For this month’s poem, I have found something shorter than last month’s poem. This month’s poem is by Robert Graves, who fought in World War I. The poem is not about war, but it is about my favorite topic–flying. The title is “Flying Crooked,” and it dates from 1938.
The butterfly, the cabbage white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has — who knows so well as I? —
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.