The Power of Poetry

Travelling is not the joy I remember it being when I was a child.  Back in the sixties we took a family trip from New York to Miami, Fl.  This was my first time on an airplane, and boy was I excited!  I even remember the mustard yellow skirt and sweater set I wore on the plane.  The 'stewardesses' gave my siblings and me plastic wings to pin on our clothes, a deck of cards to amuse us, pillows and a blanket.  That wool suit, purchased in Gimbels, proved to be a sweltering choice of outfits upon deplaning.  Nonetheless, our meal was served on a real tray with metal silverware, our drinks were in glassware and the flight attendants were all smiles.

Recently, en route to Florida,  I arrived ridiculously early to the airport.  I checked myself in, and tagged my own bag.  This doesn't save me the long line to drop off my suitcase with an agent.  The bag I paid extra to schlep myself - hello?  Skycaps? - is weighed without a hint of a smile.  NEXT!  Next for me is the security line, a line for the train, lines for the loo...  By the time I grab a coffee and get to the gate, I am amazed how much time has withered away.  I'll be on the plane in no time - just to wait again!

It's OK.  I still marvel at the technology of getting on  a jet in one city and getting off in another.  In less than four hours I will be at my sister's on the east coast.  But the joy of flying has dissipated greatly over the years.  Yet I had a magical, marvelous experience on my flight home from Melbourne, Fl. recently.

When I had checked in through the app 24 hours before my flight I received a shitty seat assignment.  It wasn't until I was standing in that bag drop-off line that I noticed, because I didn't look the day before.  What I don't know won't stress me out.  But I'm waiting in what is of course the longest, slowest queue and thinking of how maybe being really nice to the agent will reward me with a better seat.  Luck and karma were on my side and I went from a middle seat in the way back of the plane to a place in front, on the aisle.  Score!

After a quick supper and several trips to the ladies room, I am in the waiting area of the gate.  Deep breaths.  I'll be home soon.  I'm seated next to a young man, who is with his dad.  I'm guessing the kid is 10.  He reminds me of my former neighbor, Jovon, at that age.  I strike up a conversation with the young man, he is hesitant to talk to a stranger, but warms up as his dad and I chat.  I learn his dad lives in Florida, his mom in Denver and his dad is taking him back after a long Christmas break visit.

The gate agent announces a delay due to a mechanical issue, always reassuring... NOT.  Then they decide to load us up and I'm thinking my brief time with this kid has come to and end.  Remember how I got my seat changed?  As we board the aircraft the dad, the kid and I find ourselves sitting in the exact same positions as at the gate.  I don't believe in coincidences.  I think of them more as God tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to pay attention.  I smile and sit.

We're told that even though we're all in our places, we are not quite ready to go.  A trim piece needs to be repaired, trips off and on airport property must take place to get the parts, security has to be followed...  we're in for at least 40 minutes or so on the plane, at the gate.  People are grumbling, but I decide to make the best of it and take out my writing pad.  I glance at the young man next to me and ask him if he likes poetry.  He shakes his head - uh-uh.

I tell him I am a poet, and ask him if he'd like to hear one of my poems.  I tell him I saw a space launch and returned to the beach the following day to write about it.  I read him this poem:

Launch

by Jane Hillson Aiello   01-20

Blastoff was quick
An upward star
Shot from earth
To the heavens

Falling stars down-sweep
Across the milky
Midnight universe

Flames and thrust
Blurry, yet concise
Propulsive marvel
Technological twinkle

God painted the sky
With tiny drops
Of sparkling light

Man gives us
Engineered force
Elusive destinations

Fire dot dissipates
I inhaled stardust
Exhaled molecules

Remembered how small
I will always be

He seems receptive, so I ask if he'd like to hear another.  He responds affirmatively and I tell him how my cousin told me to put a seashell in my pocket at the beach, and I wrote this poem just for her:

Linda’s Seashell

by Jane Hillson Aiello January 2020

Wherever she goes
There’s a shell in her pocket
From a beach far or near
She is never without it

When she feels chilly
Her hand closes around it
Remembers the day and
The place where she found it

If she’s worried or anxious
The shell is quite near
Running fingers over scallops
Brings her back to where

She was walking so quiet, on the
Day that she chose it
And it’s still in her pocket
When she chooses to hold it

A talisman, a worry stone
A vintage fidget spinner
It is priceless and precious
And it’s always there with her

It’s a memory, a promise
Of more beach days to come
If you look in her pocket
You’ll always find one

Then I take a leap and ask him if he's ever written a poem.  No is the reply.  So, I ask if he'd like to.  YES!  I gently prompt him to tell me about his visit with  dad.  He informs me about the Holiday party he attended, the presents he received for Christmas, the kick-boxing class with his father and I am writing it all down. Then I show him how to re-write those rambles into stanzas, quiz him to come up with rhyming words to make the poem work, and voila!  We have written an eight-line (four couplet)  poem to commemorate his trip.  He is wide-eyed and I feel pretty good too.  I put my name on the bottom of the page, tear it out and tell him that one day he will remember an old lady on a plane taught him how to write a poem.  We both smiled and laughed.  Finally we take off.  Waiting time is never wasted time.

Sometime into the trip, I raise my eye mask to check the time and sip some water.  The young man, whose name I still do not know, asks if he can have my notebook.  I give it to him and doze back off. It's a late night flight and with the delay I am tired.  I had no idea what he'd do with my pad, it was filled with notes and personal essays and poems, but I trusted the ask.  When I readied for landing, he handed the pad back to me and he was beaming.

This delightful young man, who had just penned his first poem had drawn me a picture that he said was based on my "Launch"  poem.  "See the rocket?"  "See the ocean?"  "See the beach?"  Yes I do!  And I also see your name is Angel, and thank you for the drawing and thank you for signing your name.  That is what an artist does.  And you young man are a wonderful artist.

Finally on the ground in Denver, everyone is sleepy and shuffling about, gathering items from the overhead, checking our surroundings.  A young mom travelling with two little boys, maybe ages three and five, if I had to guess, smiles at me and I smile back.  She hands me a small folded wad of paper and says this is for you and please wait until you get home to read it.  I simply say thank you.

My friend picks me up at this ungodly hour.  I am quiet.  I am reminiscing about my trip and the flight on the ride back to my apartment.  I am so tempted to unfold the paper and read the message from the mommy who sat one row up from Angel, his dad and me.  But I wait.  I suspect it is magical, a gift of sorts, and I want to honor her wishes.  By the time I am home (and dealing with a beeping smoke detector - could that battery dying have waited one more day?) I'm too exhausted to even think about anything but my bed.

Over coffee the next morning, in the chair where I have written much prose and prose, I unfold my note from a stranger:

 Maybe travel is a bit magical after all. 

 And that is the power of poetry.

Time to Write,

Jane