Coxswain of the Cockpit

More recently, that Canadian has been in the local news: in the usual Guernsey fashion, some people put up a plaque by which to remember him and some other idiots defiled, defaced and destroyed that plaque. So I looked into my archives, found the poem and thought now was a good time to offer it.

I have little doubt those young men thought it

momentary mischief,

stuck like rats and rabbits in airfield quarters,

about to half their life spans

& styles. I have no doubt

these young men bolstered themselves

to a frazzle with jokes cocktailed

by companionship, celibacy

and the silver screen of uncertain catastrophe…

The Canadian was used to bigger spheres

of landscapes,

he had reject-seated his checked shirt

and Mountie mentality

for war zones not yet described,

not even half-truthed,

not even lied.

A five hundred pounder

the bigger hamburger,

not fried over Hamburg,

but rather on German radar, bleep, bleep, bleeping

on portend pleasant heights

of Guernsey... bleep, bleeping

like a bomb not yet unleashed,

though still spinning out an angst of cogwheeled anger.

And when duty called,

he dropped her,

heavy metal spilling down

in sentenced siren silence;

a snake screeching out of her lair

to thud silent, like a passive pledge, a pawky dream,

like a sleeping beauty kiss.

And he, the Canadian, stuttering, shot full of holes

his last icons banging though his brain,

painlessly,

splashed suddenly into waters

rolling out & across

his newly bequeathed blue sea-lady

of Havelet Bay.

Every worm turns,

at every turn it worms back,

a sly freeloader from history's hold…

and down in the blue blackout of breaking waters

the instant sadness will be known to all,

except perhaps that quiet Canadian,

once proud pilot,

now coxswain of the cockpit.

VIC GAMBLE (2006).