A Pilot in Time and Space
Eerie feeling running down
My spine to my feet—then odd
Perceptions rising, as I joined
The line and looked around.
The context, the same I had
Seen a thousand times,
A restaurant back in my home
country, a well-lighted, clean place,
People ordering French
Fries and 9 kinds of burgers,
Children running up and
Down—round tables,
And someone calling for
“Un sandwich au poisson!” *1
That question came from
Behind—was “vendredi,” *2
After all, but something strange:
No one was speaking the lingo
That I grew up speaking,
Or that I understood, and
The writing was written
On the painted lemon wall
In large cursive letters, as if
A calligrapher had been at work:
“Venez comme vous êtes.” *3
My flighty mind took me back
To recall when I was a kid,
A Twilight Zone episode, where
The actors know something “ain’t right.”
Like that episode, where a pilot
Flew in from World War One,
Flying an open bi-plane, while
Wearing his leather flight jacket
And silk scarf and leather helmet,
He had flown into CDG airport
And among the jets, he couldn’t
Figure how 70 or more years
Had passed, and another actor
Was asking him, an air-traffic
Controller, if the pilot knew
About time warps. But how
Is it possible that time can be
Warped? Strange metaphor!
Can time be shaped like
A window frame or door?
When I rushed to look out
The window of the fast-
Foodie restaurant, I saw
I was far from anywhere—
All I could see for kilometres…
Just leafy vineyards on two
Sides, and a wheat field rising
On the western side, and
A long, thin highway far beyond,
But this rural sight only added
To the mystique because
Everyone spoke a language
I didn’t know, where it was written
On every wall I saw:
“Venez comme vous êtes.”
The staff there looked like
Some from California, some
Of them blonde, some brown,
Some in between and some
Extreme with tattoos, though I saw
No immigrants like back
In Paris, and everyone was
Speaking that other language,
Including the kids, who kept
Running up and down like
They were more-than-happy
To be out of school, and finally
When I couldn’t take it anymore—
I kept thinking about that pilot
In the Twilight Zone, he was
Landing in a modern airport
And demanding what the hell
Was going on in this new reality—
So I texted for a Uber, and waited
A long time, I don’t know,
Maybe 30 minutes or more before
The text finally came back, reading:
“Il n’ya pas de pilote disponible
Pour le moment. Reessayez plus tard.” *4
I rushed to speak to the manager, she
Was young as spring, college age, hair
Of ginger, cut short like Joan of Arc’s.
I demanded—why would no “Uber pilote”
Come out here? Her words confused me,
But her tone was clear— “We were too
Far out.” I said, “Huh? Too far out?”
Too far out from where?” And that was
When my eerie feelings turned to angst,
And I realized I had a long walk to find
A hotel in this foreign place, where
I couldn’t remember why my plane landed.
FOOTNOTES:
1. A fish sandwich
2. Friday in a catholic country
3. “Come as you are.”
4. “There is no pilot available at this time; try again later.”
The Butterfly Garden
On the temple bell/
A butterfly still dozing/
As dawn opens(Yosa Buson)
Here thrives a misty, key island,
Where lives the mangrove’s limbs evolving
To lifting wings of a yellow-and-blue
Butterfly dozing on a brass ship’s bell.
Here, among its visions and revisions,
Exists the butterfly’s dreaming desire
To fly away to a wind-swaying
Elephant’s ear, dripping from another
Rainy season’s torrent, while hinting
September’s threats of storms
Hiding in Bahama’s hurricane clouds,
Where the dreams of butterflies gather
In flight, and above them, the chatting
Parrots soar through the cooling mist
Of flourishing, blue-leaved fronds
Of palms of the botanical garden, and
A lapping tide, just outside, ebbs—then
Flows against coral fans and sandy
Shores inside the parameters of twilight’s
Dusky hour, where blue crabs scurry
Under red mangrove roots, rising up,
Among the sargasso sea’s grass drifting
Below coconut fronds, hanging out
Their round, manna loaves near the open
Portholes, when a fledging flamingo steps
Down into the reflecting pool, under shaded
Feathered leaves of coconut palms; here
It’s believed the first mandala occurred—
Churning concentric circles of a salty breeze
That stirs a butterfly’s antennae and whispers
“Awake!” But to no avail, and so spins
The coconut’s milk, spinning cream before
A breeze from Stockler Island sweeps across
Another autumn’s palm frond coloured
Golden, as a coconut splashes down,
Creating rings of concentricity—extending
Far to diving pelicans and squawking gulls
Testing maritime skills, while the waning moon
Rolls over the waves to join the lost horizon,
Visualizing to all a fog at dawn engulfing
The botanical garden, creating a forest air
So thick the humidity transforms the salad-
Succulence of mangrove leaves—evolving
A new design for the butterfly’s wing, as a star
Ignites a candle to read the map on the wing,
Revealing where the line extends—the curve
Of the elephant’s ear begins, and the butter-
Fly raises a wing to meet the dawning day.
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