Yang Girly Girl

I’m not dead yet, not in the classical sense.

I would like to call it taking a respite, a sabbatical, or even a journey into retrospection.  Those are all acceptable terms and somewhat believable among whacked individuals, myself included.

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I received a comment on my last posting imploring me to write more about the subject of Falling Upward.  I must have struck a few chords, resonant, clanging ones, I hope.

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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 windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high un-trespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

——John Patrick Magee

That’s my favorite poem. Intellects would chastise me for calling it poetry because it’s not T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Frost, Chekhov, et al, it’s still my favorite. Those others enamor me, they’re quotable, they’re controversial, and they invite criticism and discussion. “High Flight” doesn’t do any of these things.   

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