The Red French Balloon Proposal
In 1979 or so
Soviet-French
interplanetary
cooperation
(which boasted,
inter alia,
French scientific
tackle lugged
to Mars by the
USSR in 1971)
nearly hit
a new high
with an idea;
an event to
mark the 200th
anniversary of
Joseph-Michel &
Jacques-Étienne
Mongolfier’s
1783 globe
aérostatique
balloon (fastened
with 1,800 buttons)
– a flight of which
had carried a sheep
named Montauciel
(climb to the sky)
in its basket –
by dropping a
huge sturdy red
commemorative
balloon staffed
with a 25-kg.
gondola of
scientific
paraphernalia
smack into the
brume of Venus
Her Tear Ducts Were Fuel Cells
She knit herself together
Bracing for a launch
She denounced gravity
Harbors repelled her
Her capacities were
Unchecked by doubt
Surrender nauseated her
She would not be
Reconciled to it
She was neither ripe
Nor sour
Nor lusty
Rebellion sickened her
Her cloaks were
Composed of steel
She was neither gluttonous
Nor satisfied
Nor sore
None of her bones contained cynicism
She hadn’t a cynical bone in
Her cylindrical body
Tenderness upset her
She afforded tenderness
Only upon herself
Modernity even in
Moderation could never
Hold her interest
Divergence was not her kin
Salvation was not for her kind
Dreaming was not her crown
She wasn’t the type for
Lipstick and a wig
Nothing on her was painted
She was no one’s ‘doll’
She was no ‘bird’
Or ‘twist’
Despite her looks
Her bright wings
And her gyrations
She was a prioress
cloistered in the abbey
called Dancing-with-myself
Her mouth was not pink or
Wet or small as she
Was mouthless
Suffering bored her
Her uterus was seeded
With gyroscopes and wires
Reason was not her bedfellow
Prophecy could not mislead her
Misdirection she rejected
She was properly led by
Obedience, equations,
Perhaps a little patriotism
She reveled in honor
She rechecked constants
She clasped humility tightly
She gave favors generously
Mindful of the future
She would find support
exspiro
You pagan poets you
All urge the flimsiness of spirits
All whispy, translucent, weaklings
Now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t
Apparitions with a macabre veneer
Not so. They’re tough little jobs
Here’s a simile:
Spirits are like rivets so
Don’t drop one on your boot
Think of the fist-sized rivets
Tying the hull of the Titanic together
Granted they’re what failed her
Some Irish welder not minding his task
But I’ve seen images of her
Some ten leagues down
And in large measure
They’re still holding fast
And here’s a proof:
A bearded monk shot and beaten
Whipped and shot a few more times
Then tossed into an icy river: Sploosh!
His still held taut for quite a spell
Before his body – all crumpled
Soft, corruptible – gave it up and
Even then it was barely winded
Took flight over Moscow it did
Yelping like a cowboy set free
The spirit is seated in there pretty good
It’s wedged in there awful tight
And when one does pop loose
Look out