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Your favourite aviation poems

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Your favourite aviation poems

Old 25th Oct 2009, 22:14
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Join Date: Sep 2007
Location: United Kingdom
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Your favourite aviation poems

Hi everyone

As part of my postgrad course at a UK university I'm researching what poetry has been published about aviation (both power flying and gliding) in English (or was written in another language and is available in English translation).

I'm especially interested in any personal recommendations for poems you really like as well as anything you think the normal literature searches, library catalogues, etc, may not pick up - little-known or rare books, limited print runs, publication in specialist magazines, and so on.

Anything on gliding/soaring is also of particular interest.

If you can help I'd love as much detail as you can give me - complete text or a quote from that, and/or author and/or publisher/location/year of publication/ book title - basically whatever info you have.

You can reach me at my hotmail.co.uk address - just put helennz before the @ symbol.

Any help gratefully received - thanks in advance.

Helen

PS: I've already got High Flight :-)
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Old 26th Oct 2009, 20:33
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You should use Google. There are many many poems in there. Just put aviation poems.
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 01:46
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Location: Sale, Australia
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By one of our enlisted guys

VIETNAM I WAS THERE

IT WAS 1967 AND I DIDN’T WANT TO GO,
I WAS “VOLUNTEERED” LIKE OTHERS IN THAT POLITICIANS’ SHOW;
WHEN I HAD JOINED THE R.A.N. SOME SEVEN YEARS AGO
‘TWAS JUST A JOB TO TRAVEL…FOREIGN PLACES SO TO GO.

KITTED OUT IN UNIFORM AND SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD,
THE WORLD WAS ONE BIG OYSTER THAT WAS WHAT I HAD BEEN TOLD;
HONG KONG, JAPAN AND OTHER PORTS IN CLIMATES HOT AND COLD,
GOOD MATES, GOOD FUN, AND TRAVELLING…ON THESE I HAD BEEN SOLD.

CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW I FELT TO HEAR MY NAME CALLED OUT?
TO THIS I SAID, “FAIR DINKUM, MATE..WHAT IS THIS ALL ABOUT?
I DIDN’T JOIN TO FIGHT OR PUT AN ENEMY TO ROUT!?”
THEN “BLOODY ‘ELL!” IT DAWNED ON ME..I’M OFF TO WAR NO DOUBT.

OTHER BLOKES WERE ALSO TOLD, I WASN’T ON MY OWN,
AND STOICALLY THEY HID THEIR THOUGHTS THEIR FACES WERE LIKE STONE;
I TOLD MYSELF, “THIS CAN’T BE TRUE, AMIDST THIS SAFETY ZONE
I’M MARRIED AND I’VE GOT ONE KID. THEY CAN’T BE LEFT ALONE.”

ONE DIDN’T WHINGE OR WHINE, YOU KNOW, WE TOOK IT IN OUR STRIDE…
I’LL TELL YOU THOUGH MY HEART BEAT FAST..I FOUND THAT HARD TO HIDE;
I SUFFERED FROM ANXIETY FROM FEARFULNESS AND PRIDE;
WE’LL SOON BE THERE..YOU BETCHA LIFE..WE’LL TURN THE BLOODY TIDE!

A MONTH TO TRAIN AND TO SURVIVE AND SECRETS NOT TO LEAK,
IN JUNGLE AND IN ARID LAND I LEARNT TO HIDE-AND-SEEK;
AND I WAS TOLD THAT WE WERE RIGHT AND ‘COMMIES’ RAPED THE MEEK...
SO, LET’S GET OVER THERE AND SO PROTECT THE FLAMIN’ WEAK.

NEXT THING I KNEW I HAD ARRIVED, SWEET THOUGHTS HAD I OF HOME,
AND WONDERED WOULD I LAST THIS TOUR OF 12 WHOLE MONTHS OR SOME;
AND BIG BLACK CLOUDS, WHICH SOON I LEARNED FROM BIG BLACK BOMBS HAD COME,
THEN TO A BASE IN FUNNY LAND A FIXTURE I’D BECOME.

AND FROM THAT BASE I THEN ENGAGED IN FLYING OPERATIONS,
SO MANY FLIGHTS THAT I LOST COUNT OF LOW AND HIGH ELATIONS;
I SAW SOME MATES AND ENEMY IN DEATHLY SITUATIONS…
I BLESSED MY GOOD LUCK CHARM I HAD AND PRAYED FOR MY SALVATION.

AND THERE WERE TIMES WHEN I’D FORGET THE REASON I HAD GONE THERE,
AND THERE WERE TIMES THAT I WOULD CURSE THE LOCALS WHO WERE SO SCARED;
TO ME THEY DIDN’T WANT TO FIGHT AND COULDN’T GIVE A DAMNED CARE…
BECAUSE OF THIS SOME BITTERNESS WAS BORN INTO ME SOMEWHERE.

I FOUND IT VERY DIFFICULT ACCEPTING LIFE WAS CHEAP,
AND ONCE I STRUGGLED DEEP WITHIN WITH MEMORIES I STILL KEEP;
BUT COMMON SENSE AND HUMOUR AND THE KNOWLEDGE THAT I REAPED
SOON OVERCAME THE AWSOMENESS UPON MY SHOULDERS HEAPED.

I LOST SOME MATES AND SAW A LOT OF THINGS I WON’T FORGET,
I DID SOME THINGS, I DON’T KNOW WHY, SOME THINGS I STILL REGRET;
I FEEL I AM EXPERIENCED IN LIFE AND WHAT YOU GET…
BELIEVE ME..I AM JUST THE SAME AS ANY NORMAL VET.


***********************

THE EMU (EXPERIMENTAL MILITARY UNIT) AIRCREW

Politics aside, that exciting ride
Of life and grim expectations,
Showed me how
(And even now
I know) I had limitations.

Twelve long months, and more than once
I’d sat in the hands of Fate;
Why was I there?
Why should I care?
Just rely on your mate.

Aussies and Yanks, of various ranks,
We were a mixtured crew;
From one of each
We learned to teach
Each other of what we knew.

Fear and pride, both taken in stride,
Humbled me…that’s for sure;
I felt aloof
And bullet-proof…
While death hovered right next door.

At times I’d fly, at times I’d cry…
Frustration reigned supreme;
Friend or foe…
’Twas hard to know…
For both wore black or green.

Back at base, sometimes I’d face
Questions from a mate;
“How’d it go?”
And words would flow
While drinking beer ’til late.

He also flew, that’s how he knew
The right words so to speak;
And words so said
Erased the dread
Of future flights so bleak.

It made me proud I was allowed
To call this bloke a mate;
I knew him well
And I could tell,
To me, he could relate.

A gentle man from a southern land,
I got to know him well;
A willing bloke
Who loved a joke…
Who’d fly with you through hell.

At times we flew in a four-man crew
O’er lands of trees and rice;
‘CHARLIE’ would hide
And our luck would ride
With ‘Death’… and the throw of his dice.

When holes appeared, (then tape adhered),
Like a badge… our ‘ship’ was honoured;
We hadn’t heard
Strikes to our bird…
“Lucky again!?”… we pondered.

When we put down in a mud-surround
’Twas a place not meant to be;
Miles from home
And all alone…
It scared the hell out of me!

When we set down in a dry-surround
Our choppers numbered ten;
When mortars rained
Our engines strained
To get airborne again.

While six flew on, the rest prolonged
Their stay upon the ground;
In injured state
They could but wait
With wounded men all round.

“What rotten luck”, for a pilot struck
In the head while flying high;
These words you’d think…
And dare’d not sink
To thinking your time was nigh.

Five ‘ships’ set out and went about
Their duties for the day;
Four ‘ships’ returned
That’s when we learned
That one was not okay.

’Twas a mission ‘hot’, and CHARLIE ’d shot
A crew and a ‘ship’ that day;
In an old bomb crater
I learned much later….
That upside-down they lay.

The daily plan for ‘ship’ and man
Was making a safe return;
But then again,
“of mice and men”
The “best laid” takes a turn.

Should someone say, “a quiet day,”
And, “missions should be short;”
’Twould often play
The other way…
And peacefulness abort.

Some daily flights stretched into nights…
The “quiet day” was wrong;
And in a bind
Our crews would find
Their strengths and carry on.

I’ll not repent the whole year spent
At war in a foreign land;
I’m proud I flew
As an EMU crew…
And I’m proud of the EMU man.

© Terry Brooks ~ ex R.A.N. R57441

Last edited by Brian Abraham; 28th Oct 2009 at 05:46. Reason: Format
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 02:15
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My favourite; John Gillespie Magee

High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 02:15
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While singing a tune,
I posted on PPRuNe,
All about verse.
What could be worse?

It’s really insane,
To write on a plane
Which might not get there
If it runs out of air.

Or fuel

Herbert Gruntfuttock (aged 7¾)
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 05:45
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Two of my favourites...

THE FLIGHT LIEUTENANT


In the marsh the curlews cry
Beneath the empty bowl of sky,
Beneath the sun and flying cloud
Earth my grave and mud my shroud.
For forty years I've quietly lain
In the wreckage of my plane.
Baled out, they said, or Lost at Sea
But no-one came in search of me,
A distant ploughman drives his team,
And rushes rattle in the stream:
In summer time the cattle tread
Heavy-footed overhead.
Yet somehow in these bones I know
Man will devise machines that show
Where metal lies, and he will trace
My plane in its last resting place
Then will the lonely waiting cease
And these tired bones will rest at peace.

K.D. Clarke




REQUIEM FOR A REAR GUNNER



My brief sweet life is over, my eyes no longer see,
No summer walks - no Christmas Trees - no pretty girls for me,
I've got the chop, I've had it, my nightly ops are done
Yet in another hundred years, I'll still be twenty-one.



R W Gilbert
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 12:24
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An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

Yeats.

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 13:04
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Location: Brisbane, Qld
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one of my fav poems that i've found:

Flight is freedom in its purest form,
To dance with the clouds which follow a storm;

To roll and glide, to wheel and spin,
To feel the joy that swells within;

To leave the earth with its troubles and fly,
And know the warmth of a clear spring sky;

Then back to earth at the end of a day,
Released from the tensions which melted away.

Should my end come while I am in flight,
Whether brightest day or darkest night;

Spare me your pity and shrug off the pain,
Secure in the knowledge that I'd do it again;

For each of us is created to die,
And within me I know,
I was born to fly.

Unfortunately i didn't record who it was by!
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 16:03
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I wrote two on pprune

It's not in the blood, it’s in the heart!!
Some say, aviation’s in the blood—and believe themselves--

It's not in the blood- it's in the heart [although, I may make an exception in the case of C. Yeager or J. Doolittle]!!!

You need love, and heart; devotion and passion---Stay humble!
--The air is NO place for cowards whose hearts are composed of Jell-O—which pump Kool-Aid instead of blood, nor a place for the bold – but maybe the old---as is said-- no ones old and bold- however

My apologies, I didn't paint it up with flowery cute talk--- flying IS a Rough Business!

Aviation is a jealous lover, yet has no love for YOU—
And
there about a million ways to die---Choose one

a little slip of the lip from a busy controller
a little inattention on an instrument approach
a hasty grab for the prop controls---

--- Aviation don’t love you!

In order to fly your ship well-- you must understand your ship well -- quite unlike a stupid-slow -limited ground vehicle--[although, I may make an exception in the case of my ’88 VW]

Notwithstanding the vast number holes one day to align in the Swiss ----Pure obsession is the only way to be on guard against them—I’ve seen madness!!

Yes, I'm very stereotypical and people in my life have learned to accept my obsession with those ladies [and take advantage of it ]--and although overwhelming at times for some--- I do have many other interests—such as aerodynamics---but I write this--

For Aviation has no love for you--- it has no care--- no forgiveness in its heart ---and for the unfaithful it will eventually kill you---I've seen it---Forgive me for speaking for the dead –but listen to those souls they’re just telling you!!!

You don't fly with one hand on your prick and the other on the master switch
You must develop habits of the air and not the ground---as the ground has no use for pilots, yet neither does the air

It loves no-one---in fact it's probably the MOST limiting thing in my life---and the MOST unlimited---avoid them [the limits] [shy torque]

Remember!
That more folks have died on the ground!

So, don’t despair friends---because, even in the history of civil aviation---the most number of SOBs [souls on board] to ever get killed by an air plane---

All died on the Ground!!!
PA








The mountains don't care!
When it come to any talk of 'differences in pilots’---well I’m not a judge, but the mountains don’t care! ---

That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it---

One male Capt and one female Co-pilot were on approach to Colorado springs--- hit sudden shear--A Spiral Dive into the Ground--DEAD!

A seven year old girl trying to be the youngest pilot cross country in the world--with her experienced father-- entered IMC--- a Spiral Dive into the Ground--DEAD!

A 20,000 hr male pilot with a 7000 hr male FO and male FE entered a rotor cloud near mountains in Africa ---A Spiral Dive into the Ground--DEAD!

A female commuter pilot and her FO—EFATO--auto feather fails---- A Spiral Dive into the Ground--DEAD!


When does aviation care about YOU? Your race/age/ sexuality/ sex/ experience /talents shortcomings/ passion/experience/ looks etc....

By the way ---it's always a spiral dive into the ground...


And


We Are All Subject To The Mountains Friends!!!



PA

I have written two more but they need some clean up
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 16:19
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Soppy and American, but good.


Destination (Author unknown)

I hope there's a place way up in the sky,
Where airmen can go when they die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer,
For a friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear.
A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
Nor a management type would ere be caught dead.
Just a quaint little place, kind of dark, full of smoke,
Where they like to sing loud, and love a good joke.
The kind of a place where a lady could go,
And feel safe and protected by the men she would know.
There must be a place where old airmen go,
When their paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung.
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown west before,
And they'd call out your name, as you came through the door.
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to others, "He was quite a good lad."
And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy,
You had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
And say, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here,
For this is the place where true flyers come,
When their journey is over, and the war has been won.
They've come here at last to be safe and alone,
From the government clerk, and the management clone,
Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise,
Where all hours are happy, and these good ole boys,
Can relax with a cool one, and well deserved rest,
This is heaven my son..... You've passed your last test!"
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 17:13
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Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: Minnesota
Posts: 139
Courage is the price that
Life exacts for granting peace.

The soul that knows it not
Knows no release from little things:
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear,
Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear the sound of wings.

Nor can life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul's dominion.
Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the restless day,
And count it fair.

Amelia Earhart
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 17:26
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Location: The Ethereal Land of Vintage Aviation
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Not a poem....but worth the read

NIGHT FLIGHT OVER LAOS
Lt Col Stanley "Butch" Swenson, USAF (Ret) Printed in the Daedalus Flyer, Spring 1999

It was 4:30 AM over North-Central Laos, February 1973. My Weapons systems Officer, Rich MaCovens and I had just completed our bombing run in our F-111A fighter. Peace talks were in progress, but we were still flying interdiction missions, trying to slow the flow of war materials into South Vietnam. Night missions were the F-111's 'forte', and this was our third mission of the week.

We checked off target with the controlling agency and began our climb to cruise altitude and return to Takhli Air Base, Thailand. It had been very dark below the overcast, but now as we pass through seventeen thousand feet, we emerged out of the lower cloud deck to find ourselves between two cloud layers. The surface of the lower deck was rippled with small hills and valleys, like looking at a white quilted mattress pad - from an altitude of two inches! The upper deck began at eighteen thousand, with its' rippling surface mirroring the lower deck. As we turned to head southwest, sitting between layers and only two days past full, was the setting moon. Its pale warm light reflected off each cloud deck, accentuating the beauty of the night.

I leveled the aircraft fifty feet above the lower deck at 480 knots, aware that rich had tuned in Radio Australia on our HF radio. The announcer was saying - "and here's another American hit song, 'American Pie'."

I looked at Rich, he looked at me, we smiled, and I smoothly advanced the throttles to full afterburner.

"A long long time ago, I can still remember-"

Our oxygen masks were off and we began quietly singing along, 550 knots and accelerating . . .

"How that music used to make me smile-"

600 knots . . .

"and I knew if I had a chance-"

650 knots . . .

"that I could help those people dance,-"

700 knots . . .

"and maybe they'd be happy for a while-"

750 knots . . .

"But February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver-"

800 knots . . .

"Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step-"

850 knots . . .

"I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride-"

900 knots . . .

"Something touched me deep inside-"

950 knots . . .

"The day the music died-"

1000 knots ! ! !

"and they were singing-"

I throttled back slightly to hold 1000 knots, and began to gently swing the aircraft left and right in-time with the music, clipping the top of the "hills", and sliding through the "valleys". We were now singing at the top of our lungs...

"Bye, Bye Miss American pie-"

Swing left, swing right . . .

"Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry-"

I pulled the nose up, rolled inverted and clipped the bottom of the upper deck with the belly of our aircraft...

"them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye-"

Zero 'Gs'. Then roll back upright and zoom down to the top of the lower deck.

"Singing this will be the day that I die-"

Clipping the clouds at 1000 knots...

"This'll be the day that I die-"

YAHHHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Throughout the song, 5 or 6 minutes, we sang and soared and marveled at the sensation of speed and the beauty of this night, leaving a trail of sonic booms across the hidden countryside. When the last - "THIS WILL BE THE DAY THAT I DIE . . .," was finished, I pulled the power back, slowed to subsonic, and crossed the border back into Thailand - back to the base, back to combat missions, back to the war.

It's now been twenty six years since that night. Wars have been lost, then won, friends and comrades have drifted away. But I've often wondered if the poor hill people of Laos, so rudely awakened by the sonic boom and roar of our jet, could have known that we were just two young men, delighting in the joy and beauty seen only by those of us who are lucky enough to fly. If I could project 30 seconds of my life on a super screen for all to see, it would be that night with the moon lying between cloud layers, and the freedom I felt "Dancing the moonlight skies on laughter silvered wings."
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 17:37
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Losses


In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school —
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said , 'Our casualties were low.'


— Randall Jarrell, 1963.
 
Old 27th Oct 2009, 17:38
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Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Dorking
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How sweet to be a cloud
Floating in the blue!
Every little cloud
Always sings aloud.

How sweet to be a cloud
Floating in the Blue!
It makes him very proud
To be a little cloud.

Winnie the Pooh
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 18:35
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Written by Sqn Ldr Raymond Baxter (1922 – 2006)
WWII Spitfire pilot who became an eminent broadcaster.

Brits of a certain age will recall those mellifluous tones .......

Air Thoughts Grounded

There is a world I deeply love,
And thither would I roam,
Where I can find true solitude
And be at peace alone.
And feel the living pulses
Of the thing they call “my kite”,
The feeling of belonging
As part of it in flight.
Up where the air is clear as ice
In the realm of living light;
Where the silence is eternal,
Save for the song of flight.
There shimmering mountain masses rear
Their rounded heads in space;
And I would soar above them, turn
And dive upon them. Race
Along their clear cut canyons
With speeding, weaving ease,
Then bore into the hillside
Where swirling vapours freeze,
Blanketing the senses.
For I can spin the Earth before my eyes,
and throw it o’er my shoulder,
Because I love the skies!

These fancies flit before me
As I watch the patch of blue,
Framed by the ward’s white window
Which is my prison view.
And I think of those I flew with,
Of those who fly no more,
Patrols and sweeps and “doggers-ho”
Above the fields of war.
The never-ending searching
Around the glaring skies:
The hunter or the hunted
Its he who has the eyes,
The skill, the nerve, the quickness,
And Lady Luck’s sweet kiss,
It’s he who lives to shoot the line
And claim his pretty miss!
But there is heart ache to it,
There’s tragedy and fear!
But who recalls the horrors
When there’s singing, and there’s beer?
Yet when the songs are ended,
And there isn’t any beer,
Come the shadows of the heart ache
And agony and fear,
Blanketing the glamour.
But I can spin the Earth before my eyes,
And toss it o’er my shoulder,
And still I love the skies.
Amen.

Poem copied from a tribute in the December 2006 issue of Guild News, the bi-monthly journal of the Guild of Air Pilots and Air Navigators - of which he was a Liveryman until his death.
http://www.pprune.org/aviation-histo...aged-84-a.html
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Old 27th Oct 2009, 22:23
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"Let's begin with Level Flight."

The whole book is a poem really.
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Old 28th Oct 2009, 14:13
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Join Date: Feb 1998
Location: Formerly of Nam
Posts: 1,595
What did we earth-bound make of it? A tangle
Of vapour trails, a vertiginously high
Swarming of midges, at most a fiery angel
Hurled out of heaven, was all we could descry.

How could we know the agony and pride
That scrawled those fading signatures up there,
And the cool expertise of them who died
Or lived through that delirium of the air

Grounded on history now, we re-enact
Such lives, such deaths. Time, laughing out of court
The newspaper heroics and the faked
Statistics, leaves us only to record.

What was, what might have been fighter and bomber
The tilting sky, tense moves and counterings;
Those who outlived that legendary summer;
Those who went down, it's sunlight on their wings.

And you, unborn then, what will you make of it-
This shadow-play of battles long ago?
Be sure of this: they pushed to the uttermost limit
Their luck, skill, nerve....

And they were young like you.


- Cecil Day Lewis
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Old 30th Oct 2009, 14:42
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Just to say a big thank you to everyone who's posted or pm'd - lots for me to follow up here and a really enjoyable thread.

Ta, folks.

BW
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Old 11th Nov 2009, 03:35
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Join Date: Nov 2009
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Really nice poems everybody.
I have been an observer of the forum for a long time and actually decided to step in on a post about poetry Lol. Well this actually is a really short citation from my fellow countryman Leonardo DaVinci that in my modest opinion is poetry:

"Once you have experienced flying you will walk on earth with your eyes turned skyward because there you have been and there you wish to come back" Leonardo DaVinci.

I translated literally, if you need it for your research probably you will have to mention it in the original language which is italian, so here you go:

"Una volta che avrai volato camminerai in terra con gli occhi rivolti verso il cielo perche' li' sei stato e li agogni a tornare"
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Old 23rd Nov 2009, 14:42
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Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: THE BLUEBIRD CAFE
Posts: 60
Life/Flying Balance
by Cas Wolan

In a hangar at the airport, Where a brooding pilot blinks,
Deeply graven is the message -- It is later than you think.
The clock of life is wound but once, And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour.
Now is the time you own; The past's a golden link.
Go flying now, my brother -- It's later than you think.

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