky clouds towards the free

cleared-up heights of an

‘Arcadian’ peace of mind

but then/ will I have some

peace I never had since

a year and a half/ seeing her

the last time?

She told me of her wings

being clipped and I still

have not let go of her body

I do cling to with tenacity

her body of a goddess that

lies stretched-out above the

sheets of vanilla-clouds

in this high-altitude flight.

The airplane like the body

that is the spirit

of that trace we still feel

we still be touched by

from stone/ tree/ and the

marble-works of man

embodied in the wonders of

their creative worlds

shining from their secular

buildings and their

sculptural dedications

with the story carved into

the plinth’s surround in a show,

of a traditional procession

as the decorated cella-wall

in this overflow from the

sculpted fields of the tympanum

that sets the artistic tone.

Under dire circumstances

without even a task light

working on my pad

I am determined to finalize

this journey’s mosaic

thought-flashes of your

country

that has drawn me like a

migrating bird above

the Sacred Rock

that has never lost its

magnetic forces on either

flocks of birds or man of culture

who seek his beloved woman

in the marble's fluted trunk

that releases her slender body

in a style of a sacred ceremony

with the horses' fiery galloping

that moves the walls and

blows the roofs sky-high

catapulting its broken

image into the four corners

of this world.

This body of the plane

that flies at high speed

into a corner of the world

I wish to be

coming from the other side

the darkest on this planet

the other/ southern-most.

A well-seasoned woman

reliable/ and one/ who does

not get her knickers in a knot

a trusted Amazon

descendant from a goddess

just like Ceres/ or especially

Athena with her protective

bronzed shield/ or else

Persephone

not afraid of the cavernous

underworld.

Here, high above the clouds

I muse in isolation from any

terrestrial life

about the deeper sense of

my existence…

Perhaps I had a journey to

continue in some yo-yo-style

back and forward movements

that will fulfill the sense for

something higher

on a level of intermediate life

important for the next life:

The unknown afterlife?

We can call it many names

always the same old thing

never changes/ never fades

as we don't know for sure

we speculate and challenge

intellectually

dissipate into a matter of a

different form.

We’ll never die.

My life has turned around a

pivotal incident

that was unforeseen

yet that has been carved on

some stone somewhere…

In magical Arcadia?

Somewhere there exists that

pool of knowledge that is

accessible only to a few.

I travel with positive moods

and a saddened heart

but a joyful spirit that will

meet your soul

place it upon my slightly

welted lap

and let it still thrive

bloom like a late flower

in spring/ an exotic plant

come alive

during an Indian summer

that burns like the sun on my

exposed back.

Let me still be one with

you/ you/ you

even if we do lie presently still

but might now and then meet

as we used to meet…

Lie still and enjoy the transfer

of our emotions/ our feelings

along the fully stretched-out

bodies/ in crouched-upon

seat-embraces/

the embryo-cuddles/

in tight hugs and close embraces

we still can pull together into each

other as one/ melting together

in fusion.

There! The hill of joy and

one word: Hidoni/ as you

did open-up in me jets of

blasts and fires…

Then we extended it and

the artist’s rites of love

I wrote: ‘Greek Fire!’

Wow I do know!

There was exhilaration

of never-ceasing lust