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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

Floor cloth.

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.

Abstract Architecture

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

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