The Flourish of Trumpets
This is no flight of fancy,
No fish-flying, no fling:
I am pioneering parachuting.
Wrapped in my flannel flak jacket,
I stand on the guardrail
And intend to become
A journey, not a projectile,
My flick-knife wings
Supported by ethereal forces.
Flashforward: this may or may not end well.
The journalists flick their flybooks open
To document the full fling of my arc.
Handclaps: I am a one-man flea circus.
One for the birds, two for the crowd.
A flying start. Then the descent, a sharp
Vertical down a few flights of airs – not
Quite the ascent of Man,
But a flounder, flat spin, a hook,
Line and sinker to the bottom. No time
For flashbacks, flares, flags of distress,
But a flashbulb moment: I am
My own flight crash dummy,
A sad flapjack, a fledgling turned
This poem in the memory of Franz Reichelt, an Austrian-born French tailor, inventor and parachuting pioneer, who jumped to his death from the Eiffel Tower on 4th February 1912.
Lorelei Bacht is a European poet living in Asia. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and @the.cheated.wife.writes