The Pacific Limerick

Flying over oceans has always been a gut-churning experience to me. Well oceans or not, when we sit in a plane, we basically hand over the reins of our lives to the pilot. Irrespective of one’s race, colour, religion, social status, physical or mental state of mind, everyone is equal in the eyes of the holy cockpit which is suddenly elevated to a godly realm, till the flight completes its safe touchdown at journey’s end. A philosophical take, experimented in a limerick form (poem with a rhyme sequence of AABBA) which weds my worst trepidations to a dark undertow of the ephemera of human life.

It is an eerie traversal

There lies only the way forward, no reversal

My disposition no longer is steely

As my lines start pouring out freely

Make no mistake, it ain’t no rehearsal

 

The plane though in steady motion

Is stirring up the heart’s commotion

To be more candid and specific

We are flying above the mighty pacific

As I turn into an embodiment of emotion

 

The sight from my window seat

Fills me with morosity replete

As I stare below into the expanse of black

Titillating on the verge of a mild panic attack

At an altitude of Thirty Thousand Feet

 

What do I behold?

Why do I feel the need to be told?

Looks as if the symmetrical night sky from above

Transmogrified and plunged into the vastness below

With every passing instant, I let a new wave of frisson unfold

 

The metallic bird soars across

Sandwiched between the two skies, without a pause

A massive cloud gets in the way, puffy and ashen

Unletting the filter through of the stygian vision

For a second it appeared we had breached aeropause

 

While the nocturnal vistas continues to taunt

Even as upwards, the firmament does flaunt

A trillion coruscating stars

And the effulgent moon – Czar amongst Czars

The stillness of the darkness below aggravates the haunt

 

Face pallid trembling in terror 

I down the shutter looking away to divert from the horror

Attempting to focus on the In-flight entertainment screen

A fleeting mild palliating change of scene

From thoughts of the night sky’s reflection in the Thalassic mirror

 

The IFE doesn’t help much

The images offering plain facts as such

That we are sundered bang in the middle

Of the mighty Pacific puddle

I see no hope, seemingly at straws I clutch

 

And then arrives the inevitable gloom

Unwinding itself in copious volume

I can’t help but presage

A very idea that will spark outrage

But I can’t but help being the purveyor of doom

 

All it will take is one mistake, one pratfall

One Cardinal blunder, leading to another pitfall

If something as slightly as imaginable could go astray

A distressing prospect I will peddle, if I may

Literally and metaphorically, that is our downfall

 

I try peeping at the holy altars and the pulpit

Where the pilots must be working away at the cockpit

To transport us across the seas

Safely, and to put us at ease

One could only hope they are doing a good job at it

 

All of a sudden we arrive at the foot of nature’s plunder

A dazzling bolt of lightning strikes, follows the thunder

Buffeted by a series of jolts, the plane sharply angles to the left

Of any remaining tinges of optimism, I am left bereft

My gut instinct never sounded more profounder

 

As the sleeping inmates are aroused

Rattled hysterical squeals are quickly doused

By the reassurance of the captain’s

Mellifluous words that this was a momentary turbulence

I try to stem, but fail, the ominous foreboding I had already espoused

 

After five dreadful minutes, we are back to business as usual

Embarassed squealers at center of the hullabaloo, try remaining casual

I uneasily roll up the window shades

The magnetic vision below once again persuades

Me to train my eyes on the boundless visual

 

The Pacific now seems even more scarier

As if browbeating the avian carrier

With its snarling gaping jaws

Summoning it to jump into its deadly maws

To me, why does it does appear?

 

That the aviator might accede to it’s request

And coax the passengers to comply at their behest

Advertising it as the ultimate chance to end all suffering

Without needing to live through the deferring

And once and for all put matters to rest

 

I wish I could talk in telepathy

To the pilots – “We beseech thee

O lord, our lives are with you in the cockpit

Hoping you will honour the refundable deposit

But if you don’t, can we do anything really?

 

Why do I think you may actually laugh it off?

And that you think that we are better off

Floating as mangled corpses on the ocean floor

Whatever it is it’s not in our control anymore

Melancholia is solely mine, but my prayers on everyone’s behalf”

 

Into the skies, everyday a million planes break free

Bouncing from city to city, country to country

It’s remarkable that I feel an emotion so raw

That it would be us who would draw the short straw

Of what use is being a proletariat, or what use is being gentry?

 

On this note, I observe my co-passengers

Who though wholly aware of the lurking dangers

Their exteriors try to wax the sturdiness of an oak

Deep beneath I know it’s a desperate attempt to cloak

Surging inner foretokening of cataclysmic harbingers

 

I begin scrutinizing the specimens

Donning a more punctilious lens

One by one, I hope to unravel

Over the course of this travel

What each one entails, with my acute sixth sense

 

Starting with the ‘consultant-looking-chap’ immediately to my right, Mister

‘Jack’ shall we say, to give it a name, he seems one hell of a blister

He has been ramming away at his laptop

Since the flight took off, four hours non-stop

Sending missives to his subordinates, probably with intentions sinister

 

“Mr. Jack, of what use would be your Armani Tuxedo so slick

Or your sycophantic claque, who bootlick

You, so you can bask under the veil of self-aggrandizement

If I told you our plummet down is imminent

Would you still be so full of yourself, and your shtick?”

 

On to his right I see ‘Jane’ an older lady

In her face I discern a forlorn look of sadness, she seems unsteady

Perhaps a pain too much to be able to cope

With? One that has sapped away the last traces of hope?

She seems stricken with an incurable malady

 

“Listen Ms. Jane, please do not grieve

It may seem though, as diabolical a plot as I could weave

But if this imperiled plane now veers out of control

Over the ephemeral pain, our destiny would steamroll

And in couple of minutes, we shall be handed the ultimate reprieve”

 

Looking in front on my right to the aisle

I see two kids busying themselves in something puerile

Looks like some video game. Perhaps PUBG? Whatever it may be

Boys have you no clue of the decree laid out by the powers that be?

How blessed you are to be blissfully juvenile and not febrile!

 

To my front, I see a mother and her baby

The baby needless to say, looks hardly troubled, the mother maybe

Is brooking pangs of fears and nasty premonitions

Just like I am, she too perhaps is at the receiving end of admonitions

And just like me wishes to be caressed into sleep by a lullaby

 

The weather outside seems to have improved, it brings

Back the sound of the rudder’s salubrious whirrings

And the soughing melody of the plane’s motions

Coaxing me to alter preset notions

That flight journeys are laden with red herrings

 

I still won’t declare a clean bill of health

Imbued pessimism won’t change either naturally or by stealth

My apprehension, certainly won’t cease

Well, atleast till we cross over the seas

And make the safe landing on the morning of the twelfth

 

So with what could have been a more modest critique

I finally am at the end of my distended lyric

Needlessly embellished verses sometimes does the trick

With one final bow to the monumental pacific

I conclude my somber limerick.